Page 65 of Late to Love

His eyes are kind. “I’m just worried about you, Darcy. You’re my little girl.”

I shake my head, resolved. “But I’m not. Whether this thing with Anthony goes the distance or not, I’mnotyour little girl. I stopped being that a long time ago, even though you never wanted to see it.”

He blows out a breath, bringing his gaze to mine once more. “Be careful on the way home.” Without another glance, he walks away.

I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry.I keep repeating it over and over until Dad is out of sight.

And because life is a fickle bitch, all my friends come out right then, still happy and hollering about winning.

Anthony’s arm wraps around me, hugging me to his side as he looks around for my dad. “Jim have to go?”

I nod silently, unable to say anything.

“Want a ride?”

Again, I nod, grateful for the layer of numbness that’s washed over me. But I smile and hand out hugs and excited squeals to everyone else, keeping it together until Anthony opens his truck door for me.

I pull myself into the cab, Anthony gently shutting the door behind me with a concerned look sweeping across his face. It undoes me, and I cry, trails of silent tears streaking down my cheeks. Which pisses me off. I’m not a crier. Unless I’ve really hurt myself, but crying over something emotional isn’t my bag.

Not until now, apparently.

Anthony starts the engine and places a warm palm on my knee. He doesn’t ask what’s wrong, just reverses out of the parking lot and gets onto the road. The unspoken acceptance releases something in me, and I sob, covering my face with my hands, shoulders shaking. Anthony’s palm remains on my leg, his thumb moving back and forth over the fabric of my skirt, and I let it all out.

It isn’t until we’re ten minutes onto the highway, another twenty to go, when I finally stop crying and clean my face with the tissues in his glove compartment.

Quietly, Anthony asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”

I sniffle. “Yes.”

“Then lay it on me, baby.”

“Dad said that you and I were...” I can’t bring myself to say the word, especially because I’m not really sure Dad meant it to be as cruel as it was. Maybe that makes me naive, but I can’t believe he truly meant to be as hurtful as he was. “He isn’t a fan of this.” I settle on the easiest way to put it, gesturing between the two of us.

“Understandable.” He seems so calm and relaxed. Like he just accepts that my dad might hate him. One hand on the steering wheel, the other still resting on my upper thigh like it has every right to be there.

I tense. “Seriously?”

Anthony chuffs. “He’s your dad. He’s not going to be a fan of anyone who dates his daughter. And when it’s some old geezer who’s probably closer to his age than his daughter’s?”

I stiffen. “It’s not his business,” I say, leaning into the anger.

“It’s not,” he agrees.

“And did he really have to say something today? After what was supposed to be a really happy time? Like, shit. I’ve never won anything, Anthony. Ever. I finally do it with a team of women I love, and the first thing my dad does is shit all over my day with a speech about I’m too young? Fuck that.”

“Darcy.”

“No. Stop it with the placating tone. It was totally uncalled for. And why aren’t you mad? You get mad at everything.”

He chuckles. “I don’t get mad at everything. I just frown a lot. And I don’t talk. Not my fault that people assume I’m mad.”

My chest is tight. The air conditioner can’t fight the flush on my cheeks. “You’re not helping.”

He puts his blinker on, then guides us to the side of the interstate and slowly comes to a stop. Cars whoosh by, rocking the truck as they do.

“What are you doing?”

Putting the truck in park, he turns to look at me. “What do you want from me, Darcy?”

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