Page 117 of Love is a Game

His house is exactly where the internet said it would be. Just as obnoxiously cozy as my late-night stalkerish searches suggested: traditional paintwork, gingham curtains, a sturdy porch built to last. Like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Like something a man who abandoned his daughter shouldn’t get to have.

I don’t give myself time to hesitate. Before my usual cycle of overthinking can kick in, I shove open the car door, climb the steps, and—propelled by a sudden panicked surge—rap hard on the screen door.

There’s music playing inside.

Jimmy Buffett for goodness’ sake: “Blew out a flip flop, stepped on a pop top…”

Well, I’m literally on the threshold of blowing away way more than that, and it’s gonna take a whole lot more than a blended margarita to make it right.

The screen door rattles as footsteps approach over the polished floorboards.

I exhale sharply, tip my head back, and beg the sky to sustain me.

Then the door squeaks open.

I brace myself—

But it’s not him.

Cornflower blue eyes, rust-red hair tucked into a bandanna, and clutching…a giant cleaver knife.

I take a step back.

She blinks at me.

“Gosh. Penelope?”

I hesitate. Have we ever actually met? No. Definitely not. But I know her name, too: Laurie. I even know her kids’ names: Sarah and Beau. But I never got the opportunity to meet my father’s wife.

Laurie’s face shifts from surprise to a kind of confused delight. “Oh my goodness—it is you!” She falters for a second, then lifts her arms as if to embrace me, before remembering the lethal weapon in her hand.

She lets out a self-conscious laugh. “Oh! Sorry! I’m breaking down the fish your father caught a month ago that’s wedged in the freezer. I’m making chowder!”

Chowder.

Of course, she is. Of course, she’s friendly, soft, and big-bosomed and makes chowder. Almost impossible to hate. Almost.

Before I can gather myself, she waves me insistently through the door, her energy a force of nature that makes resistance feel ridiculous.

“Come on in—he’s just out back.”

I hesitate, glancing over my shoulder at my car, the road, the exit. The escape. My pulse kicks up. It feels like I’m a little kid being lured into a ghost house, the warning bells in my head clanging in protest.

But she’s already bustling ahead, chattering away as if my presence here is the most natural thing in the world. “I’ll put on some coffee—are you hungry? You’ve come all the way from Blue Mountain Lake?”

I don’t remember deciding to move, but somehow I’m inside, standing awkwardly in the entryway as she disappears into the kitchen. The house smells like garlic and simmering broth, like worn wood and something vaguely sweet. The kind of smells that make a place feel lived in.

I shift uneasily, my gaze drifting.

Photos.

They’re everywhere—framed along the walls, lining the tops of bookshelves, clustered on the mantel like a shrine to a life well-lived. I step closer before I can stop myself. A wedding photo: her in a gauzy dress, my father looking solid and settled beside her. Other pictures with her grown children, smiling with him.

A family. A real one. The kind that sits around this sturdy dining table. The kind he got to have while I never did. The family he chose over me.

Something sharp and hot curls low in my stomach, and I fold my arms tight against it, seeking control over my rising emotions.

Laurie moves about the kitchen, the clang of a spoon against a pot, the hiss of fresh coffee brewing. The whole scene feels so goddamn normal.

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