I'm frozen in the entry, waiting for my the storm to start. But instead, a few seconds later, Dad's head pops around the open archway. He smiles when our eyes meet.
"Thanks for making curfew," he says easily, coming to stand in the gap with his hands in his pockets. He's wearing that plaid shirt Mom hates. It's the only thing he owns that doesn't make him look like an accountant.
I wait for the tirade from her to begin, but she doesn't appear.
"Where's Mom?"
He rubs a hand over his face. He looks tired. "Kate. I know it's been a hard couple weeks. Things with your Mom have been rough. But you're at the age where you get to start making some decisions for yourself . . . so I won't ask you where you went. But if you start missing curfew, or I find out you're getting high—"
"I'm not on drugs, Dad. I'll pee in the cup if you want me to."
