Page 4 of Friend Me

2

As the trainpulled into my station in Oakland, I slid my bookmark into my library book and caressed the glossy cover. Someday, someone would take me in his arms and kiss me the way the kilted hero of the romance novel had just kissed the heroine, all pent-up longing and a tangle of tongues. Would it be Cooper?

Not if he was in love with Jamila Jallow.

I looked up from the improbably waxed chest on the cover to see a man sitting across from me, smirking. I rolled my eyes and stood, shoving the book into my bag. If I’d been a guy oglingPlayboy,he’d have fist-bumped me. But because I was a woman reading a romance novel with a suggestive cover, he thought he could look down his nose at me. I made sure to ram his elbow—hard—with my pleather fuchsia purse on the way out.

Weaving through the crowd of people in the terminal, I made my way to the street outside. The air was still warm in the September evening, the sun just visible over the tops of the low buildings. I walked briskly along the broad, open streets, so different from the high rise–shadowed caverns of downtown San Francisco. I greeted the familiar faces I passed: old Mrs.Lukas clutching her bowling bag at the bus stop, burly Mr.Oliveras leaning in the doorway of his grocery, the little Park kids racing their matchbox cars on the front steps of their building. I’d lived in Oakland all my life, and although I’d gone to college and now worked in San Francisco, the East Bay was my home.

Just as I was about to let myself into our stucco bungalow, something clanked at the side of the house. My heart pounded in my ears. Our neighborhood usually felt safe, but it wouldn’t have been the first time someone had tried to break in. This would’ve been a great time for my Highland hero to come to my rescue with his claymore and save me from the burglar, but all I had was Dad, and he used a cane, not a sword.

My hand shaking, I dug in my purse for my Taser—I hoped the batteries still worked—and, after easing down my bag and slipping off my heels, I tiptoed back down the steps and along the front of the house.

Metal scraped against metal just around the corner. Had the prowler decided to climb up onto the roof and come in through the window? I shuddered. My bedroom window.

I clutched the Taser in my fist and straightened my spine. Nope. I wasn’t a helpless damsel in distress. I’d taken two self-defense classes at the Y, I was armed, and I wasn’t afraid to protect myself and my home. Lunging around the corner, I swung the Taser in a high arc to catch the prowler in the face or neck as I’d been taught.

I dropped it like a hot potato, and it bounced off into the grass.

“Dad! What the hell?”

He looked down at me, one foot on the lowest rung of the ladder, his hands gripping the sides, and an ancient string of multicolored Christmas lights looped around his shoulder.

Crinkles formed around his slate-blue eyes. “Marlee! You’re home! I was just about to hang the lights.”

“Lights for what?” I rubbed my chest to keep my heart from beating through my breastbone.

He took one hand off the ladder to touch the wires hanging from his shoulder. “Christmas lights, of course.”

“It’s the middle of September. Don’t you think it’s a little early for that?” I edged closer, ready to steady him in case he took his other hand off the ladder.

His smile faded, and he looked at me blankly. Then the tips of his ears and his weathered cheeks turned red. “I thought I’d get an early start?” The uncertain way his voice rose at the end punched me in the gut.

“You know you’re not supposed to use the ladder.” I picked up my Taser and slid it into my jacket pocket before I put my arm around his waist. “Hold on and put your foot down.”

He slumped his shoulders but obeyed. “My cane’s over there.” He lifted his chin toward the side of the house where it was still propped up against the stucco. I checked that he had two feet on the ground and both hands clutching the ladder before I released him long enough to grab the cane and tuck it into his hand.

“Let’s go inside.” I looped my arm around his waist and supported him as he released the ladder and pivoted toward the front of the house.

“I could have done it. I’ve been climbing that ladder since before you were born.”

A fall from that very ladder had shattered his leg and permanently disabled him. I closed my eyes and pressed my lips together to keep myself from reminding him we couldn’t afford another episode like that.

Instead, I said, “It’s almost time for dinner, and, besides, we have two months before we need to hang the lights.”

He limped along beside me to the front steps, where he paused. “On the bright side,” he said, his eyes twinkling, “I’ve already ordered your Christmas present. It won’t be late this year.”

* * *

From the front door,only six normal-sized steps—twelve of Dad’s shuffling pace—separated the living room from the kitchen, which welcomed us with the spicy aroma of chili from the slow cooker. I left Dad leaning against the sink to wash his hands while I set my things by the back door.

He dried his hands and picked up the box of cornbread mix I’d left on the counter. “I guess I got sidetracked.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Why had he decided to hang the lights? Had he seen one of those early Christmas commercials on TV and forgotten the date?

I aligned my heels against the wall before setting my laptop bag in the magenta cubby Dad had built next to the back door when I’d started kindergarten. He’d repainted it many times over the years, always in my favorite shades of pink.

I squeezed past him to wash my hands and then set the table. We no longer needed words at dinnertime; we’d prepared meals together so many times over the years that we anticipated what the other would do. I handed him a bowl, and he ladled on the chili. Repeat with a second bowl, which I carried to the round wooden table.

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