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He put his attention back to the television where he’s watching some show about vintage cars. Dad loves to watch TV shows about cars, and I wish I could afford to buy him an old hot rod like he’s always dreamed of owning. I need to win the lottery, like yesterday.
I walk into the kitchen and find a total mess. There are dishes on the counter and in the sink, unwashed. At least there are dishes, I think to myself. It means that he’s eating, and that’s a good thing.
I take out the ingredients and start piecing them together, layering the noodles, cheese, and sauce. I like cooking. It’s meditative for me, but in the silence all I can think of is Tate. I wish I could say the thoughts are innocent but I begin to fantasize about his lips being on mine, his hard body pressed against my sensitive parts. This afternoon, I wanted him, every bit of him and it felt odd to feel that way about someone while I was at work. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been this attracted to someone. But damn, Tate has stirred me in the right way. Here I am, making lasagna and lusting over someone who didn’t even tell me his last name.
I start having straight-up fantasies while I’m setting the temperature for the oven. It feels good to daydream like this. I think of Tate’s hands on my body. I imagine him with his shirt off, undressing me from head to toe.
“How was work?” Dad asks, suddenly appearing in the kitchen. He startles me, and I drop the knife on the counter. I was chopping lettuce for us a salad. “Whoa.”
“I didn’t see you there,” I say, my heart pounding.
“Be careful with that knife,” he tells me.
“Work was fine, I guess. Was busy as usual.”
“You done for the day?” Dad asks, seating himself on a kitchen stool. He knows I’ve been working double shifts lately, so it’s not a question entirely out of the realm.
“Yes, they didn’t need me tonight, thankfully. I’ve worked three doubles this week.” I continue chopping the lettuce into small pieces, composing myself again.
“You work too hard, honey,” Dad says softly.
“I have to.”
“I can’t help but feel like it’s my fault,” he says, and I hate to hear him speak like this.
I stop chopping and place the knife down on the cutting board. I turn toward him.
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s true.”
“Well, when you get healthy again, I’ll stop taking double shifts.”
“Or when I’m dead,” Dad says this humorously, but I don’t think there’s anything funny about it.
“Don’t talk like that, Dad. Seriously. It hurts my heart,” I admit.
He gives me a nod. “Would be nice to see you get some rest. Settle down and live your life. Meet a nice man who can take care of you.”
“Come on, dad. You know that I’m not like that. I don’t want to marry some guy just so he can take care of me.”
“I know. You’ve always been headstrong like that. But still, it would nice to see
you happy with someone.”
I sit on the stool in front of him and place my hands on his. “Dad, you’re not holding me back, okay? I want to be here for you. And I’m happy.” I smile at him.
He blinks slowly, and I see the guilt on his face, and I wish he’d stop feeling this way.
Maybe I’m not happy, but I try to be. I’ve had relationships here and there, but nothing serious. And besides, they always end up moving away from Whitefish, and I’m left behind. I just always assumed that maybe this was the way my life would be.
Tate pops back into my mind, and for a moment I consider telling dad I somewhat met someone, but then I think how stupid that is. I don’t know why I want to talk about a guy I’ve only met twice. Maybe it’s because he’s already made a significant impact on my life.
5
Tate
I don’t get mail that much. My mom occasionally tries to call me, but I usually don’t pick up the phone. Hell, I don’t even carry that thing around with me. So it comes as a surprise when I see the letter addressed to me in fancy handwriting.
