I didn’t want to regret not having more of Dad.
“Come on, come inside,” Dad said. “Let me throw on a shirt and you can tell me what’s going on, okay?”
I nodded, wiping tears away on the back of my hand. “Okay,” I agreed. “Yeah, okay.”
* * *
By the timeI’d told Dad everything that’d happened this morning—minus the Wes parts—I felt calmer. Headachy and tired, but calm.
Dad was right—he wasn’t going anywhere. I’d call more often. I’d come home for Thanksgiving.
Things were fine. I was fine.
Wes came in through the French doors to the kitchen just as I was thinking that I could keep in touch with him, too, and that everything was going to be okay.
Carrying the ice cream churn I’d picked up last week. It’d turned out the mechanism was busted, and I hadn’t decided yet what to do with it.
He’d clearly cleaned it—the metal hoops gleamed with a polish they probably hadn’t had when it was brand new—but I didn’t understand why he evenhadit.
“Happy birthday,” he said, hauling it up to the counter, grinning at me…
And then turning the handle on the top freely and easily.
He’d fixed it.
I wanted to kiss him.
So much for a gift he could give me in front of Dad—if we’d been alone, he would’ve been naked in five minutes.
Less, maybe.
“Youfixedit,” I said, overwhelmed by how thoughtful he’d been.
Wes shrugged. “It wasn’t a huge job. Just needed to be pulled apart, cleaned, greased, and put back together again.”
“It would’ve been a huge job forme,” I said. “I had no idea where to start.”
“YouTube was surprisingly instructive,” Wes said. “And the old pamphlet was tucked between the liner and the wood when I pulled it out, there were diagrams. Didn’t take too much to figure it out.”
“You’re incredible,” I murmured, turning the handle again slowly.
“I agree,” Dad said as he strode into the kitchen. “We’re talking about Wes, right? He’s amazing. What’d he do?”
“Fixed this.” I demonstrated the working churn for Dad.
Dad smiled at both of us, and that flash of the future came back to me again, and ithurt.
It hurt that I couldn’t have it.
“I hope you thanked him,” Dad said.
“It’s a birthday gift,” Wes explained. “The least I could do.”
“I still hope he thanked you,” Dad insisted. I smiled at that. He’d raised me to have manners.
“Thank you,” I said automatically, looking up at Wes. “For everything.”
“You keep saying that,” Wes responded, reaching out to touch the churn, the closest thing he could do to touching me while Dad was watching. “And you’re still welcome.”
