I can’t decide if it’s predictable or twisted that I get off on good parenting. Daddy issues absolutely mess with your head.
But there’s no denying the way I’m drawn to him now when he’s with her.
Laughing off her friendly jabs with ease, teasing her gently, a second love language you only learn with family.
I had it once with my grandfather. The thought breaks me.
Holden looks up and notices me moping around as he’s checking the stove.
“Care to get busy? The more hands on deck, the sooner we eat.”
“Nobody gets his food for free!” Kit yells, her face shining.
“Nope. Just the freeloading cats,” he mutters.
Kit laughs.
“You guys have cats?” I don’t know why that surprises me. Another thing I actually can’t imagine, this buttoned-down brawler with a purring furball curled on his lap.
“Grandma does,” he says, slipping back to Kit-speak. “My parents love their cats. Most pampered little beasts in all of Portland.”
I grin.
“Yeah, I’m basically third on their list of favorites after Whisk and Masher,” Kit says, mock-seriously. “Uh, sorry, Dad. You’re fourth place.”
“No need to apologize when it’s true. My old man likes watching football with someone who won’t get on his case about sports betting. The betting apps are eating social security checks alive these days.”
“Even when they steal fries off his plate! You literallysaidthey love the cats more than they love you.”
Holden gives this big, dramatic-ass shrug that makes me lose it. They’re so quirky yet normal and I love it.
After a few days of this banter, will I see the tinman anymore?
“The cats are okay. Just spoiled rotten,” he admits, looking at me.
I grab a carafe of black iced tea from the fridge I threw together this morning and join them, a little nervous.
Technically, this is my first real family dinner since the little brunch gathering at Margot’s wedding.
Nervous or not, I’m glad, knowing I’m in good company.
Oh shit,it’slate.
That’s the first thing I notice when I jerk awake, my heart rabbiting in my throat.
Still dark.
I listen intently, but there’s nothing obviously wrong. It’s not like leaping out of a nightmare, either.
Only the ragged, heavy sound of my own breathing and the slight wind coming from the window I left cracked.
But that doesn’t explain the goosebumps running up my arms.
My stomach twists.
My sixth sense whispers something’s wrong.
That prickling imminent spider feeling intensifies as I stumble out of bed, stubbing my toe in the darkness. I bite my tongue, then rip my phone from its charger and switch on the flashlight app.
