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“I’ll probably just hang out here for a while and then go to bed, too. I’m still jet-lagged. But thanks.”
His gaze drifts over the porch. “Susan used to sit out here every night during the summer. ’Course, it was a lot nicer back then. She had a bunch of potted flowers and this big wicker thing.” He smiles as he reminisces. “She’d curl up with a blanket, like you are. Like a caterpillar in a cocoon.”
“She does that at home, too. We have a little sun porch off the back of the house. It’s a quarter of this size, but . . . it’s nice. Cozy.”
“Is she still growing her flowers and all that stuff?”
I chuckle. “Our house is a jungle of thorns and petals. She owns a flower shop now, too. It’s doing well.”
“That sounds right up her alley.” He purses his lips together and then nods with satisfaction. “Good. I’m glad to hear that. Well . . . ’Night, Calla.”
“’Night.” I feel the urge to tack on “Dad” at the end, but something holds me back.
“Oh, and don’t mind Jonah. He likes to get under people’s skin.” He slides the door softly behind him, leaving me to myself.
“Like a damn parasite,” I murmur.
And yet, if I’m not mistaken, that parasite helped force a lot of truth to the surface tonight.
Truth that was needed if I have any hope of reconnecting with my father.
Chapter 11
I cringe at the acrid taste of sweat and bug spray on my lips as I amble up my dad’s driveway, my heart pounding from a rigorous run. So far today feels much like a repeat of yesterday—another unintentional early rise, another overcast sky, another quiet, lifeless house, save for the aroma of a freshly brewed pot of coffee, evidence that my dad was there, but gone by the time I poked my head out.
Except today, things don’t feel as hopeless between Wren Fletcher and me as they did yesterday.
On the flip side, I haven’t begun to wrap my mind around how I feel about these phone calls between him and my mother. Angry, on Simon’s behalf, that’s for certain. Though something tells me Simon knows more than even he let on that night on the porch steps.
What if those calls hadn’t started? What if the feelings between my parents hadn’t resurfaced? Would my father still have decided that it was best for everyone if he distanced himself?
My gaze drifts to the green Ford Escape next door as I climb the porch steps, panting. I didn’t hear it roll in last night. Jonah must have come home after I went to bed.
I push through the door into the kitchen.
And yelp at the hulkish figure inside, pouring a cup of coffee into a travel mug.
“What are you doing in here?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” Jonah slides the half-full pot back on the burner. He’s dressed much the same as yesterday, swapping the black shirt for charcoal gray, the cotton material clinging nicely to his shoulders. His jeans are still too loose. The same ratty USAF baseball cap keeps his straggly blond hair off his face.
“You don’t have a coffeemaker at your place?”
“Wren brews a full pot every morning for the both of us. That’s our routine. I always come over to fill up my mug.”
I frown. “Did you come in here yesterday, too?”
“Yup.” He turns and leans against the counter, settling his pretty blue eyes on me. “You were in the shower.” Did he trim his beard? It’s still long and full, but it seems less mangy than yesterday. Or . . . I don’t know. Something’s different about him. He looks a bit less wild and unappealing.
Bringing the mug to his lips, he takes a long sip, his gaze flickering over my sweat-coated body—clad in the pink shorts and tank top that he claimed leaves nothing to the imagination—before settling on my face. “Did your bug spray work?”
I can’t read him, not even a little bit, and that’s unsettling. “Seemed to,” I murmur, suddenly feeling self-conscious. Which is probably his goal. Setting my jaw stubbornly, I stroll over to the kitchen sink.
“Agnes warned you about the water, right?”
My hand freezes mid-swipe over my lips. “What do you mean? Is it contaminated?” I haven’t intentionally drunk any, but I’ve been brushing my teeth with it.
“No, it’s clean. But we’re on a hauled water system out here. A truck comes out once a week to fill that big tank outside. If you use it up before the next truck comes, you’re shit outta luck.”
