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Before I can offer a rebuttal to that very flawed argument, Dad presses the blender’s “on” button, making so much noise I can barely hear myself think. I wince and clutch my throbbing temples.
For a second, he stops, but just as I open my mouth to say something, he starts the blender again.
“Very mature,” I say when the blender is finally blessedly silent.
Feigning innocence, Dad pours the thick concoction into two mason jars, hands one to me, and covers the other with a lid.
Fighting my gag reflex, I take large sips of the “cure.” It takes effort to keep it down.
Harry pokes me with his nose.
“You won’t like it,” I tell him.
Harry wags his tail.
“Fine.” Since it is safe for dogs, I give him some of my drink, and he downs it like it’s the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted.
“I’ll feed you again when we get home,” I say, unable to help a grin that tugs at my lips.
“You also should eat something,” Dad says. “That works as well as the hangover cure.”
I nod. “I had cereal earlier. For lunch, I was planning on making some Japanese food for me and Brooklyn.”
Hearing her name, Harry wags his tail.
The nice-smelling dudette? Where is she? I haven’t sniffed her in a century.
Dad’s eyebrows go up high on his forehead. “You’re cooking for her already?”
“So?”
Dad hands me the sealed jar. “Cooking is your love language.”
“And reading all that girly stuff about love languages is your love language,” I say and then wince because I didn’t mean to remind Dad of Mom so casually.
She was super into this stuff.
Thankfully, Dad doesn’t seem fazed. “I don’t think you fully understand the concept,” he says with a huff.
“Neither do you. The five languages are words of affirmation, quality time, gifts, acts of service, and physical touch.”
Honestly, I’m just busting his balls at this point. When Mom was in the hospital, I read that same book to please her.
Dad puffs up like a peacock. “Cooking is both a gift and an act of service. Reading what your partner likes is?—”
“Quality time,” I chime in.
Dad sighs. “If there’s one thing you got from your mother, it’s the ability to win any argument.”
On that note, I grab Harry and the other jar and skedaddle.
“Honey, I’m home,” I shout when I enter my house, groceries in tow.
No reply.
Hmm. Is she still sleeping?
Maybe. Or maybe she woke up, decided last night was a mistake, and ran far away from here.
