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No smile.
No greeting.
Nothing but a question. “So you’re the boyfriend?”
16
Lark
“Yes, sir.”
Harbor tugs at the collar of his crew neck T-shirt and then loosens the jacket he’s wearing, his nerves getting the better of him.
It’s funny seeing him sweat being face-to-face with my dad. If asked a week ago, I would have said Harbor Westcott doesn’t sweat over anything. I grin, knowing that he’s nervous because he wants to make a good impression. He cares about me, or he wouldn’t give a dang about seeing my dad again.And he calls me the sweet one.
I give him a wave from behind my dad. When he sees me, relief eases his shoulders. I nudge the back of Dad’s boot and clear my throat.Hint. Hint.
“Are you coming in?” my dad asks, his tone as unwelcoming as the invitation.
Stepping around him, I push the screen door open and fill the doorway. I hold out a hand, and say, “Come inside, Harbor.”
His grin says it all. I’m happy to see him as well. “The steps are cracked,” I warn since night is falling, and he might not see how crooked they are. He comes up and takes my hand. I pull him inside, where my dad has moved into the kitchen. “Something to drink? Water? Tea? Beer?”
“I’m driving, so I’ll stick with water.”
The sound of the tap running gives me a quick second to lift on my toes to kiss him. “What are you doing here?”
“I stopped by your place, but Amanda said you were still here. Since it’s getting dark, I thought you might want a ride home.”
“That’s nice of you.”
My dad returns, and we take a step back from each other. I saw Dad wasting time in the kitchen to give us some time alone. He’s good like that. He hands a cup to Harbor and says, “Have you been watching this game?”
“No. I was out at my parents’ house visiting with them.”
“You’re lucky.”
“So I’ve been told.”
My dad doesn’t catch his response, but I do. Dad just carries on, bothered by the loss, even though he doesn’t care about either team. “It’s a shit show on that field.”
Harbor widens his stance and crosses his arms over his chest as he stares at the TV . . . well, I assume the game on TV, but I’m now remembering how beautiful his family’s home is, where he just returned, compared to this home where I grew up. Nothing’s newer than ten years, if not double that in age. Even the cup he set on the coffee table was free from the school carnival when I was in fourth grade. It’s a good cup that’s held up, but not the same as what he was most likely drinking out of an hour ago.
He asks, “Who are you rooting for?”
My dad laughs, kicking back in his chair. “For baseball to return. I just pass the time with this nonsense.”
I say, “We’ve always watched sports together on Sunday night. Whatever season it is, that’s the sport we watch. Unless it’s the Yankees, most of the games are just background noise while we hang out and eat.” I signal toward the back. “Want to see my room?”
“Only if you’re going to show me embarrassing photos of when you were younger.”
I’m already walking toward the hallway. Shrugging, I call over my shoulder, “I would, except I don’t have those. I was always an adorable kid.”
Strong arms grab me from behind, wrapping around my waist and lifting me. I burst into laughter but quickly remember my dad is less than twenty feet away, and I don’t know how kindly he’ll take to Harbor carrying me into my bedroom.
Wriggling free just outside my door, I turn abruptly and put a finger to my lips. “Shh,” I mouth. I know my dad too well. He’s probably in the living room pretending to watch the game while secretly plotting how to get Harbor back in the living room and out of my bedroom.
Boys are never something he had to deal with when I was growing up since I was too shy. This is all new to him. And I’m guessing if he hears a door shut, he may jump out of his skin, so I opt to leave it open. That way, he’s not forced to come investigate.
