Ha! Beef like the steak flown in from New York, along with salads, sandwiches, and a whole host of already-prepared, ready-to-reheat meals from restaurants that probably have a Michelin star.
I’ll eat the food. I’m not an idiot. He wants to spend his billions on food for me and dad? I’m going to eat it.
I enjoy cooking, but not like I love baking. But most nights I’m just too tired to find any joy in it. It was amazing to get home, emotional and exhausted, and not have to come up with dinner. Even if I still have to plate it, heat it, cut it and help Dad eat it, and clean it all up afterward.
Adulthood really blows sometimes.
At least Dad had a great day today! Positive thoughts!
It is helpful, I didn’t have to plan groceries, organize the meal and then cook it myself. But the helper behind it all…what am I going to do about him? I should text him my thanks, but I also want to text him that he can shove his money where the sun don’t show. But…also…he bought me food?!
I shuffle through my emotions and my nightly routine, exhausted from staying on my feet at Nog’s last night. And from riding my bike so much. I make a mental note to call Carl about dad’s car again.
I help settle Dad in his room. I take Stu for a quick walk down the street—in theopposite directionof the dark lord—and get him locked up in the garage.
I can’t believe Aiden is still going to tear down Dad’s shop. And Tyrone’s. After he’s been here. He knows us, even loves the product. I should tell him that. He’ll never get to have his favorite coffee again if he bulldozes the coffee shop!
Not that I plan on talking to him ever again, sweet food gesture or not.“Sorry if that crushes your little dream.”Not sweet! He’s a jerk!
Finally, after my night creams are applied, teeth are brushed, pjs are on, I crawl into my happy place. I smile at the tiny little palm trees on the sheets. I hum one of my favorite songs to myself and let my mind wander to sandy beaches and bright sunshine, until I fall asleep.
CRASH!
What! I sit up. Was that real or a dream? I hear the dog whining, so he’s up too. Did he knock something over? No. I hear it.
Dad.
I rush downstairs and to his room, not in his bed.
“Dad?” My heart starts to race. “Dad!”
He’s in his bathroom. On the floor. Covered in blood.
I scream.
“Harper,” he murmurs. “Shhhh,” he croaks. “J-j-just my hand.”
“What?” I am searching the scene, trying to figure out what he doesn’t have the energy to say.
Glass. He gashed his hand on a glass. It fell, I guess he fell.
“Harper? Harper!”
“Aiden?”
There he is, in my dad’s bathroom doorway. In pajama pants and no shirt. I…why does he look like that?…how many hours does it take to get pecs so defined? And that V thing going into his sweats…I blink, trying to sort my one million thoughts.
He’s panting when he asks loudly, like he can see I need help focusing, “Harper, what happened?”
“Who…” Dad tries.
“Dad, this is our neighbor, Aiden,” I explain, “He heard me scream, I guess?”
Aiden nods and scans me from head to toe, “Are you all right?”
“Yes, I just, there’s a lot of blood,” I say, my voice wobbly.
Aiden stands a bit taller, taking in the scene. “Right, let me get him up so we can see where he’s bleeding.”
