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I’m not the only one.
She shut her mouth and headed for the kitchen. Instead of sitting, she leaned against the cooking island. “Don’t tell me. Mom found out about the shooting and you have to sleep in the basement.”
“No.” His eyebrows went up. “You haven’t talked to Michael?”
“No.” She shrugged but wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Tonight . . . he kept a lot of secrets, Dad. I don’t . . . I don’t even understand all of it.”
But she understood some of it. Thanks to Irish.
She had no idea what to do. At least she’d been able to make a coherent statement to the cops.
She had no idea where things stood with Michael—or where she wanted them to stand. He had a second life. A secret life, full of magic and danger and mystery. In a movie or a book it would have made him sexy and desirable.
To a real live woman with a young child to raise, it made him terrifying.
Her father gave a heavy sigh. “I don’t understand much either.” He paused. “That’s not really what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Fine.” She turned to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of Gatorade. “What, then?”
“I don’t hate that you’re a firefighter. And I don’t hate that you got pregnant.” A moment passed. “And I didn’t mean for you to think I was trying to pin anything on your mother.”
She stood there with the refrigerator door open, unsure how to respond. He was so direct. She kept her eyes on the bright white shelves and didn’t say anything.
“I was disappointed,” he continued. “I won’t sugarcoat it. I think any father would be. I think any parent would be.”
“Trust me,” she said, slamming the refrigerator door. “I got the memo.”
“I don’t think you did,” he said. “I don’t think you understand me at all.”
She waited, listening.
“When you went to that party, when you got arrested—” He shook his head. “You acted like I was the one who showed up and shoved you into a cop car. You wouldn’t speak to me for weeks.”
Her cheeks warmed. She remembered that.
“I was worried,” her father said. “I didn’t want you to miss out on anything you wanted to do, because of one mistake.”
“James isn’t a mistake.” The words came out of her mouth like an attack.
“I didn’t say he was.” He paused. “Going to that party to prove a point to your overbearing father was a mistake.”
She flinched. He was right. “I didn’t miss out on anything,” she said. Her voice was small.
“I know. You’ve worked very hard. I’m proud of you.”
Anything she could have said was trapped in her throat by sudden emotion. He said it so simply, like anything else. Like he didn’t realize how long she’d been waiting to hear him say those exact words.
Before she could change her mind, she crossed the kitchen and threw her arms around his neck.
If he was surprised, she didn’t feel it. He hugged her back as if he held her every day. His arms were warm and secure and familiar, despite the fact that she hadn’t hugged him in years.
“I missed this,” she said.
“Me too.” He didn’t let go.
Then she remembered the pillows and blankets. “If Mom’s not making you sleep in the basement, then what’s going on?”
James came bursting into the kitchen, full of the energy only kindergartners could find at five o’clock in the morning. He tackled her and her father at the same time, as if they did group hugs on a daily basis. “Mommy! Mommy! The big kids are here for a sleepover, and they said we could play the Lego game on Xbox later!”
