Page 72 of The Plus One Contract

I jump hard enough to nearly knock over the fruit bowl. My dad stands in the doorway, hair rumpled, face creased with sleep.

“Jesus, Dad,” I exhale, clutching my chest. “Scared the hell out of me.”

He grins, unfazed. “Sorry. You’re not exactly subtle in those bunny slippers.”

I glance down. Damn traitorous slippers.

“I couldn’t sleep,” I say, brushing hair off my face. “Still jetlagged.”

He nods like he doesn’t believe me but isn’t calling me out. He crosses to the sink, fills a glass, and takes a long drink. I watch the motion, familiar and comforting. God, I missed him.

I remember handing Nathan’s mother a glass of water earlier, and the comparison nearly knocks the breath from my lungs. That whole house felt like walking into someone’s pain. Dense and cold and so lonely.

“Dad?”

He turns toward me just as I cross the kitchen. I wrap my arms around him without warning.

He huffs a quiet laugh into my hair. “Missed you too, kid.”

I roll my eyes against his chest. “I’m twenty-five. You can probably retire that nickname.”

“Never,” he says, pulling back slightly to look at me. “You going to tell me what really has you wandering around the house in the dark like a ghost?”

I hesitate. “It’s not… I mean, it’s not a big deal.”

His brow lifts, ayou-know-betterlook. “It’s Nathan, isn’t it? Love sick are you?” He grins. “I told him he could’ve taken the spare room.”

“No, it’s not like that,” I say quickly, shaking my head. “It’s just… earlier today, we were at his mom’s. Something happened with her.”

His expression sobers.

“I’m not going to give you the details because it’s not my story to tell,” I go on. “But it was bad, Dad. And he just… took it. Carried it all like it was normal.”

My father leans against the counter, arms folded.

“I knew,” I admit softly, “that he had some stuff with his family, but I didn’t know how deep it went. And the way he looked afterward—like it wasn’t even anger anymore, just…weight. Like he’s always waiting for the next blow.”

He nods slowly. “I never got along with my father.”

I drop my gaze. “I know.”

“Not really, you don’t.” His voice is quiet. “He was hard. Harsh. The kind of man who thought discipline was the same as love. He never really wanted kids—at least not the kind who had opinions.” He takes another sip of water. “Some people aren’t cut out to be parents. That’s not an excuse. It just is.”

I lean back against the fridge, watching him.

“What we make of that is up to us,” he says, eyes on the glass in his hand. “But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. Doesn’t mean you don’t still carry the kid version of you somewhere, wondering why they didn’t love you right.”

The ache in my chest cracks wider because I know that version of Nathan. I saw it today in every strained breath, every clenched fist, every time he looked like he was swallowing something sharp.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever shown him how to let someone help,” I whisper.

My father meets my eyes. “Then maybe you’re the first.”

“Maybe,” I lie, forcing a smile because I know this doesn’t last beyond this week.

My dad sets his empty glass down on the counter with a soft clink and crosses his arms. He must sense the shift in me because he thankfully changes the subject. “You know, I was thinking about redoing the back fence this summer.”

“The one that’s been standing just fine since 1998?”

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