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“Well, yeah,” he says with obvious attitude. “I read everything you write, Holl, you know that.”
I do know that. My dad is the most supportive guy in the universe, and he’s been that way since the moment I was born. When my mom died of breast cancer the December before I turned six, he damn near doubled his efforts. I don’t remember all of it, but I can see it like a storybook, all told through photo albums.
His dressing up like the Beast when I wanted to be Belle that first Halloween after my mom died. Him sipping tea from my brand-new tea set the following year and talking to my stuffed animals. Him wearing his beaded bracelet I made with my jewelry kit for six years until it broke. It was sparkly pink, but he didn’t care. He wore that thing with pride, no matter where he went.
When I was ten, he even let me practice painting my nails by painting his. He left the polish on until it all chipped off on its own.
Honestly, I couldn’t have asked for a better dad—even when he had to be the mom, too.
“That Bachelor fella seems like the real deal. Was he really a Navy SEAL?” he asks.
“Yep. He was.” The truth is, Jake is all the things I wrote about and so much more. There’s no way an article could even begin to capture his entire essence. It doesn’t matter how well I write it; I’ll never do him justice.
“What’s that?” my dad inquires, pointing at my face. Immediately, my brows draw together, and I start to wipe at the skin.
Do I have pickle juice on my chin or something?
“What’s what?”
“That look.”
I scrunch up one side of my face. “There’s no look.”
“There was a look. You think I don’t know when you have a look? I’ve been studying your expressions for thirty-three years, and I know ’em. That look there means somethin’.”
“Are you seriously trying to claim you know my looks better than I do?” I ask, and he doesn’t hesitate to respond with his usual colorful banter.
“You bet your asshole, sweetie. Is my name Phil Fields?”
I snort. “Unfortunately.”
“Why unfortunately?”
“Phil Fields?” I shrug. “I hate to tell ya, Pops, but your parents did you dirty.”
“I don’t know what that means, but I hope it doesn’t mean what I think, Holley Marie.”
“I pretty much guarantee it doesn’t.”
“Stop trying to distract me,” he responds in a huff. “You’re avoidin’ this, which makes me really know there was a look.”
“Dad, there wasn’t a look. Can we just drop it?”
He narrows his eyes. “I’ve been watchin’ you for the last months, draggin’ your carcass through life, just barely hangin’ on. Dead eyes. Dead heart. You’ve been coughin’ up oil like a fuckin’ ’69 Nova with a rotted-out pan.”
Oh, here we go…
“Dad, you know I don’t know what any of these car things mean.”
“But your engine is runnin’ a lot smoother today, girl,” he continues, completely ignoring the fact that his car metaphors still make zero sense to me. “And I just wanna know why.”
He stares at me, waiting for a response, and all I can do is lift up both shoulders.
“I don’t know…” I pause, trying to find an answer that will prevent more questions and car lingo. “Time, I guess? I’m starting to get over everything that happened. Moving on, you know?”
“That ain’t it.”
A defeated breath leaves my lungs, and I slam my hands onto the table. “Then I don’t know what it is! Or what you’re even seeing, for that matter. Maybe you need to get your eyes checked?”
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and without thinking, I pull it out and glance down at the screen. Another text from Jake beckons, and I can’t stop myself from opening it up and reading it.Jake: Tell your dad I said hello and that I agree with him that sex is a very healthy, natural thing that should include a lot of practice. Except for my daughter. At least, not yet. I mean, I don’t want to be one of those dads who says never, but by God, I hope it’s never. Not really, though, you know? I just hope the guy’s not like any of the ones I know.I smile at his fatherly ramble and shake my head.
“That,” my dad says, startling me. I look up from my phone, and he’s pointing a beefy finger in my face. “That’s the look. That’s the look right there.”
I look back down at my phone and panic a little.
Is he right? Is Jake Brent the reason I’m not applying for the job of crypt keeper anymore?
Now that is a question I’m in no way ready to answer.Jake“So, what does this change?” I ask after Matt provides a concise update and explanation of the redline changes we’ve had to make on this house.
