Page 83 of Butterfly Effect

My father stalls at the garlanded headshot of his late wife, plastic pink and white flowers circling her face. His fingers rest on his lips before pressing them against her encased cheek. He exhales.

I seek Wade’s attention, but he’s busy, silently studying the various trophies and medals on display in a glass case.

“I’ll leave you two to get situated,” Dad says, moving his eyes between me and Wade. “Meanwhile, I’ll get dinner ready.”

Without another glance, Wade leaves to get our overnight bags and my hand goes cold from the loss of his grasp.

I enter the kitchen and hug Dad from behind. He pats my hand on his chest.

“Soup okay, kiddo?”

“Always.”

Not much of a cook, he made various soups and stews when I was younger, experimenting with various veggies and lentils. Now, it’s become a Thanksgiving tradition.

“Things going well between you and Mr. Hotshot Goalie?”

You mean how they’re not going at all as planned?

I don’t intend to, but I flush. “Yeah.” Instinct has me scratching my nose as if checking it didn’t grow from the lie.

“He’s quiet.”

“I’m not sure why; he’s usually not.”

“Maybe he’s nervous,” Dad suggests, lifting a shoulder. “I don’t want to get ahead of myself, but there’s something special about him.”

There is, isn’t there? A small voice inside my head agrees.

The front door opens and closes with a whine. I motion with my thumb and Dad nods in understanding.

“I got it.” Wade denies me my suitcase. “Where do you want me to put it?”

I may not like him, but I don’t like him subdued, either.

“Upstairs, second door to the right.”

“Mine, too?”

“Unless you want to share a bed with my dad.”

Wade’s lips stifle a smirk, and I’m almost disappointed at the lack of retort.

In the time I set the table and Dad brings out soup, salad, and a basket of bread, our guest approaches the dining area.

He politely answers Dad’s questions about the upcoming season and makes small talk over dinner.

Totally natural, normal for most, but not Wade. It’s unnerving.

Pretty Boy even washes up, thanking my Dad for dinner and banning us from the kitchen.

I recline on the couch, doom-scrolling on my phone until they both simultaneously reappear. Dad has an album under his arm.

Oh, no.

“It’s that time again.”

“Dad,” I complain.

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