Page 16 of Faking It With the Grumpy Single Dad

Instead of handing me one of the hammers, he props both of them up against the wall and then steps toward the large kitchen island. I don’t want an island in my kitchen—I don’t like that it disrupts the flow of things—so this one will need to be wiped out completely.

“The first part is boring,” he tells me, fishing in his tool belt for a screwdriver. “We have to remove the cabinet doors. We don’t want them swinging around and getting in the way. We also need to remove the drawers over here on this side.”

“Got it.” I hold out my hand for a screwdriver of my own and, after a brief moment of hesitation, Joe hands me one.

“Do you know how to—”

“Use a screwdriver?” I interrupt. “Yes, Joe. I’m an heiress, not an imbecile.”

“Right.”

We get to work. He moves a lot faster than me, but I don’t mind. There’s something comforting about the rhythmic twist of the tool and then the weight of the door dropping into my hands.

I don’t expect much conversation from him, so I search my mind for something to say that won’t set off his grumpy streak, but then he surprises me by breaking the silence himself.

“About what happened on Monday…”

I tense. I’m grateful that we’re on opposite sides of the island, crouched low so that we can’t even see each other.

“It’s fine,” I bite out.

Really, it’s my fault that he even had a glimpse into that box in the first place. I’m the one who was dumb enough to drop it on the ground, freak out, and then rip it open in front of him. Of course he was curious about what was inside.

Joe clears his throat. I hear the low rumble and clatter of him pulling one of the drawers free.

“I know you probably hear this all the time from literally everyone, but I was a big fan of your father’s band. Schism was—well, they were pretty amazing. Obviously, you know that, but… yeah.”

I soften slightly. He sounds nervous.

“Yeah, they were amazing,” I agree.

“My dad died when I was a kid, too.”

The screwdriver in my hand clatters to the floor. I’m vaguely aware of the other workers causing a ruckus in another part of the house, but suddenly all I can hear is my own heartbeat and the rush of my own horror.

“Oh,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”

Joe comes around to my side of the island. I still have three more doors to remove. I’m grateful for the distraction of my task and wave him off when he moves to help me. He sits back on the tile, supervising my work.

“I was really young,” he says. “I had just started kindergarten when he was diagnosed with cancer. He passed not long after that Christmas.”

I swallow hard, setting one of the doors aside. “That’s awful.”

“I don’t remember much about him, except that he was loud and funny and liked to make my mom laugh.”

I don’t know what to say, so I reach out and pat his knee. He meets my gaze.

“Sorry if that was too personal,” he continues. “I just thought—I mean, I know I made you a little uncomfortable the other day, so I wanted to let you know that I get it. I mean, our situations aren’t exactly the same, but—”

“But you wanted to let me know that we’re in the Dead Dads Club together.” I smile to let him know that I’m trying to make light of the dark topic.

Joe lets out a huff of laughter. “Yeah, I guess so.”

When I was younger, little more than a haughty teenager who was angry at the entire world, I used to wish that I didn’t know my dad as well as I did. That Jack Minton was just some guy who happened to be my biological father, and that we weren’t nearly as close as we were. I convinced myself it would’ve made losing him so suddenly and so tragically feel easier.

I understand now that it wouldn’t have made anything easier at all. And I’m also eternally grateful for all my memories of him.

Joe shifts forward and takes the screwdriver from me so he can finish the rest of the cabinet doors. This time, I let him take over.

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