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When the police car passes me, the two officers inside it don’t even glance my way. They must be having an emergency wherever they’re heading, or they would’ve fined me for the speed. I reduce it somewhat, until I’m certain I have full control of the car. Gabe doesn’t make an appearance again.
It’s only after I get onto the highway that I realize how stupid I’ve been. I should have alerted the police to what Gabe did, but in my haste to put as many miles between him and me as possible, I let the chance slip.
Cursing, I pull out my phone and call Damon. He picks up after the first ring and I tell him what happened. I’m not sure how coherent I am, because fear still muddles my thoughts.
“Do you want me to drive up to you?” he asks.
“No, it’s okay. I’m going to my parents’ house. I don’t think he’ll come back. Can you tell James what happened? I want to concentrate on driving, and I don’t feel like repeating the story for him.”
“Sure, I’ll take care of it. Be careful.”
“I will.”
My heartbeat only regains its normal rhythm after about an hour of driving. I try to concentrate on the upcoming hours, and how my visit will go. I decide not to tell my parents anything about this morning.
A contradictory feeling of nervousness and warmth rears its head. It does so every time I visit my parents since I returned. Part of me still can't get over how much they've changed. They'd entered the hospital as strangers and came out determined to save their relationship. I had heard my parents used to love each other very much, but didn't believe it. Now I do. Their priorities changed completely. Dad handed over the reins of the chocolate factory and has no plans to return to work. Mom cut back on her charity work a lot and spends most of her time with Dad and on the phone with me. They’re also determined for us to become a real family. I love spending time with them. They are finally the parents I wished for my entire childhood. I contemplate calling James to ask him if he'd like to come, and then decide against it. He makes it to the weekly Thursday dinners, but rarely has time for more visits. I don't blame him; the three hours’ drive to our parents’ home isn't much fun.
Just as I get out of the car in front of the house, the massive oak doors of the entrance open and my mother appears.
"Dani, you must be freezing." She throws me a worried look. "I'll get you a coat. Your father is in the glasshouse." With that, Mom disappears back inside. Despite the chilly wind, warmth spreads through my limbs. She really makes an effort to pay attention to me, and I appreciate it.
I make my way to the glasshouse, sucking in a deep breath when I find my father. He still bears the marks of his heart attack. He's thin, pale, and has sunken eyes. But he's livelier than I've ever seen him, smiling, and even chuckling occasionally. He's immersed in the book he's reading and doesn’t see me come in. Just the fact that he's reading a book blows my mind. I don't remember ever seeing my father do that, unless it was a book by some famous business guru. When I take a closer look at what he's reading, I do a double-take. Yep, Dad holds Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone in his hands.
"Dad, what are you reading?"
His head snaps up to me. "I found this in your room. It's brilliant."
"I know," I say. He closes the book as I sit opposite him, putting it on an empty chair. "There are seven of them, and they're all brilliant."
"I'll look for the second one in your room as soon as I finish this one."
"Who are you, and what have you done with my father?" I make a mental note to scour my room and take with me every single steamy romance book I own.
"I only have twenty pages left." He put the book away, but eyes it with an almost comical longing. I'm jealous. Nothing comes close to the excitement of reading the Harry Potter series for the first time.
Mom arrives carrying a tray, one of my old hoodies and sweatpants hanging on her arm. I snatch them, throwing them over what I'm wearing in a heartbeat.
“Oh, breakfast,” Dad says. “Looks great.” He glances up, beaming at Mom. She smiles back shyly, as if she’s a tad ashamed. My parents are rediscovering how to love each other one step at a time. It’s beautiful to watch. I barely withhold a groan when I see what's on the tray.
"I made your favorite breakfast, Dani," Mom declares proudly. "Pancakes with mashed banana." Now, here's the thing. I don't have any memory of ever liking, let alone loving this. After Dad came back from the hospital, we viewed some old photo albums. In a lot of those, I was eating this awful stuff and looked happy doing it. Mom concluded I must have loved it, and makes it for me every time I'm here. It's gross and slimy, but I'm not about to tell her that. I had given up hope a long time ago that she’d cook anything for me, so this is almost a miracle. I take a bite, hoping it'll taste better this time. Nope. Forcing a smile on my face, I gulp the thing down. If my parents had a dog, this would be the moment when I'd slip him the food under the table and pray for him to eat it.
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"Eat up. There's more if you want," Mom says. Okay, new resolution: I must buy my parents a dog, preferably one who likes mashed bananas.
"I just learned that Dad started reading. How about you, Mom?"
"Me, too. I found some books in your room." She motions with her head to the lounge chair a few feet away from the table. My heart stops. Lying there with a bookmark between its pages is one of the steamiest romances I own. "It's great."
"Perfect," I mumble, feeling my cheeks heat up even though Mom looks completely unfazed.
Dad reaches for one of my pancakes. "I haven't tasted these." There is no way to warn him, so when he takes the first bite and winces, throwing me a questioning glance, I bite my tongue to stifle a laugh. Luckily, Mom's looking away.
"Tell us about your first week. How is the accommodation?" Dad says, skillfully avoiding Mom's gaze as he puts the pancake back on my plate. I wet my lips, inhaling deeply. After years of silence from them, this feels weird. But then I remember that Mom reads steamy novels and Dad devours Harry Potter. Asking me to tell them about my week is the most normal thing I’ve heard since walking through the door.
“The bedroom is on the small side, but we’ll manage.”
“Hopefully Heather doesn’t snore,” Dad says.
