Page 34 of Merry Me
I scoffed, eliciting a look from Margaret at the front desk, who was eyeing me like she knew exactly what had happened upstairs.
This was all her fault.
Me: Of course I tried to find a different roommate. The choices were a bunkhouse with toddlers and plastic sheets or Easton. I did my best. You know how I feel about toddlers.
Riley: What about your grandma?
Casey: The grandmother who’s blind?
I blinked at the phone before remembering the football game where I’d said that.
Me: No, remember. She’s not blind. And no, she’s not an option.
Riley: Why not?
Me: Once I tell you, you’re never going to be able to unremember it.
Riley: Ophelia said to tell you that unremember is not a word. But alrighty then.
Casey: This is where you woman up. So you saw a hot guy’s ass. Cry me a river, Bennett.
I huffed again, and this time Margaret started over with cookies like she could tell I was on the verge of a mental collapse.
I typed out one last hurried text as she got closer.
Me: This was the energy I needed.
Riley sent a GIF of some guy mooning me, a cartoon one, thank fuck, and I choked on a laugh that came out more like a wheeze. I texted back a skull emoji because I was, in fact, dead.
I took a deep breath and glued what I hoped looked like a composed, friendly smile on my face. Margaret, ever the holiday hostess, swooped in with her bottomless tray of sugar cookies like a well-meaning fairy godmother fueled by butter and flour.
“Here, sweetheart,” she said, wiggling the tray in front of me like she knew I was seconds from imploding.
I took one. And then another.
Because if sugar wasn’t necessary for this situation, then I don’t know what was. Honestly, the only thing that might’ve helped more was wine, and considering it wasn’t even noon yet, cookies would have to do the heavy lifting.
A bell rang as a familiar broad-shouldered figure walked through the front door of the B&B, brushing snow off his jacket, his eyes scanning the room. My stomach unclenched the second I recognized him…and then promptly clenched again in a totally different, relieved way.
His face broke into a smile the moment he saw me.
“Natalie-girl,” my stepdad, Steve, said, already opening his arms. “I barely got to talk to you last night.”
I didn’t hesitate.
I launched myself forward, crashing into his chest and melting into his embrace. His arms wrapped around me, strong and familiar, warm and solid. Just…Dad.
He smelled like cedarwood and the faintest trace of motor oil, which, somehow, still clung to him even though I knew he hadn’t touched an engine in weeks because of all the wedding prep. It was his signature scent. The smell of home. Of scraped knees and science fair projects and late-night heart-to-hearts on the porch swing.
My dad had never been the kind of man to hold back affection, not with me, and not with my sister. He hugged like he meant it, like he was trying to protect you from the world, if only for a moment.
I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed my face into the soft flannel of his jacket, blinking fast. It didn’t matter that I was a grown woman, I was always going to need my dad.
I didn’t tell many people that Steve wasn’t actually my biological father. My real father, Terry—my birth dad, I guess—had once been the picture of perfection. Smiling in Christmas photos, camping with us in the summer. Until one day, he got stationed in Hawaii for work. And three months in, he called my mom in tears, drunk and confessing to a hookup in a bar.
As if that wasn’t enough of a gut punch, the woman got pregnant. My mom tried to forgive him, God bless her, but it unraveled everything. He left that Christmas before she could even file for divorce.
My perfect father who’d once been part of myperfectfamily—he’d never come back. He’d never called. He’d never sent a card. He’d simply disappeared.
