She didn’t insult me by pretending otherwise. “But then Harper told me everything. What he did to her. How you saved her. How you almost died, getting her out of that fire.” She swallowed. “She said you’re the reason she’s alive. And that you let him live.”
I held her gaze. Let her see the truth in it.
“That’s not nothing, Dad.” Her voice was softer now.
I smiled. “Well, I have no plans for any violent anythings anytime soon, so you can rest assured, as soon as I’m out of here, I will make sure you don’t get any more middle-of-the-night phone calls.”
She smiled, her shoulders dropping as the tension melted away.
“So …” She dropped into the chair beside my bed, then changed her mind and perched on the edge of the mattress instead. Close to me. Comfortable with me. “Is this your way of getting out of dinner with me this week?”
A rough laugh escaped me. We’d had dinner together every Wednesday since I got out. It had become the highlight of my week.
“I could be in the burn unit, and I’d refuse to miss dinner with you.”
“Good answer.” She smirked, but her eyes drifted to my bandages. The monitors. To the numbers tracking my heart rate, my oxygen levels, all the ways my body was still recovering. Her teeth caught her bottom lip.
“Hey.” I waited until she met my eyes. “I’m okay. I’m going to be okay.”
She nodded. Swallowed. Then lifted her chin with that stubborn set I recognized from the mirror.
“I heard you took another blow to the head.” She raised an eyebrow. “You’d better stop that. Concussions aren’t exactly a hobby, Dad.”
“Noted.”
“I’m serious.” She pointed at me. “No more head injuries. I just got you back. I’d like you to have a functioning brain for at least a little while.”
A smile tugged at my mouth. “I’ll do my best.”
“And no more fires. No more rock-wielding psychopaths.”
“I’ll add it to the list.”
“You’d better.” She folded her hands in her lap, and something in her expression shifted. Softer now. “So, how are you feeling? For real.”
“Like I inhaled a warehouse worth of smoke and got bashed in the head with a rock.”
“Poetic.”
“I’m a wordsmith.”
She snorted. “Clearly.”
I shifted my attention to the bag in her hand. Bright pink tissue paper peeking out the top.
“What’s that?” I asked.
She lifted it. “I was planning to give you this for Christmas. But then I spent the last few hours realizing you might not have made it that long, so …” She shrugged, but her voice wavered just slightly. “I decided I was done waiting.”
The words hit me like a punch to the chest. She’d spent hours replaying every worst-case scenario.
And her response was to bring me something.
“A gift? For me?” I was the one that should be giving her gifts.
“Life’s short, Dad. Last night proved that.” She held out the bag. “I don’t want to wait for the right moment anymore. I just want you to have this.”
She must have read my hesitation because she added, “I know in the prison visiting room, I was all angry daughter, filled with resentment and bitterness. But that wasn’t the full picture.I mean, yes, I felt bitter. Resentful. Sometimes, I called you bad names.”
