Meg Cabot - Twilight

"Wouldn't expect you to be anything else." My dad looked more closely at the kitchen counters. "Is that real granite? Or imitation?"

"Dad." I nearly threw the dish towel at him. "Quit stalling and say what you came to say. Because if it's what I think you're here to say, no deal."

"And what do you think that is?" Dad wanted to know, folding his arms and leaning back against the kitchen counter.

"I'm not going to let him do it, Dad," I said. "I'm not."

My dad sighed. Not because he was sad. He sighed with happiness. In life, Dad had been a lawyer. In death, he still relished a good argument.

"Jesse deserves another chance," he said. "I know it. You know it."

"If he doesn't die," I said, attacking the potato pot with perhaps more energy than was strictly necessary, "I'll never meet him. Same with you."

Dad raised his eyebrows. "Same with . . . oh, you mean you thought about saving me?" He looked pleased. "Suze, that's the sweetest thing you've ever said to me."

That did it. Just those ten little words. Suddenly, something inside of me seemed to break, and a second later, I was sobbing in his arms . . . only silently, so no one else in the house could hear.

"Oh, Dad," I wept into his shirtfront. "I don't know what to do. I want to bring you back. I do, I really do."

Dad stroked my hair and said in the kindest voice imaginable, "I know. I know you do, kiddo."

That just made me cry harder. "But if I save you," I choked, "I'll never meet him ."

"I know," my dad said again. "Susie, I know."

"What should I do, Dad?" I asked, lifting my head from his chest and attempting to control myself - his shirt was practically soaked already. "I'm so confused. Help me. Please."

"Susie." Dad grinned down at me, still tenderly brushing back my hair with his hands. "I never thought I'd see the day when you, of all people, would actually admit you need help. Especially from me."

I used a fist to swipe at the tears that were still rolling down my face. "Of course I need you, Dad," I whispered. "I've always needed you. I always will."

"I don't know about that." My dad, instead of stroking my hair, rumpled it now. "But I do know one thing. This time-shifting thing. It's dangerous?"

I sniffled. "Well," I said. "Yeah."

"And do you really think," Dad went on, the skin around his eyes crinkling, "that I'd let my little girl risk her life to save mine?"

"But, Dad - "

"No, Suze." The crinkles deepened and I could tell he was more serious than he'd been in a long time. "Not for me. I'd give anything to live again" - and now I saw that, along with the crinkles, there was moisture there, as well - "but not if it means anything bad might happen to you."

I gazed up at him, my eyes as bright with tears as his own.

"Oh, Dad," I said, unable to keep the throb from my throat.

He reached up to lay a hand on either side of my wet face.

"And I wouldn't presume to speak for Jesse," he said, tilting my head so that we were looking straight into each other's eyes. "But I think I can safely say that he's not going to like the idea of you risking your life to save his any more than I do. Knowing him, in fact, he'll probably like it even less."

I reached up and placed my hands over his own. Then I said, "I get it, Dad. Really, I do. And I won't go back for you if you really don't want me to. But . . . I still can't let him do it, Dad. Paul, I mean."

"Can't let him save the life of the guy you supposedly love," Dad said, not looking too happy to hear it. "Something's very wrong with that picture, Suze."

"I know, Dad," I said, "but I love him. You know it. You can't ask me to just sit back and let Paul do this. If he succeeds I won't even remember having met Jesse."

"Right," my dad said reasonably. "So it won't hurt."

"It will ," I insisted, "It will hurt, Dad. Because deep down, I'll know. I'll know there was someone . . . someone I was supposed to have met. Only I'll never meet him. I'll go through my whole life waiting for him to come along, only he never will. What kind of life is that, Dad, huh? What kind of life is that ?"

"And what kind of life," my dad asked gently, "is it for Jesse to spend all of eternity as a ghost - especially if something goes wrong and you end up dead right along with him?"

"Then," I said with a feeble attempt at humor, "at least we'll be able to haunt people together for the rest of eternity."

"With Jesse having to live forever with the guilt of knowing he's the reason you died in the first place? I don't think so, Suze."

He had me there. I stared up at him, unable to think of a single thing to say in reply.

"Suze, your whole life," my dad went on, not without sympathy, "you've always made the right decisions. Not nessarily the easiest ones. The right ones. Don't mess that up now, when you're facing what's probably the most important decision you'll ever have to make."

I opened my mouth to tell him he was wrong . . . that I was making the right decision . . . that I was doing what I knew Jesse would want . . . .

Only I knew there was no point.

So instead I said, "All right, Dad. But there's just one thing I don't understand."

He nodded. "Why Maroon 5 is so popular?"

"Um," I said, grinning in spite of myself. "No. I don't understand why, if you feel that way . . . that you had a good life and that you've learned so much since you died . . . If you really feel that way, then why are you still here?"

"You should know," he said.

I blinked at him. "I should? How?"

"Because you said it yourself."

"When did I - "

"Um . . . Suze?"

I whirled around and found myself looking not into my dad's gentle brown eyes but David's anxious blue ones.

"Are you okay?" David's pale face was pinched with concern. "Were you . . . were you just crying?"

"Of course not," I said, hastily snatching up a dish towel - seeing, as I did so, that my dad had vanished - and scrubbing my cheeks with it. "I'm fine. What's up?"

Um . . ." David looked around the kitchen, his eyes wide. "Are you . . . are you not alone?"

Outside of my dad, David is the only one in my family who knows the truth about me . . . or at least, most of the truth. If I had told him all of it . . . well, he'd probably be able to handle it, with his scientific, orderly mind.

But I don't think he'd have liked it.

"I am now," I said, knowing what he meant.

"I just came in for dessert," David said. "Dad said . . . Dad said he made a fruit tart."

"Right," I said. "Well. I'm through here. I'll just be going upstairs."

I turned to go, but David's voice - it had changed lately, gone from squeaky to deep in the course of a few months - stopped me by the door. "Suze. Are you sure you're all right? You seem . . . sad."

"Sad?" I looked back at him over my shoulder. "I'm not sad. Well, not that sad. Just . . . there's just something I have to do." Because I had already decided that, despite my dad's concerns, I wasn't giving Jesse up just yet. Not without a fight. "Something I'm not exactly looking forward to."

"Oh," David said. Then his face brightened. "Then just do it quick. You know, like pulling off a Band-Aid."

Do it quick. I'd have loved to. But I had no way of knowing when Paul was going to make his trip back through time. For all I knew, I could wake up tomorrow with no memory of Jesse whatsoever.

"Thanks," I said to David, managing a semblance of a smile. "I'll keep that in mind."

But I wasn't smiling a half hour later, when I finally managed to get Father Dominic - my last hope - on the phone.

Father Dom wasn't exactly as sympathetic to my plight as I'd hoped he be. I'd thought the information I had to impart - about Paul buying Felix Diego's belt buckle, and then possibly drugging his own grandfather - would spark a little righteous indignation in the old guy.