Page 88 of Villainous Summer

Well, that was better news than I was expecting. Karma was working fast for me.

After placing my twenty-four-ounce bright pink drink in my cart’s cupholder, I steered it to the produce section with a spring in my step.

The front door was unlocked. No matter how many times I had reminded him to lock the dead bolt, my father refused.

Walking into the small rambler where I was raised, the house was eerily quiet.

I called around before ominous clanging rang from the garage.

Flinging the door open, I found the man standing on the concrete floor in his coveralls, a greasy rag in his hand. Pungent oil wafting in the air caused my stomach to turn, and a twinge of pain jolted in my head.

“Dad, what the fuck. You’re not supposed to be getting up and down on that knee.” I motioned to his body and pointed at the car lifted on a jack, a silver pan underneath it.

“I’m fine.”

“The doctor said you have a torn meniscus.”

He flicked his wrist at me. “That pansy? I can manage just fine.”

“Until you blow your knee out and can’t walk.” Crossing my arms, I glared at him. “What’s so important that you need to climb under that old car?”

“It needed an oil change.”

“An oil change? Dad! I would pay for someone else to do that.”

“Pay for some pimply nineteen-year-old to change my oil? I’d rather die. Now, bring your car around. I know it’s due soon.”

“It’s not.”

He flung the rag onto his tidy workbench.

Growing up, our house wasn’t always kept in the most organized condition, but his massive toolbox was always pristine, with its wrenches, screwdrivers, and ratchets lined up.

“Summer Louise Townsend, I taught you better than that. At least tell me you took it to a reputable shop and not some hack job place that doesn’t know the difference between motor oil and transmission fluid.”

“I didn’t take it to a shop. A friend did it.” I waved in front of me, suddenly feeling overheated.

Dad narrowed his eyes. “What friend? Not that bitch-boy you were seeing a while back—yes, I know all about him. Autumn told her mom, and Lorelle told Victor, who told me.”

“This family is the worst bunch of gossips I’ve ever seen,” I grumbled, fanning myself. “No, it’s a new friend.”

“Is that all you’re gonna tell your old man?”

“Yeah, sure is.” I pointed at the car. “Finish up. I expect a gourmet dinner tonight.”

By the time Dad placed the tater tot casserole in front of me, my stomach clenched.

I hadn’t eaten much all day, and the comfort food of my childhood was a welcoming balm. Never offering the healthiest option, with green options rarely making an appearance, my dad tried his best while raising me. He could do a passable French braid and took me to all my activities. He had a few items he could cook—well, aside from the manly art of grilling, of course. But he was proud of keeping me fed.

A few bites in, I put my fork down and studied him across the small round pine table. “When’s the last time you heard from Cheryl?”

I wasn’t sure when I had stopped calling her mom, but it was a young enough age. On the rare occasions, she’d appear in my life and didn’t seem to be bothered by it. Or was smart enough that she had little room to ask for an honorific after deserting me and Dad.

Dad leaned back in his chair, his fork still in one hand. “Been, oh, I don’t know, ’bout seven years now.”

“And you never thought about dating again?”

He shrugged, shoveling a bite into his mouth. “Not really. You know, it gets lonely, but who’s out there for an old fogey like me.”

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