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“A cab. Just as I was coming home.”
“Hmm . . .” His frown deepens, as if he knows that’s a flat-out lie. But then he shrugs. “Well, you’ve got all your clothes now. That’s good. ’Night.”
“’Night, Dad.”
He pauses to give me a small, satisfied smile and then disappears into his room.
I let out a shaky sigh the second my bedroom door shuts behind me. Jonah got what he deserved. Besides, it’s not like I disfigured him. And hair grows back. If he prefers looking like he belongs in a cave, carrying a club around, it won’t take him too long to transform back.
I set to unpacking my things.
Two hundred and forty-four.
Someone drew nipples on two hundred and forty-four ducks.
That’s one thousand, four hundred and sixty-four hand-drawn nipples in my father’s kitchen.
“Calla?”
I turn to find my dad standing in the kitchen doorway. “Hey! I’m making coffee for us. It’s just finishing up.”
His surprised gaze shifts from me to his coffeemaker as it noisily dispenses the last drips of hot liquid from its spout, and then back to me. “You feeling okay?”
“Yeah. I couldn’t sleep, so I figured I’d get ready and go in with you.”
He studies my tired eyes that no amount of concealer and Visine seemed to be able to fix. “I didn’t sleep well last night, either,” he admits, the bags under his eyes telling. “I’ll bet seeing Jonah like that unsettled you.”
“Yeah, maybe.” My sleepless night has everything to do with Jonah, but less to do with the crash and more to do with his potential wrath when he wakes up and finds he’s been shorn like a farm animal. Will he laugh it off or will we be back to square one in our relationship—mutual loathing? “Anyway, I figured I might as well get an early start to the day. With you.”
“Nothing wrong with that.” He pours himself a cup from the pot and takes a sip.
And starts choking. “How many spoonfuls did you put in?”
“Whatever the package said. Is it bad?”
He presses his lips together and shakes his head, and then says in a tight voice, “It’s great.”
I give him a flat look. “You’re lying.”
“It might be a tad bit strong.” He smiles as he takes another sip, turning away to hide his grimace.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know how to make coffee. You don’t have to finish it.”
“You kidding?” Another forced sip, followed by a fake thirst-quenching sound. “My daughter made this here cup just for me. Damn straight I’m gonna drink it.”
I’m lost in laughter as I mix my own cup—extra heavy on the soy milk—and watch him force down the rest of it, alternating between dramatic cringes and full body shudders. Setting his dish in the sink, he grabs his vest and keys. “Well, if I wasn’t awake before . . .”
I trail him out the door and toward his truck.
“Those are nice.” He admires my red Hunter boots with a smile and nods at the red flannel jacket from Jonah, folded over my arm. “And they match.”
“Shockingly. At least I finally have something appropriate to wear.” I’d dug out my favorite ripped blue jeans, coupling them with my silvery off-the-shoulder knit shirt and matching lace bra.
“You had every right to be frustrated. It takes some getting used to, the way things work around here.”
My luggage problems weren’t on account of Alaska, I want to say. They had everything to do with the sleeping giant next door.
Both our gazes fall on the quiet yellow house.
