“Fuck,” I tell the universe.
Then the universe sends a bird to poop on my shoulder.
When I get home,after washing my shirt and hiding the binoculars, Dad’s in the kitchen whistling. Whistling. Hank Thompson, is whistling “Can’t Help Falling in Love” while making coffee.
“Who died and left you money?” I ask, grabbing my own mug.
Busted, he stops mid-whistle. “What?”
“You’re whistling. You don’t whistle. You grumble and grunt and occasionally speak in full sentences, but you don’t whistle. And you definitely don’t whistle love songs.”
“Can’t a man be in a good mood?”
“You? No. You’re constitutionally opposed to good moods. You think they’re gateway emotions to socialism.”
He scowls, which is more familiar. “I’m just... it’s a nice morning.”
“It’s cloudy and humid. Your least favorite weather combination after ‘hot and humid’ and ‘cold and humid.’”
“Maybe I’m evolving.”
“Into what? Someone who experiences joy?”
“Smart-ass,” he mutters, but there’s no heat in it.
He takes his coffee and heads for the door, but not before I catch him smiling. Actually smiling, not the grimace he deploys at funerals when he’s trying to seem approachable.
“Where are you going?” I call after him.
“Town. Errands.”
“What errands?”
“The errand kind.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Wasn’t meant to be.”
“Are you going to see Mrs. Delaney?”
He freezes in the doorway. “What makes you think?—”
“Dad, I saw you at her house. Your truck was there. At night. And this morning. And probably right now if you ever actually leave.”
He turns around slowly. “How long have you known?”
“Couple weeks. You’re not as subtle as you think. Also, she basically told me anyway.”
“She what?”
“Relax. She was cool about it. For her. Which means only half the town knows instead of all of it.”
He sits back down, looking defeated. “This is why I didn’t want to tell you.”
“Because I’d find out you’re dating the town gossip who’s spent thirty years documenting our family’s disasters?”
“Something like that.”
