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Two
DAKOTA
The phone rang yet again, and for the fourth time in a row my car’s bluetooth intercepted the potential connection. This in turn interrupted the song, and it was a hell of a good song. Maybe even a great one, if I could only settle back into my heated leather seats to enjoy it.
Fuck off, Brian.
I closed my eyes, trying to relax as the heat from the vents washed over me. My ex had been calling me non-stop for the past five days, and today was no exception. I had no idea what he wanted. My voicemail was too full to leave a message. I’d deleted any and all texts he sent without reading them, which had been fun at first, but now it was growing tiresome.
The ringing eventually stopped and the song came back on. I rode its melody all the way to the chorus, and just when it got to the best part… the phone rang again.
Dammit!
I banged the steering wheel in frustration. It was bad enough to be stuck in a ditch on the side of the road, waiting for help. But it was even worse when that help would arrive only to chastise me for not switching over to snow tires by now.
Knock knock knock!
The sharp rapping against my window nearly jolted me out of my skin! My father’s smiling face greeted me through the frosted glass and blowing snow, as I popped the door a few inches open.
“Stuck huh?”
“Yep.”
He glanced down and shook his head, but it was mostly for effect.
“Should’ve put on the snow tires, Dakota. You know better than this.”
I accepted my reprimand and stepped out into the cold Minnesota wind. The snow was mixed with sleet now, pelting the exposed skin of my face and hands like tiny daggers as I squinted into the darkness.
“Swing around,” I told him, jerking my head in the direction of my father’s truck. “I’ll unravel the winch and—”
“I can do it, honey. You stay inside and keep warm.”
I raised an eyebrow in mock disgust. “Are you kidding old man? Get back in your truck. You don’t even have a jacket on!’
For as long as I could remember my mother and I were always yelling at him for going out without a coat, but my father never seemed to care. He’d wear the same flannel shirts summer or winter, day or night. You could always tell how cold it was by how many layers he had on, though.
Eventually we got the winch hooked up, and it was a simple thing to pull me free. Relief flowed through me as my car rolled back onto the road where it belonged.
“Thanks dad.”
Again he’d come through. Just like clockwork.
“You sure you don’t want to switch vehicles?” he jabbed, wiping his frozen hands on his dirty work jeans. “I could take it down to the shop first thing tomorrow. Get those tires all changed up for you.”
“That’s tempting,” I scrambled, “but I really need to run. I’ve got work tonight.”
“Ah, yes,” he grinned. “Work.”
My father never could — and probably never would — understand what I did for a living. But it put food on the table, whether he understood it or not.
“Plus I have groceries in the back,” I continued. “And also—”
“Come by during the week,” my father said sternly. “Or I’m going to tow this thing to my shop when you’re not looking and do it myself.”
I flushed and stared back at him, noticing the tiny changes as I always did. His cheeks were a little more sunken, his once-blond hair flecked with a little more grey. It was somewhat heartbreaking, watching time catch up to this man who raised me and loved me. Wrinkle by wrinkle, it changed him in all the ways I wished I could stop.
“Yes daddy.”
