Just a Girl - Becky Monson Page 0,23

see how funny he is, or how supportive he is.

Holly’s dad works in investment banking and makes a ridiculous amount of money, and my dad has always done well for himself as a civil engineer for the city, but it was hard growing up watching Holly get whatever she wanted (within reason—James didn’t want her to be spoiled) while our family had to be on a budget.

Now that I’m older, I appreciate my dad’s budgeting ways and wish I’d have listened more when he got on his little soapbox about it, since I’m terrible at managing my money. I’ve also learned to appreciate his quiet reserve more now, too. He’s thoughtful and cautious about the words he says. Which is a good balance with my mom, since she’s not any of those things.

“What’s up, Dad?”

“I thought you were giving up on that cabinet,” he says, his eyes focused on the antique curio cabinet just behind me that I’ve been restoring. I’ve got the door pulled off and am working on the bottom corner that has rotted, using polyester filler to rebuild it.

I scoff at my dad. “I’m not giving up on it. It’s going to make me a lot of money.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” he says, a note of teasing in his voice. I make a pretty penny off my pieces, and he knows it.

“Have I ever quit before?”

My dad does a quick scan of the room, looking at a bunch of antique furniture that I’ve started and then never finished for various reasons. It’s starting to crowd the space.

I smile at him when his perusal of the room ends back at me. He shakes his head, his eyes bright, the side of his mouth pulling up into a knowing half grin.

I do start a lot of things and never finish them. But there’s something about this cabinet that makes me want to see it through. There’s so much about it to love. The outside is sturdy and just needs some help. The inside, though—it’s lovely and needs hardly any work. This cabinet deserves to be made beautiful again. The outside needs to match the inside.

“Your mom is gonna get on us to get this place cleaned up,” my dad says, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

“I’m sure she will,” I say with a smile.

I’ve shared this space with my dad for years; he likes to build things, and I like to repair things. My mom has never gotten involved, but she does love to nag us to clean it up. I appreciate that she’s never asked me to get my stuff out of here, since I have no place else to do this. It’s not like I could drag antique furniture pieces up to my tiny apartment and work on them there. I’m pretty sure that would violate some contract I signed.

Plus, I love this garage. I’ve spent many hours in this place, after school, even through the hot summers. When I graduated from UF and moved back to Orlando, my dad and I installed an air-conditioning system to help with the heat. This place is my solace; it has been for years. I’ve also made out with quite a few boys in here.

Note to self when I have my payback child: don’t let them have access to a detached garage.

“Need any help?” he asks.

“I’d love it,” I say, and he comes over to stand next to me. I give him some sandpaper and have him start working on sanding down the gray finish on the side of the cabinet so I can restain it. I had planned to paint it a sky blue, but when I took off the finish, the grain of the wood was so exquisite, I decided that it needed to be stained instead.

We work side by side, few words between us. It’s a comfortable silence. The only sound is sandpaper on wood and the buzz of the air conditioner.

“Hello?” my mom says as she opens the door, letting a gush of hot air into the space. “Oh, there you are, Craig.”

“Hi, Mom,” I say, giving her a smile. My dad tips his head toward her. She knows very well that if she can’t find him in the house, chances are he’s out here.

“Well, hello, Quinn,” she says with a bright smile. She gives me a once-over with her eyes. I’m sure I look the picture of loveliness, sporting my hair pulled sloppily atop my head, and wearing an old stained T-shirt