I tilted my head back against thecouch and closed my eyes tightly again. “Yeah, well this is for survival too.”
I heard the creak of the recliner asmy dad sat up as quickly as he was capable of. “Why do you say that now? Haveyou heard from him? Has he been bothering you again?”
I shook my head, keeping my eyesclosed. “No, it’s not him. I haven’t seen or heard… He hasn’t bothered me.”Banished memories flooded my mind unbidden. My heart kicked into a gallop,pounding against my chest, beating to break free from the nightmare of my past.I opened my eyes, hoping to escape the thoughts that seemed to imprison me evenafter a year of freedom. Meeting my dad’s worried gray gaze, I said, “This isfor me. This is all for me.”
His forehead scrunched, pulling hiswrinkled skin into deep lines. “I’m proud of you, Vere. You know that, don’tyou?”
I looked at my dad, a shadow of thestrength and stability he used to be. He was so sick now. He quite literallyworked himself to death. But, he was still the same man I grew up trusting. Hewas still the same man that provided for Vann and me when all he wanted to dowas crumble and give up. He was still the man that had given me his approvalwhen I ran away to Europe, even though he was the one that had to stay to fightmy battles and banish my demons.
My dad was a survivor. A lot of mylife had been spent running from this house… running from the things that Ithought I didn’t want. But I wanted his strength now. I wanted to be a survivor,too—exactly like my dad.
I cleared my throat, so he didn’thear the emotion clogging it. “I know, Daddy.”
He leaned forward, earnest for me tounderstand. “And not just about the food truck, yeah? I’m proud of you for allof it. For getting out. For knowing when to get out.”
I swallow back more tears and thelies I felt coating my tongue. My dad only knew part of the story. He only knewthe sugar-coated version I could bear to give him. But what he knew was badenough.
“I’m proud of you, too,” I told him.Because it was true. And because I desperately wanted to change the subject.
He waved his hand in the air andleaned back in the recliner. “Bah,” he mumbled. “There’s nothing to be proud ofme for.”
I stood up and walked over to givehim a kiss on his shiny bald head. “That’s where you’re wrong.”
He grabbed my hand and looked up atme, surprising me with the tears clinging to his lashes. HankDelanewas not an emotional man. “Glad you’re home, babygirl.”
I sighed, and this time when I spoke,it was the whole truth. “Me too.” Squeezing his hand, I looked around the dimlylit living room. Book shelves were pushed into the corners and a muted TVflashed brightly along one wall.
The furniture had all been heresince my mom. But the floors and paint were new. Despite cancer, my dad was stillthinking about Vann and me. He’d been slowly remodeling the house so that we’dbe able to sell it easily after he was gone.
It was a sweet and thoughtfulgesture, but also super morbid. Vann and I had been begging him to quit, to letus take care of everythingifhegoes. But he wouldn’t listen.
The man was too stubborn for his owngood.
But mostly I didn’t think he knewhow to do anything but take care of us. At least in his own way.
“Do you want me to help you to yourroom?” I asked him.
He yawned and shook his head. “Nah,I’m more comfortable here. Plus, the TV’s already on.”
I handed him the remote again and toldhim goodnight. His snores filled the air before I could even check the frontdoor to make sure it was locked.
Making my way through the rest ofthe house, I flicked off lights and picked up my things that were scatteredthroughout every room.
When I moved out on my own I becamean obsessive neat freak. First by choice, and later by necessity. But since Imoved back in with my dad, old habits had popped up out of nowhere. I couldn’tseem to remember to pick up my socks off the living room floor or put my dishesin the sink. It wasn’t that big of a deal, but I couldn’t help but feel thepanicked dread every time I noticed one of my belongings out of place or dirtydishes on the counter.
It was silly. And if anything Ishould be grateful there were no real consequences to leaving my things strewnabout the house.
Ishouldfeel better.
But I couldn’t. Not yet.
Moving back home with my dad attwenty-six was never something I planned for, but I was grateful to be herenow. He needed me, and I was not afraid to admit that I needed him—for as longas I could keep him.
I showered, then changed into yogapants and a tank top and spent a few minutes in the bathroom brushing my teeth andadding product to control my excessively thick hair. By the time I shut myselfin my old room, exhaustion had settled in my weary bones.
I blinked blearily at the clock andforced myself to do another hour’s worth of work. I desperately needed tofinalize the menu for Friday night. And once that was done, I needed to figureout my grocery list and where I could pick up all the ingredients around town.I still needed to wash all of my equipment and lug it over to the truck. Plus,I needed to write up the menu on my chalkboard and figure out how to hang itnext to the window.
Panic swirled through my belly.What am I doing?
