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"Why does he only have one horn?" Sasha asks, pointing at its left side, where only the cracked edge of its horn is left.
"That's his story to tell, sweetie," I say and head further down the road. "Want me to roll the window the whole way down, so you can hang your head out like that dog we passed back there?"
She giggles loudly. "You know I'm not a dog, Daddy."
"No," I agree. "You are a very beautiful little girl. Don't ever forget that." I roll the window back up once the steer is behind us, and Sasha rests her head against the seat and closes her eyes.
Another hour passes and the congested traffic finally clears. Just as we hit a normal speed, my phone rings, and I press the answer button on the console. "Deacon Reynolds."
"Deacon, it's Harper." The voice hits me hard. I haven't heard it in over a decade. Harper Clark. Head of Marketing at my parents' resort.
I had the biggest crush on her in high school. Scratch that. Secret crush. I never told a soul, not even my closest buddies. And I definitely never told Harper.
We were so competitive at everything back then. I resorted to childish antics and teased her relentlessly, much to her annoyance. Understandably, she couldn't stand me. It was aclassic case of playground behavior: liking a girl but being mean instead of telling her.
But my feelings took a back seat to trying to outdo her. I just really wanted to be the best and she was always standing in my way. I never wanted to look weak by admitting I cared about her, so I made her enemy number one. It was easier. I probably deserved a lot worse than her glares and eye rolls.
These days, or so I'm told, she’s an exceptional woman with brilliant ideas and an amazing work ethic. I don't doubt that for a second. "Ms. Clark," I say, my voice cracking slightly as I clear my throat, "to what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Your parents have been asking about you all night." She's whispering, and that tells me they have no idea she's reaching out to me. "Couldn't you at least spare them a few minutes to call and say congratulations? They've worked hard on this reopening."
I am glad to hear she's watching out for them, but a little unsettled that she's scolding me. She's grown close to my parents since her own folks passed away in that horrible accident. But that doesn't give her the right to chastise me like I'm a child.
Looking at the clock, I see that there's no way I'm going to make it in time. So I just say, "I appreciate you checking in but I did call my mother earlier. Please have her call me back when she has a moment."
I quickly say goodbye and end the call. If I linger too long in conversation with her, I'll inevitably starting catching 'all the feels' as they say and I can't afford that right now. It's part of why I avoid seeing her whenever I'm back home. She has this uncanny ability to whisk me back to my teenage self, and frankly, nobody want to revisit that.
I'm also not interested in my daughter listening to me being reprimanded. This is supposed to be a happy time, the beginningof a new chapter for our little family. And Harper is not about to ruin that with her attitude, no matter how well-intentioned she might be.
But this is our history. Harper has always been a delicate balance of fascination and frustration, most times in equal parts.
The sound of her voice is like a wave of nostalgia washing over my body. She has a knack for getting a reaction from me. I spent a lot of high school trying to hide involuntary goosebumps she caused at the slightest touch. That's why I made a conscious effort to focus on our competitions, making sure she never saw how deeply she affected me. Even our brief thirty second conversation just now stirred a flutter in my chest.
She was always gorgeous with wavy brown hair and eyes like pools of melted chocolate. She was sweet, funny and had a drive to succeed I always admired. I never should have treated her the way I did, but I was immature. I can own up to that. I should probably tell her that at some point.
Still, I can't get a grip on the fact that in a few short hours, we are going to be seeing each other. Face-to-face, alone, without the crowd of teenage onlookers I once needed to impress.
It should be interesting.
It's so late by the time we get into town that I decide to just head for our new house and let Sasha and I catch up on our rest. While I know Mom's probably anxious for us to see the finished product, my brain is fried. We drove nonstop since we left this morning, and interstates and bumper to bumper traffic aren't things I deal with well. In the morning, we can head over and say our hellos. We missed the big night, but we have all the time in the world going forward.
"Daddy, is this it?" Sasha asks excitedly, wriggling in her seat and tucking Mr. Trunks under her arm as we approach our new home.
I nod and steer the car into our new driveway. The moving truck is already unloaded and our furniture should be all set up, thanks to the phenomenal real estate agent I found. An eager-to-please and helpful woman, Mrs. Murphy certainly knows her stuff, and she made this transition as stress-free as it can be.
We have nothing more to do than unlock the door and walk into our new house. We will definitely need to get more furniture eventually, but I'm just thankful to have the basics already set up.
The front yard is the epitome of southern charm. Old oak trees and a perfectly manicured lawn are all enclosed by a wrought iron fence. White and yellow roses dot the greenery, along with magnolia trees and oleander bushes in bloom.
It's an old plantation-style home, typical of these parts, white with blue trim and an upstairs balcony. The ivy creeping up the sides completes the picture, and a beautiful wraparound porch ties it all together. I bought it sight unseen, and the pictures do not do it justice. I can imagine Sasha and I sitting in our rocking chairs, reading books or staying up late at night talking.
"This is my house?" Sasha squeals as she climbs out of the car and runs across the lawn. "My room is at the top of the stairs, right?"
"Bingo!" I call after her.
We find the keys hidden outside the front door under a brick, right where Mrs. Murphy said she would leave them. Sasha gets the honor of turning the shiny brass lock and opening the solid oak door.
Inside, the wood floors shine and the walls are pristine white. A large foyer opens to a grand staircase with stained glass windows that create rainbows throughout the space. I can't help but smile as we walk down the main hall. A crystal chandelier hangs from the vaulted ceiling, lighting the dining room in muted shades of aqua and violet.
