Page 24 of Romance Is Dead

I shrugged, playing it cool. “The police seem confident it was an accident. Just bad luck, I guess.”

“I guess.” He moved aside, motioning me into the cabin. “Come on in. I just pulled some bread out of the oven.”

Stepping inside, a renewed calm immediately washed over me, scrubbing away the anxiety brought on by my dad bringing up Trevor not thirty seconds into my visit. The cabin always soothed me, my dad’s energy radiating from every corner. The interior was more spacious than it looked from the outside, with a large living area and vaulted ceiling that let you peek into the second-floor loft. It was tidy but not overly so, the walls plastered with framed posters from my dad’s movies, each featuring him in his iconic Puzzle Face mask and duster.

It might seem narcissistic, but I knew my dad was just genuinely proud of every movie he’d ever done.

My dad hadn’t planned to star in a horror franchise. In 1989, he’d been working in a gas station in northern California when a customer approached him about auditioning for an indie film he was producing. It was a slasher calledFinal Curtainthat was trying to mimic the success of iconic movies likeHalloweenandBlack Christmas. My dad, figuring it could be a fun way to spend the summer, agreed.

Not only did he get the part, but the movie went on to be a surprise box office success. My dad still swore it made more thanBack to the Future Part IIand an accounting error was the only thing keeping it from being one of the top ten films of the year. They immediately wrote a sequel, despite Puzzle Face technically dying at the end of the first one. By then, my dad had fallen in love with the character, and as luck would have it, also fell in love with my mother.

(She worked in the restaurant across the street from the set. He said she made the best coconut cream pie, which I decided to interpret literally and not metaphorically.)

Little me came along three years later, and when I was old enough, I got to tag along to movie premieres and even scored that bit part in the very last Puzzle Face movie. Even after he retired, my dad and I still bonded over horror, checking out the newest releases and traveling to horror conventions together. Especially after he and my mom divorced, horror was a way we could connect and I could make sure he wasn’t getting lonely.

Which, unfortunately, was also why I hadn’t been able to tell him I was quitting the industry yet.

A scuffle of tiny feet followed by a flash of black and white skittered in from the kitchen.

“Daffy!” The skunk—one my dad had “rescued” shortly after moving into the cabin, although I’m not sure she was actually in danger to begin with—was named Daffodil, but we called her Daffy. Because it was cute, but also due to personality. “Daffy, come here, girl!”

The skunk ground to a halt in front of me, stamping her feet and backing up quickly, her claws scraping against the carpet.

“Do you remember me?”

She repeated the scooting gesture, clearly upset that a stranger was intruding upon her domain. Never mind that we’d met several times before.

“She’s grumpy it’s not dinner yet.” My dad ambled into the living room. “I have some peppers cut up in the fridge. You might be able to win her over with a snack.”

I followed him into the kitchen, where he pulled out a Tupperware container of red bell pepper squares. I offered her a few and she nibbled them swiftly, appraising me over her little paws as she chomped noisily. When she was done, she promptly waddled over to her cat bed, where she curled up and went to sleep. It wasn’t a peace offering, but at least she didn’t square up to me again.

“Want a beer?” My dad still stood in front of the open fridge, his hand hovering over cans of lager.

“No thanks.”

“What about a slice of sourdough? Should be cool by now.”

I climbed onto one of the bar stools. “That, I will definitely have.”

Beaming with pride, my dad sliced off a thick slice of the homemade loaf sitting on the stove. After swiping on a generous amount of butter, he set it on a plate and slid it across the island.

“Thank you.” I took a big bite, savoring the tangy crumb. Bread baking was another thing my dad had picked up post-retirement—a hobby I was more than happy to benefit from.

“How’s filming going?”

“It’s ok.”

He glanced at me as he pulled out supplies to make spaghetti sauce. “Just ok? There’s a lot of buzz about it. The last one was a bit of a stumble—”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“—and I think this one could be a real hit that will make people forget about that! Is all I was going to say.” He carved a slice off the loaf for himself. “It’ll make that crummy old agent of yours sorry she had the nerve to drop you.” He gave me a roguish wink.

“Yeah . . .”

I knew he was trying to be helpful, but all it was accomplishing was reminding me about my failures—and about the fact that I hadn’t told my dad I was quitting yet.

I felt awful not being honest with my dad. Horror was what bound our relationship, from him showing mePoltergeistwhen I was way too young, to the time we both geeked out over meeting Gunnar Hansen at a convention. (He even posed for a photo with us with the actual chainsaw fromTexas Chainsaw Massacre.) My dad never pressured me to act, but he’d been so thrilled when I’d gotten my first big gig. He framed the tickets from the premiere and still had them on display in his spare bedroom.

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