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“Hey, no worries.” I force ease into my voice, wave off his apology with a flutter of fingers. “Come on in.”
He shuffles inside, a tall frame that seems too large for the small space of my room. His eyes roam, taking in the tidiness I maintain like a shield against chaos.
I pat the bed beside me, an invitation.
“Sit?”
He lowers himself onto the edge, the mattress dipping under his weight. We sit in silence for a moment, the air filled with the unspoken.
“Your mother liked this room,” he says, his gaze drifting to the pastel walls, a touch of nostalgia in his tone.
I nod, swallowing the lump of memories that threaten to surface. “Yeah, she did.”
He clears his throat, shifts gears. “So…Xavier. He’s a good kid.” It’s more statement than question.
“Xavier?” The name feels foreign on my tongue, a stark contrast to Levi’s. “Oh, right, yeah. He’s nice but…” I trail off, biting the inside of my cheek.
“But?”
“I’m not looking for anything serious right now.” The lie is smooth, practiced. I focus on the weave of the duvet cover beneath my hands.
Dad nods, accepting my words at face value. “Makes sense.” He hesitates. “I’ve been seeing someone.”
Surprise flashes through me, quick as lightning. “Dad, that’s…that’s great.” My voice is a shade too bright, but it’s important he knows I support him. “Mom would’ve wanted you to find someone who makes you smile again.”
“Really?” He searches my face for any trace of insincerity.
“Absolutely.” I stand up, the need to reinforce my words propelling me forward. “I can’t wait to meet her, Dad.”
He studies me, his eyes softening. “Thank you, Brielle.” There’s relief in his voice, a burden lifted. He gets up too and adds quietly, “Your mom…she’ll always be a part of us.”
“Of course she will.” I step into his open arms, feeling the strength that’s always been there. “She’d want you to be happy.”
We stay like that for a heartbeat, two heartbeats. Then he pulls back and smiles down at me, the lines around his eyes crinkling with warmth. “Well, I guess it’s time you met Angela.”
“Angela.” I roll her name around in my mind, trying it on for size. It sounds nice. Kind.
He nods and guides me gently by the shoulders, steering me toward the door. “Let’s head downstairs. I’ll make some coffee, and we can chat.”
“Sounds perfect,” I say, allowing myself to be led, the morning chaos already retreating to the back of my mind. We leave the sanctuary of my room together, ready for whatever comes next.
We descend the stairs side by side, my hand trailing along the polished banister. The morning sunlight filters through the windows, casting a warm glow over the familiar path to the kitchen.
“You know, I’m still expecting my personal chef to whip up something delicious,” Dad jests, his voice light and teasing.
A chuckle escapes me, breaking free from the tightness that had settled around my heart. “Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten about your gourmet tastes,” I play back, nudging him with my shoulder.
“Good.” He grins. “Because you know how much I love your cooking.”
I can’t help but smile at that. “It’s the least I can do.” Cooking has always been my thing, a silent language of love and memories shared over simmering pots and sizzling pans.
We enter the kitchen, and the familiar scents of home wrap around me. The coffee maker hisses softly in the background, promising a hint of normalcy amid the whirlwind of emotions.
“Scrambled eggs and toast?” I suggest, reaching for the skillet before he even answers.
“Perfect.” He sounds content, and I realize how much these small routines mean to both of us.
As the eggs sizzle in the pan, we fall into an easy conversation. We talk about mundane things—the weather, the garden, plans for the rest of the day. It’s comforting, this dance of words we’ve perfected over the years.
