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That’s one way to sober a girl up.

Fifteen

Dean

Imake it approximately thirty seconds down Blair’s street before questioning every decision I’ve ever made.

I could’ve kissed her.

Fuck, I wanted to kiss her.

But she’d had enough tequila to call something “groovy” without irony, and there was no fucking way our first kiss was happening when she might not remember it.

I should earn a medal for walking off that porch.

My body clearly disagrees.

When I get home, Mom is waiting on the couch. I thank her for watching Aspen and kiss her cheek before she leaves.

Before heading upstairs, I stop by Aspen’s room. She’s fast asleep with Beachy tucked beneath one arm, completely unaware of how thoroughly her teacher has fucked with my head.

I pull her door closed and head straight for a cold shower.

Fuck knows I need it.

* * *

Sunday morning begins with the terrified screams of my six-year-old.

“Daddy! Daddy!”

I race into the living room, expecting blood or a fire, only to find Aspen sitting on the couch eating a banana she helped herself to.

“Penny, what’s wrong?” I ask, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

“Is it lighthouse time yet?”

I glance at the clock.

Six a.m. Fucking hell, Aspen.

“Not yet, baby girl. We’re leaving when the clock says ten.”

“Oh.” Her face falls. “Sorry, Daddy.”

“That’s okay, but you scared me. We only yell like that when something is really wrong.”

“The lighthouse is really important,” she says solemnly.

I bite back a laugh. “Not that important.”

Aspen takes another bite of her banana while I yawn.

“We’re awake now. How about pancakes?”

“Yay!”

Sunday pancakes have become one of our traditions. Aspen helps me stir the batter, which mostly means covering the counter in flour, before we sit on the back porch with enough maple syrup to put both of us into a sugar coma.