“How’s work?” Dad’s voice drowns out the noise of the coffee brewing. “Going good?”
“Yeah,” I tell him, taking a deep breath and meeting his eyes. “How’s work for you? Still staying busy at the shop?”
He nods, running his fingers along the stubble lining his jaw. “We’ve been real busy lately. I haven’t had much time to relax and watch any of that Netflix I just got.”
“Netflix, huh?” I laugh, shaking my head. “You finally cut the cord and gave up cable?”
He nods. “Turns out it was cheaper and they offer a lot more shows.”
“Yeah, they do.”
Dad turns back to the coffee pot and grabs a couple of mugs and a package of Oreos. I have no idea why my dad thinks Oreos and coffee go together, but he always has. I don’t argue with him, either. I also don’t tell him I need creamer for my coffee when he brings it to me black.
“You used to love eating Oreos with me.” He chuckles, setting it all down at the table and taking a seat. “You never wanted the coffee, though.”
“Well, that’s probably because an eight-year-old shouldn’t be drinking coffee,” I point out, giving him a warm smile.
“Yeah, that’s probably true.” He hesitates. “So … How are you really doing, Brit? Since everything with Cal?”
“I’m … actually doing better,” I admit. “The first few weeks were rough, but it’s gotten easier.” I give a small shrug. “I’ve made some new friends, moved into my own place, and…” I hesitate, then smile a little. “I started painting again.”
His eyes widen. “You did?”
“Yeah. I hadn’t in a long time, but I picked it back up. Just … for me.”
Something shifts in his expression, softer. “You were always good at painting. I never understood why you stopped.”
“Life, I guess.”
He pushes his chair back. “Hang on a second.”
Before I can ask what he’s doing, he disappears down the short hallway. I hear a drawer open, and a moment later, he comes back holding a thin, worn folder.
“Tell me if you remember this.” He opens it carefully and pulls out a painting.
My breath catches.
It’s a painting I did in high school—of the front of this very townhouse. Warm light glows from the windows. The colors are too bold, brushstrokes too sure of themselves.
A version of me who didn’t overthink every choice. Who didn’t build herself around someone else.
“You … kept this?” I ask.
“Of course I did,” he says simply. “You made it for me. It’s been in that drawer since you gave it to me. I always figured I’d hang it when I moved somewhere better.”
My throat tightens. “I can’t believe you still have it.”
He smiles, tapping the corner of the paper. “I was proud of you then, and I’m proud of you now. You’ve always had a way of making something good out of what you were given.”
I swallow, my chest warm and heavy all at once. I spent so long thinking that girl was gone. That she’d been traded in for someone easier, quieter. More convenient.
But she wasn’t gone.
She was just waiting.
“Thanks, Dad,” I say quietly.
He studies the painting for another second, then me … like he’s lining the two up.
