I open my mouth to argue, but there’s no point. The silence stretches between us until I finally sit down on the edge of the bed, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. “It’s just…a lot,” I admit quietly, my tone wavering despite my best effort to keep it steady.
Dad sits beside me, close but not too close, giving me space to speak if I want to. “You don’t have to do it all by yourself.” His voice is calm and encouraging. The same voice that reassured me through scraped knees and broken hearts. “That’s what we’re here for. Whathe’shere for.”
I shift uncomfortably, my gaze dropping to my feet as if the worn carpet can somehow shield me from the weight in my chest. Letting anyone see my flaws, especially Dad, feels like admitting failure. It’s easier to plaster on a smile, to shove the anxiety so far down that it fades into the background.
“I don’t want to burden anyone.”
His hand rests on my shoulder. “You’re not a burden, sweetheart,” he says gently. “I know you’ve been looking out for Callan, but you need to take care of yourself, too.”
The sincerity in his words cracks me open, and I feel the telltale sting of tears. I blink them away quickly, swallowing hard against the lump rising in my throat. Breaking down in front of him is like letting the dam burst, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to rebuild it.
“I’m trying,” I whisper, my voice holding steady. “I just…don’t know how to do it right.”
His hand tightens on my shoulder. “There’s no ‘right way,’ kiddo. You’re already doing it, one step at a time. You just have to let people help you along the way.”
I didn’t realize how badly I needed to hear those words, how much I’d been holding my breath without even knowing it.
“Now,” he says. “Let’s see if we can find some lunch before Nugget gets too impatient.”
The mention of the dog pulls a small laugh from me.
After lunch, jetlag finally catches up with my parents, and they retreat upstairs. I’ve been watching Callan flick through TV channels for an hour now.
“You’re abusing the remote power,” I huff.
He eyes me without moving, lips twitching. “I’ve narrowed it down toSharknadoor a documentary about mushroom foraging.”
“Wow. I’m wet.”
He smirks. “Same.”
I laugh, tucking my legs under me and stealing the remote. “Give me that.”
I settle against him, head resting on his shoulder as I scroll. “So…no to fungal education. What about a classic rom-com? Something with a dance montage and a public declaration of love?”
He groans. “Fine. On one condition—there has to be at least one scene where someone dramatically runs through an airport.”
“I’ll allow it.”
He kisses the top of my head. “You’re lucky I’m whipped.”
I won’t argue that.
As I’m scrolling through more options, all I can think about is how much I want to close the small space between us and kiss him. Just one kiss. Or a dozen. But then I’d forget how to think straight, and I’m barely hanging on as it is.
Before I can spiral into more thoughts about what his kiss might taste like, the sound of footsteps from upstairs interrupts me.
I glance toward the staircase just as my parents come back down, looking refreshed after their nap.
“Feel better?” I ask.
“Much,” Mom replies, sinking into the armchair with a sigh of relief. “Though I’m still not quite sure what time it is.”
Dad chuckles softly, easing into the seat next to her. “I think my body’s still somewhere over the Atlantic.”
Callan grins. “Well, we’ve got just the thing to wake you up. How about a wee dram of whisky?”
Dad’s eyes light up at the suggestion, his mood instantly lifting. “Now you’re speaking my language, son.”
