We walked out to the Impala waiting for us in the parking lot.
The two of us snapped a selfie together just like we did every year, and I instantly updated my screen saver on my phone to the new photo of us.
Then we jumped in the car and the only sounds were the rumble of the engine and the oldies rock playing as he kicked up dirt getting back on the road to return us to the cabin.
The best conversations were the ones that happened on the kitchen floor. The ones that lasted for hours of talking about nothing and everything all at once.
And it wouldn't be a complete experience if you didn’t shed a few tears, happy or sad. It didn’t matter; just sitting there wearing your heart on your sleeve with someone else willing and wanting to do the same.
It was a moment that was few and far between, and when you found yourself in them you never wanted them to end, so you intentionally stayed up way past your bedtime. Hell, maybe even until the sun rose again, just to feel the interconnectedness with another person who didn’t want the conversation to end either.
My dad sat on the cold tile with me, his back against the island while my back sat against the cold metal of the stainless-steel refrigerator.
I lost count of how many drinks he had poured for both of us, but somewhere between sitting at the bar we had stood and ended up on the floor when he busted out his good bourbon. I had sent Sam a picture of the bottle, and she texted me back saying the only reason she’d forgive me for drinking it without her was because it was my day.
Happy birthday. She had sent it at 12:01. She never missed it.
The thought made my chest ache at her absence. I wished she could’ve been here to enjoy the week with us, but at least we still had our phones.
Time passed and my dad and I were most certainly drunk. Okay, maybe not drunk, but too intoxicated because I couldn’t remember the last time I saw my dad cry. Pretty sure it was at my mom’s funeral, and if he had cried since then he didn’t do it in front of me.
“You look so much like your mother. If only she could see you now,” he said, wiping that one tear from his face.
If I hadn’t been paying attention, I probably wouldn’t have seen it in the low lighting with only the stove’s overhead bulb illuminating the room. The one light in the kitchen that never went off no matter the time of day.
Half of his face was cast in its soft orange glow, showing the raw emotions breaking through his normally stoic features.
I nodded. “I hope I make her proud.”
“You already have. Don’t ever doubt that. She’d be so proud of you, sweetheart, I’m proud of you,” he said, meeting my eyes.
I gave him a sleepy smile as he looked up to the stove, I assumed to check the time. I didn’t know how long we had been here, but I knew when we started the sun was just going down. Now we were in the dark, and I was sure it was past midnight.
“We should get to bed. We have our hike and fishing trip tomorrow. Well, today.” Dad glanced back over to me. He lifted his glass. “Happy birthday, sweetheart,” His glass clinked to mine as he took down that final swig, and I followed suit.
“Goodnight, Dad,” I said as he made it to his feet with a tired groan.
He placed his cup in the sink before stumbling his way to his bedroom. I stayed there for just a moment longer, leaning my head back against the fridge and reveling in the moment—the memory—before it was completely over.
With a sigh, I climbed to my feet and headed to my room. No matter how long we had been on that kitchen floor, it would have never been enough time.
4
Serina
Thestickyheatbeatdown on my throbbing head as we trekked along the narrow trail. Texas was a bitch. One moment, it could be freezing, the next, blistering hot no matter if it was the middle of January.
My steps were unsteady, and my senses were dulled by the remnants of last night's little kitchen party. I had only gotten a handful of hours of sleep before my dad woke me up for the day.
The dense foliage of the forest enveloped my dad and I, creating a cocoon of shade that provided no relief from the pounding in my head and the heavy air that came with being so close to the lake now. Heat radiated from every surface, creating a sauna-like environment that clung to my clothes and hair.
It was the kind of day where even the slightest movement induced a fresh wave of sweat. I wasn’t sure if it was from the heat or from the alcohol trying to escape my body at this point.
“What do you call a fish in a bowtie?” my dad asked, doing his absolute best to try and lift my spirits as we headed down the path to our normal fishing spot in the woods.
The dead leaves crunched under my boots on the walking trail. I groaned as I pulled the straps of my backpack further up on my shoulders.
“I have no idea,” I murmured, not impressed.
