Page 85 of The Mating Game
“Hello?”
“Hey, Dad,” I say, feeling warmth bloom in my stomach at the sound of his voice. “What’re you up to?”
“Same old,” he grunts. “WatchingPawn Starsreruns.”
“Anyone bring anything good?”
“Some rip-off of Elvis’s signature.”
“Ah,” I answer. “I’ve seen that one, actually.”
“Pretty sure we’ve seen most of them,” he chuckles. “Did you need something, kiddo?”
My brow wrinkles as I stare down at the problem at my feet.
“Right, yeah…I’m restoring some original hardwood here at the lodge, and I had a question about some gapping.”
“Gapping,” he echoes.
“Yeah. Some of them seem too wide for filler. I wasn’t sure of the best way to move forward.”
“If they’re that bad, might as well just rip ’em up.”
I frown. “The owner wants to keep everything as original as we can. We can’t just rip them up.”
“Sounds like the owner is kind of fussy,” he laughs.
I smile despite myself, finding it mildly hilarious that my dad could be so spot-on about Hunter without ever having met him.
“Maybe a little,” I say. “But you’d like him. He’s just as ornery as you are.”
“I’m nothing of the sort,” Dad scoffs.
“Sure you aren’t,” I laugh. “So do you have any suggestions?”
He hums as he considers, and I hear the creaking sounds of his old recliner as he situates himself. “I reckon you could make a patch out of glue and thin strips of wood.”
“Have you done that before?”
“A few times,” he tells me.
“Okay, that could work.” I clear my throat. “It’s looking pretty good so far. We’ve nearly finished the flooring, and the paneling has been refinished. The boys are in Denver today picking up some more supplies, and once they get back we’ll—”
My voice cracks, and my dad doesn’t miss it.
“What’s wrong?”
I stand there, clutching the phone too tight, feeling my eyesprickle for reasons I can’t pin down. “I don’t know,” I say. “I just miss you, I guess.”
“Oh, hon,” he sighs. “You can come visit anytime, you know that.”
“I know,” I tell him. “I will. As soon as I finish here.” I hesitate, knowing he doesn’t love talking about it, but I can’t help it. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine,” he snorts. “Healthy as a horse. Those doctors don’t know what they’re talking about.”
“Dad,” I chide. “You’re doing what they say, right?”
“I’m being good,” he huffs.
