Okay... she doesn’t want to talk about the assault. I’ll let her deflect. I don’t have much right to pry.
“Out of my budget,” I say.
I find a door that looks like the old one and is cheap enough. I load it on the trolly and head for the checkout. Soon, we’re back in the truck and almost home. Then this weirdness will be over. Just need to fix things for Noel.
“Hey, Morgan. About my brother. Do ya think your dad will drop the charges?”
She taps her chin and looks out the window.
But then, her phone rings.
“Hey. Yep. I know, Bailey,” she says into the phone. “I’m just really sick. I can’t do the evening service. Maybe Ingrid can fill my spot?”
They talk for a minute before she hangs up.
“You’re sick?” I say and park in my driveway.
She clutches her stomach. “Nauseated all day.”
Not buying it. She looks great.
Quickly, she jumps out of the truck and opens the tailgate. “I’ll help you install this.” She struggles to pull the door from the truck bed. Her heels wobble on the old concrete drive. It’s ridiculous watching her, but it makes me smile.
“I got it from here, Morgan,” I assure.
Her bottom lip protrudes as she pouts.
I slide the door out easily. “Thanks, though. For everything. And if you could talk to your dad, that’d be great. He doesn’t like me much, but he likes you.”
For some reason, she seems distraught, pauses, but beams once more.
“I’m starving. I’ll make us dinner while you install that,” she blurts, once again changing subjects.
Nobody’s cooked for me in years, but it shouldn’t start with her. I try to protest, but she answers her phone and walks inside my house.
I am almost certain she isn’t on a real phone call.
This is starting to get confusing. She’s kind of clingy, but we haven’t done anything. I wonder if I am giving her signals unintentionally. Can’t be. I’m not hitting on her. Not once.
I shrug it off. I don’t want to dwell on what goes through a preacher’s daughters mind.
I install the door and feel pleased with the result.
“Good job,” she says, appearing at my side.
“Um, thanks.”
“You look all sweaty.” She hands me a glass of ice water and condensation cools my palm.
“Do I? It’s humid.”
I smell my shirt. It’s fine. Regardless, I strip it off.
“I’ll shower before dinner,” I call out, then I stop and spin around. “Oh, and if you have to go, please don’t leave until I’m out. I don’t want Tommy alone.”
She seems dazed. I look behind me, but there’s nobody there.
“Morgan? You alright?”
