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“Rain check.” I return her smile.
* * *
“Sweetheart, the roast—”
“Already taken care of, Dad.” I cut him off with a raised hand. With swift, practiced movements, I stir and season, actually enjoying cooking now that I’m back home. I never really had the time in New York. “Trust me, I can handle this.”
“I know, I know.” He rubs my shoulder. “You’re probably better than me in the kitchen anyway.”
“Remember when you tried to make lasagna and nearly set the kitchen on fire?” I tease, unable to resist a playful jab as he hands me a dish towel.
“Ah, yes, the Great Lasagna Inferno of ’09.” He chuckles, a sound that fills the room with warmth, and shakes his head. “I was sure I’d never live that one down.”
“Never,” I affirm, my laughter mingling with his.
“Or that time you tried to surprise Mom with breakfast in bed?” I ask, arching an eyebrow while I toss in a handful of sun-dried tomatoes. “You managed to burn the toast, undercook the eggs, and?—”
“And spill the orange juice all over the duvet,” he finishes, shaking his head. The shared memory wraps around us like a warm blanket, even as the ache of her absence twines through it. “I’ve missed this—missed you, Brielle.”
“Missed me saving your culinary butt, you mean?” My tone is light, teasing, but warmth blooms in my chest at his words.
“Especially that.”
“Dad…” I begin, hesitating as I take in the lines etched around his eyes, the silver creeping into his hair. “How have you been…really? Since Mom…”
He sighs, a deep exhalation that seems to carry the weight of his solitude. His gaze drifts to the picture window above the sink, where the garden beyond lies dormant, waiting for spring.
“It’s been quiet,” he admits, his voice barely louder than the simmering of the sauce on the stove. “Too quiet without her laughter, her energy. But I’m managing, sweetie. Day by day.”
“Day by day,” I echo, slicing through the tension with the blade of my knife. My mind races, thoughts tangling with the tendrils of steam rising from the dishes.
I manage a smile, though it’s as fragile as the bubbles in a champagne flute. “You’re doing great, Dad. She would be proud.”
“Thanks, Brie.” His hand finds mine, squeezing it briefly before letting go. “Means the world to me, having you here.”
“Why all the fuss tonight?” I ask, changing the topic to something a little lighter.
Dad wipes his hands on a dish towel, turning toward me with a knowing smile playing on his lips. “Well, Brielle,” he begins, pausing for dramatic effect as he leans back against the counter, “I thought it’d be a good chance for you to meet some people before you start at the new college.”
“Friends of yours?” I ask, trying to keep my tone even as I stir the pot, the spoon circling like a prowling shark in shallow waters.
“Best friends,” he elaborates, pride swelling in his chest. “And a couple of your future professors too. These are people who mean a lot to me. I want them to get to know my amazing daughter, and if it gives you a leg up, that never hurts right?”
I grin. He’s always trying to get me ahead.
“Sure, Dad.”
What’s one night with a bunch of old, boring professors anyway?
There’s a hard knock at the door. Dad gives me a quick nod and strides off to play the gracious host. I take a deep breath, smoothing down my apron, able to just barely hear the voices across the threshold, my father’s and a few others.
“Look who’s here,” Dad announces as he steps back into the kitchen, three shadows spilling into the room behind him.
“Conrad, Levi, Grayson—guys, this is my daughter, Brielle.”
But the second my eyes fall on them, it’s clear I don’t need an introduction. They’re the men from the plane.
Oh my god.
