under my pillow while I shower. It takes longer than it should for me to sort out the mess, but once I’m sure the halo’s safe, I head to the bathroom, yawning and sticking my tongue out at Dad as I pass through the kitchen.
“You look beautiful, baby. That hair. Those eyes!”
A quick glance in the bathroom mirror and I see Dad and I are thinking the same thing.
That hair. Those eyes.
Ugh.
Twenty minutes later I’m sitting at the counter, wrapped in my fuzzy zebra-print robe, a Christmas gift from Kaylee. I cringed when I unwrapped it, but it’s actually very cozy, and this morning it improves my mood by leaps and bounds. That and the sudden appearance of chocolate.
“Thought you said we were out of chocolate chips?”
“I had an old Hershey bar in my lunch box,” he says, tucking the spatula in his back pocket and pouring a glass of milk.
“Can’t even tell the difference,” I say, my mouth full.
“That’s because I’m good.” He sets the glass next to my plate and leans into the counter. He is good. I dip a square of pancake into a blob of butter on the plate and slide it into my mouth. A few bites later I realize Dad’s staring at me. Squinting, really, his bushy brows merging into one gigantic caterpillar.
“What’s up, Dad?” I say, my mouth full.
“I have a date.”
I chew slowly, thinking about that caterpillar—how I could flick it with my fork, the fork I still have in my hand, suspended over a plate of chocolate yumminess I suddenly have no appetite for. Dad’s had dates before, of course, but I’m pretty sure I know who he’s planning to take out. And I’m pretty sure I’m not going to like it.
“With Olivia. Olivia Holt.”
I hear, Bond. James Bond. And I have to mentally slap myself before I start cataloging the similarities between the two.
I set my fork down and take a swig of milk. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
I bob my head. What else am I going to say? He’s not asking my permission, and he shouldn’t have to. I hack at my pancake, cutting another pizza-shaped slice. It doesn’t taste as good as the others, but I swallow it down.
Dad whips the spatula from his pocket and scratches at the dried batter on the griddle.
“You don’t like her,” he says.
“I don’t know her.”
He jabs the spatula in my direction. “But you still don’t like her, do you?”
My stomach’s all twisty and turny with this conversation. With the idea of my dad out with someone the halo clearly has qualms with. But crafting an answer to the question takes longer than it should, and now the bushy caterpillar is offended and all puckered across Dad’s forehead.
“Why don’t you like her?” he asks, flicking dried batter across the room.
Because the halo . . .
See, Dad, there’s this Throne Room . . .
You remember God, right?
Yeah. This conversation’s going places.
“You don’t like her,” he says. “I get it. You don’t have to, Elle, but is it okay if I do?”
I set my fork down. There’s still half a pancake steaming on my plate, but I’m done, my appetite officially dead with Dad’s ridiculous request for permission. I should tell him he has my blessing or some other such nonsense. That’s what I’d have done in the past. Heck, that’s what I’d have done if the halo hadn’t nearly blistered my arm yesterday.
But as kind—and superfluous—as my blessing would be, I still can’t offer it. Not even as a sign of goodwill. It doesn’t feel right.
“Dad . . .”
I can think of nothing to say, at least nothing appropriate. So I’m grateful when there’s a knock at the door, Jake smiling at us through the windowpanes. Dad mutters something about needing a curtain on that blasted window, but Jake’s standing there all handsome and clean-shaven. And that means . . .
“Oh geez. What time is it?”
Dad swings the spatula over his shoulder, wielding it like a weapon. “I’m guessing it’s time for church.”
Dang. I slide from the barstool and fling open the door.
“Five minutes,” I say, pulling Jake inside. “Just five and I’ll be ready.”
“Good morning to you too,” he says, all warm and smelling like coffee. He looks rather dashing in a green dress shirt, his eyes brighter for the color. I resist the urge to brush my lips against his, because Dad’s already in a bad mood. “Good morning, Mr. Matthews.”
Dad grunts and pours another pancake on the griddle. He hates that our Sunday morning