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“New running friend?” my dad asks, his tone careful, but his eyes icy as fuck as they flick to mine.
“Yup,” Rox tells him, popping the p at the end. “They both like to run on the trails by school. They’ve gone three”—she holds up three fingers—“times and today they’re going to try to get to the top of Redwood Rock.”
“Wow,” my dad says, frosty eyes clearing before he looks back to Roxie. “That’s a long way.”
“I know,” she says, sitting back and swinging her legs as my dad checks her seat belt. “But my mom is super-duper fast, so she’ll make it.”
Another dagger in my gut—that confidence, that pride, that faith in her mom.
“Don’t you think, Dad?” she calls.
I grind my back teeth together. “Oh,” I force out, knowing my throat sounds like it’s gone six rounds with gargling gravel, “she’ll definitely make it.”
My dad’s lips press flat at my answer, but I watch him deliberately table the reaction, know that we’ve come a long way in our relationship since he showed back up in my life as an adult.
But I also know that while his disapproval over my ending things with Brit is as palpable as my mother’s, he hasn’t said one word about it.
Because that’s not his place.
Because he’s not my mom.
“Can we get ice cream on the way home, Grandpa?” Rox asks.
I open my mouth as I walk toward them. “It’s dinner time?—”
“Sure, we can, pumpkin,” he says, ruffling Roxie’s hair.
And completely ignoring me.
Right. Message received and understood.
He’s not commenting on my life decisions. But also, he’s not engaging with me when it’s something he doesn’t want to engage with.
Like me divorcing his star player.
Like me telling his granddaughter she should wait for ice cream until after dinner.
My mom sighs, presses her lips to my cheek. “See you in the morning for breakfast.”
My dad nods, drops his hand to my shoulder, squeezes lightly. “We’ll have your favorites.” He grins. “Or maybe we’ll just go to Molly’s so we can all have our favorites.”
“Molly’s!” Rox exclaims with a woot.
He’s a hard-ass who doesn’t approve of every decision I’ve made. But he’s a hard-ass who loves me, my mom, and my kid.
I could do worse.
I nod, clasp my hand around his. “Thanks, Dad.”
A jerk of his chin, and then he’s pulling back, getting into the driver’s seat. I wave goodbye to Roxie, to my mom, to my dad. Then hold back a sigh and I turn toward Tiff.
She smiles as she moves toward me, not stopping until her scent is in my nose, all flowers and vanilla, all soft and feminine and not Brit. “So,” she says, her lips curving, her eyes coming to mine, “what’s up next, hotshot?”
Ten
Brit
My lungs are burning and sweat is dripping down my back.
