Page 3 of Merry with Me

Dad: She’s an adult, Kennedy.

Me: Exactly. Larry says hi.

I giggle as I quickly send Mom a message that’s just for her.

Me: Serves him right.

Mom: LOL. He’s going to blow up my phone all day now. Thanks for that.

Me: You’re welcome. Love you.

Mom: Love you too.

Opening my desk drawer, I place my phone inside so there won’t be any distractions and get to work. I have a lot to do in a very short amount of time.

Pulling into my parents' driveway, I see the curtain move in the living room. Without a shadow of a doubt, my dad is the culprit behind it. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. He knew I was kidding, but the thought of some random Larry guy has, I’m certain, had him on edge all day. It was like this when I was dating in high school, but I’m an adult now. I moved away to college, just to Atlanta, but it was a freedom I’d never experienced. Sure, I got my heart broke and made mistakes, but that’s what growing up is all about. My dad wants to protect me, but I’m a big girl. One day, when I bring the man I’m going to marry home with me, I hope he understands that. Until then, I like to keep him guessing.

As I make my way to the front porch, the door opens, and Dad steps out onto the porch. He opens his arms for me, and I step into his embrace. “Hi, Daddy.”

“Missed you,” he mumbles before kissing the top of my head. “Where’s this Larry character?”

“Oh, he’s at my place in bed, keeping it warm until I get home.”

“Blakely,” he warns. His tone is stern and growly. Just like old times.

“I’m kidding. You know there’s no Larry.”

“Are you trying to give your old man a heart attack? You do realize I’m too young to die,” he says, leading me into the house.

“Who died?” my little brother, Beckham, asks. He steps in front of Dad to hug me. He’s sixteen and almost a foot taller than I am. I wrap my arms around him, returning his embrace.

“No one,” I say as Dad mumbles, “Larry.” Beckham just shakes his head and heads off toward the kitchen.

“Blake!” my little sister, Brooklyn, calls out. I hear footsteps as they carry her down the hall. Brooklyn is four years younger than Beckham. She’s smart as hell, and she’s the spitting image of our mother.

“Hey, Brooky,” I say, returning her embrace.

“Let me in on that,” Mom says. She wipes her hands on a kitchen towel and folds her arms around Brooklyn and me. She finally steps back and smiles. “Did Isla come with you?”

“No, she had a date tonight.”

“Date?” Dad asks. “With who?”

I chuckle. “You do know she’s not your daughter, right?” I ask him.

He shrugs. “Might as well be.”

“Dad, she’s too hot to be my sister,” Beckham speaks up.

“She’s too old for you,” Mom tells him.

“Age is just a number.”

“Six years isn’t so bad. However, she’d go to jail, so I’m thinking you need to at least wait until you're eighteen to shoot your shot,” I tell my brother.

Mom swats at my arm playfully. “Don’t encourage him.” She’s smiling, and I’m pretty sure Beckham is just trying to get a rise out of her.

I think….

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