Page 137 of Sweetheart
"I felt your tears hitting my chest."
I sat up and so did he.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"Nothing," I said, wiping the moisture from my cheeks. "I'm good."
"You don't look good."
"I always cry during the open mic scene."
Sam's brows pinched like he didn't quite believe me.
"Seriously," I said with a smile. "I feel like the day I don'tcry it means I've lost some of my heart. You know?"
"Not really," Sam said.
My dad walked into the living room, looked at the TV then back at me, and raised his brows.
"Crying over the open mic scene again?" he asked.
"Yeah," I said.
"I'll never understand why you love it so much if it makes you cry."
"They're happy-sad tears."
Dad shot me a smile. "Well, in that case…"
His eyes moved to Sam's concerned-looking face, and my father shook his head.
"Don't worry," he said. "I used to come in and find Scarlett and her sister bawling their eyes out every time. Then they'd listen toSimply the Beston repeat. Remember, Scarlett?"
I nodded, glad that he'd backed up my story.
"I'm going to bed, but you two feel free to stay up."
Dad's eyes narrowed, and his tone turned serious.
"No going in Scarlett's room unless the door remains open. No drinking anything out of the fridge except water, juice, milk, or soda."
"Good variety," Sam said, but my father didn't laugh.
"No funny business of any kind. Understand?"
We both nodded.
"Okay. Goodnight, Scarlett, I hope you feel better."
"Love you, Dad," I said.
"I love you too," he said then pointed at Sam. "You, remember the talk."
"I will," Sam said.
After my dad had gone and I was alone with Sam once more, he turned to face me and lifted a brow.
"Was it really just the show?" he asked.
