get to know her better, but I know what I’ve got in my dad, and I can’t claim to be anything other than lucky.
“Oh yeah,” he answers with a nod, leaning into the back of the booth and stretching out his arm. “She was just a little bit older than you when she passed, and I know you were probably too young to remember, but you act just like her. A little awkward and a little lost sometimes, but a whole hell of a lot more heart than the two of those combined.”
I look down at the table and back up again as he considers me carefully. I don’t know what he’s looking at, but there’s an analysis in his eyes.
“You’re looking less lost today than you have in a good while, though. What’s shakin’?”
I shrug off his question. “Working on a new assignment for the paper. Went to yoga this morning. Nothing too groundbreaking.”
“This that Bachelor Anonymous whosie-whatsit?”
A blush creeps up into my cheeks, but I have to laugh. “Have you been reading my articles?”
“Well, yeah,” he says with obvious attitude. “I read everything you write, Holl, you know that.”
I do know that. My dad is the most supportive guy in the universe, and he’s been that way since the moment I was born. When my mom died of breast cancer the December before I turned six, he damn near doubled his efforts. I don’t remember all of it, but I can see it like a storybook, all told through photo albums.
His dressing up like the Beast when I wanted to be Belle that first Halloween after my mom died. Him sipping tea from my brand-new tea set the following year and talking to my stuffed animals. Him wearing his beaded bracelet I made with my jewelry kit for six years until it broke. It was sparkly pink, but he didn’t care. He wore that thing with pride, no matter where he went.
When I was ten, he even let me practice painting my nails by painting his. He left the polish on until it all chipped off on its own.
Honestly, I couldn’t have asked for a better dad—even when he had to be the mom, too.
“That Bachelor fella seems like the real deal. Was he really a Navy SEAL?” he asks.
“Yep. He was.” The truth is, Jake is all the things I wrote about and so much more. There’s no way an article could even begin to capture his entire essence. It doesn’t matter how well I write it; I’ll never do him justice.
“What’s that?” my dad inquires, pointing at my face. Immediately, my brows draw together, and I start to wipe at the skin.
Do I have pickle juice on my chin or something?
“What’s what?”
“That look.”
I scrunch up one side of my face. “There’s no look.”
“There was a look. You think I don’t know when you have a look? I’ve been studying your expressions for thirty-three years, and I know ’em. That look there means somethin’.”
“Are you seriously trying to claim you know my looks better than I do?” I ask, and he doesn’t hesitate to respond with his usual colorful banter.
“You bet your asshole, sweetie. Is my name Phil Fields?”
I snort. “Unfortunately.”
“Why unfortunately?”
“Phil Fields?” I shrug. “I hate to tell ya, Pops, but your parents did you dirty.”
“I don’t know what that means, but I hope it doesn’t mean what I think, Holley Marie.”
“I pretty much guarantee it doesn’t.”
“Stop trying to distract me,” he responds in a huff. “You’re avoidin’ this, which makes me really know there was a look.”
“Dad, there wasn’t a look. Can we just drop it?”
He narrows his eyes. “I’ve been watchin’ you for the last months, draggin’ your carcass through life, just barely hangin’ on. Dead eyes. Dead heart. You’ve been coughin’ up oil like a fuckin’ ’69 Nova with a rotted-out pan.”
Oh, here we go…
“Dad, you know I don’t know what any of these car things mean.”
“But your engine is runnin’ a lot smoother today, girl,” he continues, completely ignoring the fact that his car metaphors still make zero sense to me. “And I just wanna know why.”
He stares at me, waiting for a response, and all I can do is lift up both shoulders.
“I don’t know…” I pause, trying to find an answer that will prevent more questions and car lingo. “Time, I guess? I’m starting to get over everything that happened. Moving on, you know?”
“That ain’t it.”
A defeated breath leaves my lungs, and I slam my hands onto the table. “Then