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Taking a sip of my hot cocoa, I think of last night. Though, it’s not as if I’ve been doing anything except thinking of last night. When he asked me if I wanted him here, I should’ve just saidyes, and let whatever happened after happen, but I got so pissed when his tone changed. He became defensive like he was suddenly dealing with a blackmailing fan or something.
I didn’t handle it well. After I hung up, I answered when he called me. He blanked me, even when I tried him again, then a third time. After there was still no answer, I curled up in bed, hand over my belly, feeling our baby, imagining we were holding hands, taking comfort from each other.
Dad walks onto the porch, sitting beside me, and pulls a blanket over his knees. He’s in his work shirt and dark cargo pants. From inside the house, I hear Mom singing to the radio. Dad taps his fingers on his knees, a small, content smile on his face as we watch Eric grind along the rail in the dusky lowlight.
“Good day, kiddo?” he asks after a while.
“Oh, it was okay,” I reply, with that awkwardness I’ve felt in every exchange since coming home, every single moment we’ve been together for six weeks. “I got three thousand words done.”
“For school or your own work?”
“One thousand for school. Two for my own.”
“It’s usually the other way around,” Dad says, still with that soft smile, but I can tell he’s feeling the vague awkwardness, too. It’s vague for him, anyway, since he doesn’t know about the fire, the heat, looking up and seeing Logan’s chest brimming with lust.
“I’m really getting into my children’s book,” I tell him.
It was easy to write today in the library after class with my headphones in. That was only because I could think about my and Logan’s child, the playfulness in their eyes at a particular line, a laugh, or maybe they’d clap at this or that dialogue. It all felt so vivid. I wanted to hug my child after I finished writing, as though they’d been there the whole time, and they’re not inside of me, still so small, so precious. Oh,jeez. I’m almost crying. I quickly sip some soda and gather myself.
“You’re going to be a huge success one day,” Dad says. “Just wait. You’ll have dozens of books published. You’ll have the family you always dreamed of.”
“Are you looking forward to being a grandfather?” I ask, though really, I should change the subject. This is needlessly masochistic.
“I’d never want you to rush,” Dad says, eyes still on the boys, thescreeof their skates against the rail. “But yeah, Em. If you found a man who loved and respected you, who treated you how you deserved, and you wanted to get married and have kids, I’d support you. Honestly? I can’t wait to meet my grandkids.”
My belly twists like the baby is already somehow kicking. Dad said if I found a man who loved and respected me. Did Logan respect me, quickly pulling away after he was done, getting dressed, hardly even looking at me before leaving the hotel room? What else was he supposed to do, stay and cuddle?
A car slowly pulls up at our dead-end street. Our road has a circle at the end for turning around, and Eric and his friend have set up their grind box on the edge, away from the cars. This large pickup is raised off the ground, the paint shiny and brand new. They stop right in front of the grind box.
“Eric,” Dad says, his voice suddenly tight. He’s on his feet. “You and Jack come inside now, bud.”
“Dad?”
“Now, Eric.”
Eric and his friend awkwardly skate-walk up the narrow stone path to our house walking up the lane.
“And you, Em,” Dad says, hands on his hips, looking at the car.
Fear has slithered into my throat, almost choking my words. It’s the change in Dad’s demeanor. I realize I’ve never seen him truly scared, but it emanates from him now, almost like a smell. “Dad, what’s wrong?”
“I need to have a conversation with these men.”
Standing, I see a burly man in a white cowboy hat and another even bigger man in a leather vest, his arms covered in tattoos and his chest covered in thick, black hair. Thick, black hair falls around his face, too.
“What? Why?”
“Get inside, Emma!”Dad snaps, turning to me.
I hurry through the door. It’s a reflex. Dad never yells at me. Only a few times can I remember him getting angry when I was a kid, but this isn’t anger. This is panic. Closing the door, I find Mom, Eric, and Jack crowded in the hallway. The boys stand near the window, peering out onto the street.
“What’s going on out there?” Mom says.
“I don’t know. Some guys pulled up. Dad seems scared.”
Mom’s eyes register recognition, and then she’s in Mother Hen mode, hurrying us out of the hallway toward the rear of the house to the kitchen. She waves her hands and flaps at us. Then, when I turn to look, she gently touches my elbow. “I’ve got a pie for everybody. Come on. Let’s not disturb your father’s business.”
In the kitchen, when Eric and Jack are shoveling pie into their mouths, I tell her quietly, “You know what’s going on, don’t you, Mom?”
