I nod. “I am.”
“You’re sure? Because you look tired. Must be all that early morning walking.” Callan snorts.
Without even looking at him, Mom smacks him flat in the chest. “Don’t make me regret bringing you.”
Callan scoffs at Mom’s idle threat. “He’s gonna be fine. He’s moved past the heartbreak, probably past the anger, too. I think we’re on to the revenge fucking stage. So next is acceptance, and then he’ll find someone new he actually likes.”
“Thank you for that in-depth analysis. How you’re not a psychology major, I’ll never know.” Mom rolls her eyes.
Callan grins.
“I’m not revenge… that’s not what I’m doing.”
“So you’ve fast-forwarded to the someone new part?” Mom asks, and the hope in her tone is undeniable.
“Mom, please don’t pressure me. I’ve worked through my feelings around the Angela thing. I’m finally finding my way to a good place, I think. And I have the team to concentrate on anyway. Just don’t bug me, okay.”
She nods, but she’s fighting a frown. “I’m sorry. I worry. But okay. No questions about your… morning walk or how often you’ve been walking or with who or where.”
“Double entendres are lame,” Callan remarks.
The door to the porch slams shut, and my father appears in the living room holding a large paper bag. “Success!”
He looks at me and smiles. “You okay?”
“Fine. Just wish you guys would give me a heads up before showing up,” I say, sounding like a grumpy teenager.
Dad hands the bag to Mom and walks over and pulls me into a hug. He’s always been an expressive dad. None of that stiff upper lip shit from him. He laughs and cries with us. He hugs us and tells us he loves us. “Sorry, kid. Promise we won’t do this again… very often. Your mom has just been worried about you, and I like to give the little Tasmanian devil whatever she wants.”
Mom smacks his ass as she walks by. He jumps, more for show than shock. Callan groans at their antics, and I fight a smile. At least now I’m distracted and don’t have time to freak out about the fact I woke up alone in Grady’s house and have no idea what happens next between us. Is there even an us?
After my family devours six cinnamon buns between them and I make and eat an egg white omelet with a protein smoothie, Dad does the dishes, and Mom sits on the countertop and dries them. Callan dozes on the couch.
“Grady isn’t here? Did he leave for practice early?” Mom asks as she dries a coffee mug.
“Grady moved out a while ago. Almost right after Angie left.”
Both my parents stare at me. I shrug self-consciously and run a hand through my hair, which I’m sure is all over the place. “It’s fine. I haven’t exactly been the easiest person to get along with. He’s got a great place a few streets over in the giant waterfront Victorian they made into apartments.”
Mom nods and goes back to wiping dishes, only after another coffee mug, she has to nudge Dad because he’s stopped washing. “Eli, get on with it.”
“Right.” Dad wrenches his eyes from me and keeps washing. “Dix, let Landy dry. You go to the beach. I know you wanna sit on your dad’s bench and the sun is shining and it’s low tide.”
Mom’s light eyes twinkle. She hands me the dishcloth and leans up to kiss Dad on the cheek, but she’s so short and he doesn’t bend, so she ends up kissing his neck right next to the faint line that’s a constant reminder I almost didn’t exist because Dad had his jugular cut by a skate before they even met.
“Good idea. I’ll take Callan.” She turns and cups my face in her tiny hands, the finest lines creasing her face by her big blue eyes as she smiles up at me. “I love you, my firstborn. Please take care of yourself and lean on us if you need to.”
I kiss her forehead. “I’m fine, Mom. Promise.”
I hear the front door open and close as Dad hands me the dish he had piled all the cinnamon buns on. He doesn’t say anything at first, but I know something is coming. He wants father-son time, which is why he suggested Mom go to her dad’s memorial bench. So I dry dishes and wait. We make small talk about the season so far, but finally, when there’s one dish left in the soapy water, he says, “So you really are over Angie?”
“Is there residual emotional damage? Yeah,” I say as a water droplet escapes the dish and crashes to the floor between us. “But I’m letting her go. I’m moving on, and I don’t think it’s a bad thing.”
I place the last plate in the cupboard and hang the dish towel on the door of the oven. When I turn around, Dad is wiping his wet hands on his jeans. “Are you dating?”
I don’t reply. I just stare. He smiles sheepishly. “Look, I don’t care either way who you date or if you date, as long as you’re safe and happy.”
I visibly cringe. “We had this convo when I was sixteen.”
