Crystal and Scott show up a little after 12:30. She’s colored her hair, cherry red. My thirty-two-year-old daughter was (is) a wanderlust sort of child, flitting from one shiny new thing to the next: never getting too close to anything, including the guys in her life. I’m pretty sure I had a lot to do with that. Her not trusting in things, feeling like a disappointment to a father who should’ve been cheering her on and being someone she could lean on when she needed him most, like after she was sexually assaulted in high school. I was too wrapped up in getting revenge on the guy instead of paying attention to what she needed.
She sheds her jacket, rushes to my bed, and gives me one of her pretentious hugs while Scott hangs back. When she lets go of me, she exchanges glances with her broth
