Page 43 of Find My Way Down to You

“What are you doing here?” He steps back, eyes wide with panic. “Are you sick? Is it Max? Your mo—”

I cut him off. “No, no. Everyone’s fine. It’s nothing.” My eyes flick to the hospital’s automatic doors opening and closing. “I wanted to see you.”

The lie tenses my shoulders. I can’t tell him the real reason. That I’m looking for a boy who might be a god. He wouldn’t believe me. I don’t even believe myself.

Dad scratches his rust-colored beard. His blue-green eyes run over me. There’s something skeptical in his stare.

“You came to seeme?”

I nod with as much confidence as I can manage.

He grins. “Want to have breakfast?” He holds up the bag, shaking it. “Tacos! I have extras. Tabasco sauce too.”

My laugh surprises me. It’s deep and fond. Dad’s not a fan of spicy things. But, out of habit, he always grabs handfuls of hot sauce packets. In case Mom or I are around.

Even though, lately, I never am.

Guilt roils in my belly. I follow him to a nearby wall that’s a couple of feet off the ground. A massive Moreton Bay fig tree is planted on a raised bed, surrounded by smooth stone. The tree’s limbs stretch wildly in all directions. Roots poke up from the soil like thick serpents.

Dad passes me a soft-shell chicken taco.

“You look tired.”

I point to the heavy shadows under his eyes, his fair skin paler than usual. “Look who’s talking.”

“I’m supposed to be exhausted. I’m a working adult.”

“So am I,” I say through a bite.

“You’re barely eighteen.”

“Which is, legally, an adult in the state of California,” I remind him.

He fans a hand between us as I add Tabasco to my taco. The scent alone is too spicy for him. “Did you get the journal I left for you?”

I blink. “That was from you?”

“Um…yeah!” He chuckles. Broken sunlight peeks through the gaps in the tree’s leaves. “Remember all those songs you used to show me? The ones you thought were terrible?”

My chest warms like the earth under a cloudless sky. Shyly, I say, “Because they were, Dad.”

“They weren’t that bad.” He chews with a thoughtful expression. “I mean, you were fourteen, Auggie. Who writes great songs that young?”

“Stevie Wonder. Adele,” I list. “Taylor Swift.”

“Nobodies!”

He laughs again. A deep rising bass note that sends birds soaring. I don’t bother fighting the smile that inches up my mouth.

Dad opens his second taco. “Thought a new journal would give you inspiration. If you want to apply to UCSB’s music department, you need some fresh material to show them. Fall quarter applications are due by the end of November.”

I freeze, taco halfway to my mouth. “Dad.”

“You still plan to study music, right? UCSB has—”

“Dad,no,” I snap. My throat is tight as a fist. “I can’t.”

Disappointment carves its way through his furrowed brows, the hard line of his mouth. “Auggie, we had a deal. We agreed to a gapyear. Take a breath and get a fresh perspective. Figure out your next steps.”