“Yeah.” I laugh. “I don’t mind. I love hanging out with Lou.”
“Really?” he asks, tilting his head.
“Yeah. She’s cool as fuck.”
Everett’s lips twitch. “She is, isn’t she?”
“Her mother’s influence.”
“She’s gotten at least fourteen times cooler since I’ve become her dad.”
“You call yourself her dad?” I ask, smiling.
“Not in front of her. Not until she asks me to.” Everett shrugs, looking bashful. “But in my head, she’s been my daughter for a long time.”
My chest could burst at the sentiment. I can’t think of three people more deserving of the
happiness my brother and his little family have seemed to find together.
“Anyway.” Everett clears his throat like the emotion got to him too. “I’ll leave Dahlia’s keys with you, and you can take her car after work. We’ll pick Lou up from August’s place after dinner.” He cocks his head. “Or should I say your place? Do you call it home?”
Yeah, I do, but the word has nothing to do with the walls surrounding the residence and everything to do with the person inside of it.
“I call it home,” I confirm.
Leaning across the counter, he plants a kiss on my head. “That makes me happy to hear.” Pulling away, he glances down at the open notebook in front of me, at the scroll scribbled across the pages. I flip it closed. I always write poetry in Italian because it feels like a layer of protection, a language most people in my life can’t read.
Everett can, though.
“Are you writing poems?”
“Just here and there,” I say. “When it comes to me.”
Everett smiles, placing his hand over mine on the counter. “I’m proud of you.”
“Don’t make it a thing.” I playfully bat him away. “I’m just…”
“Feeling things again?”
“Yeah,” I breathe. “I guess.”
“That’s something to be proud of.” He winks before tossing Dahlia’s car keys at me and heading out of the coffee shop.
“Can we listen to Taylor Swift?”Lou asks, fiddling with the music app on my phone from the backseat of her mom’s car.
“How about Lana Del Rey?”
She’s quiet for a moment, contemplating. “Okay, let’s compromise and listen to ‘Snow On The Beach.’”
“What’s that band?” I ask.
“Oh, my God,” she grumbles. “It’s not a band. It’s a song. I can’t believe you’ve never heard of it. We’re definitely listening toMidnightsthe whole drive home now.”
I sigh in defeat as the pluck of a violin filters through the speakers a moment later. It’s a whimsical, uplifting sound, but it’s not entirely terrible.
“I played the deluxe version that features More Lana Del Rey,” Lou says matter-of-factly.
I have no idea what the fuck that means.
