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I start off walking to my house, even though he’s looking at the Knightly’s. Whatever, he can see Jacob in a moment.
Then he follows me up the path. I open the front door, met with the warmth of home and the smell of my dad’s cooking. My stomach growls. I told him I’d be home for dinner, but I didn’t mention I’d be bringing company.
“You hungry?” I ask Max over my shoulder.
“I could eat,” he says carefully. “Though maybe I should check in with Jacob.”
“Jacob controls what you eat?” I ask as we step into the foyer and I close the door.
“Jacob doesn’t control shit when it comes to me,” Max says. “Just thought I would let him know I’m here before he figures it out for himself.”
“That’s a relief,” I mutter. Jacob controlled Jay as much as he could.
“Ada, you’re home,” my dad calls out from the kitchen. He comes around the corner and stops dead in his tracks when he sees Max.
“Hey dad, you remember Max, don’t you?”
My father’s face looks white.
Like he’s seen a ghost.
And fuuuuuuuck. I had totally forgotten about all this.
“Nice to see you again,” Max says. He’s not moving, hands in his pockets. “I believe the last time we saw each other was in New York.”
My dad’s mouth drops open. Then he snaps it shut and looks at me. “Is this a joke? Am I going crazy?”
“What?” I gesture to the ginger. “That’s Maximus. You can see him, right?”
“I see him, but I shouldn’t be seeing him.” He looks at Max in horror. “I was at your funeral. You shouldn’t be here. You’re dead.”
I exchange a weighty look with Max. Right. Who is going to explain this to my dad? Me? Whom he won’t believe. Or Max, who he might also not believe.
Max nods, perhaps hearing me, and smiles apologetically at my father. “Do you want me to explain what happened, or should you hear it from your daughter?”
“Actually, before we get into that, Dad, can Max stay for dinner? I know you’ve made enough.”
Dad just stares at Max. “I don’t understand. Are you a ghost?”
“See, that doesn’t help,” I tell him. I lock eyes with Max and gesture to the kitchen. “Come on. Eat.”
“I don’t want to impose,” Max says, not moving, trying not to look at my father who is still staring at him in confusion.
“You’re not imposing,” I tell him. “Dad, tell him he’s not imposing. Tell him he’s welcome. Be a good host.”
My dad reluctantly nods his head. “Yes. Okay. Sorry.”
“No problem,” Max says, taking off his coat and hanging it on the coat hook.
I take my dad by the elbow and lead him into the kitchen. “It’s fine. Everything is fine.”
“I don’t understand,” he whispers to me. “I thought he was dead. You all told me he had died.”
I give him an affectionate pat. My poor dad. He’s been going through some things lately; if I had given this any thought at all, I would have realized this wasn’t a good idea. That said, he’d eventually notice Max next door and still come to the same conclusions, whatever they are.
“We’ll explain. Let’s eat first. Here, sit. I’ll serve.”
My dad sits down at the table, while Max takes an uneasy seat across from him. I quickly get the lasagna out of the oven and start dishing it up.
“I was sorry to hear about your wife,” Max says to him, his voice low. “She was a lovely lady.”
“Have you seen her?” my father asks. His voice is so urgent that I turn around to look. He’s leaning forward, hands splayed on the table. “Have you talked to her?”
“Dad,” I say sharply, carrying the plates over and setting them down in front of them.
My dad looks at me, eyes wide. “I need to know, Ada.”
“No,” Max says softly, his gaze apologetic. “I’m sorry. I haven’t seen your wife. Not since New York.”
“But you were dead.”
Max eyes me over my father’s head. “Perhaps this is best discussed over some wine.”
Good call. I get the glasses and the bottle of wine and sit down. My father attempts to pour, but his hands are shaking so Maximus smoothly takes over. I give him an appreciative look. He was always great with my parents, especially compared to someone like Dex, at least back in the day.
“I’d suggest a toast,” I say, raising my glass. “But I’m not sure what’s appropriate.” Congrats to being alive? I guess that’s pretty standard.
“How about to this wonderful meal your father has created?” Max suggests, raising his glass.
My father barely manages to raise his, the wine sloshing slightly from his trembling grip.
Then we dig in. My father at least has enough patience to let Max eat about half his plate before he starts asking questions.
“I just don’t understand,” my father says, shaking his head. “Was everyone wrong? Was everyone lying? I remember being so confused that there was no body, but that there was a funeral anyway. I don’t know.” He takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing. “Everything about those days is a blur. Perhaps it’s best if I don’t remember.”
