Page 5 of Love, Morgan

He laughed. “It’s not really possible to get on the wrong plane in this day and age, Speckle. Do you know how many times they have you scanning and checking and whatnot? I think you’ll be just fine.”

“Okay,” I said, reluctant. “But what if I hate it?”

He pulled his bright red oven gloves onto his hands. “You think you’re going to hate a tropical island getaway? Hasanyoneever hated that? Aren’t they pretty famously, like, the best thing ever?”

“Yeah, I guess they are…”

He was right, of course. Years of never taking a break or a vacation of any kind allowed you to save up quite a lot of money—and quite a lot of need—so I’d been able to splurge on an overwater bungalow for one. I wasn’t quite sure whether that was sad or not. Most people went to those on romantic getaways for honeymoons, but, without the barest prospect of a honeymoon in even the distant future, I’d given up waiting and decided that, if I was going to take my first break in years, I was going to make it worthwhile.

And Dad was right—nobody hated them. I didn’t know one person who’d arrived in literal paradise and felt the need to turn around, come home, and get back to work immediately. I just wasn’t great at letting things go. But that was fine.

“You’re going to have a great time,” he assured me. “You’ll read some books, do some swimming, catch a tan despite wearing factor seventy sunscreen, and you’ll come home all the better for it.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you’re right. I’m just… scared.”

“I know, Speckle.” He pulled the Dutch oven he was warming the bread in out of the oven and placed it on a cork mat before moving over to my side, slipping the oven gloves off, and stroking his hand over my hair. “But you can’t keep working yourself to death like this. I’m proud of all you’ve accomplished, but you deserve to have a well-rounded life, kid. You’re going to burn yourself out too soon if you keep going like this.”

I nodded before releasing Cerberus and heading to the fridge to pull out the butter. It was an Engle family tradition to butter the bread you dipped in your soup. Maybe it was everyone’s tradition, but it had always felt special when I was growing up. I wasn’t sure why, but I wasn’t going to question it.

“And, you never know,” he continued, pulling the bread out of the Dutch oven, “you might be able to have a little fun while you’re away.”

I was pretty sure I knew what he was getting at, but I absolutely did not want to have that conversation with my dad. “Yeah, you know, the resort has snorkeling, and hiking, and a spa. Loads of fun things to do.”

He snickered like a little kid and I immediately knew he wasn’t going to take the hint and let it go. “Interestingly, that’s not actually what I meant.”

“Is it not?” I asked, deadpan, as I grabbed two bowls from the cupboard.

“It is not, and I think you know that.” He shrugged. “I’m just saying, do a little something for yourself while you’re away. Get to know some people, maybe have a little summer romance.”

“It’s spring.”

He rolled his eyes. “Not where you’re going, it's not. And I think a little romance would do you the world of good. It’s been too long since you had someone to spoil you and show you some love.”

I had plenty of platonic and familial love in my life, and, most of the time, that was enough, but I did find myself wondering sometimes about whether it would be nice to have someone to share my life with. It just hadn’t happened for me. I wasn’t sure what exactly I was looking for, but I knew I hadn’t come across it. Maybe I never would. Either way, I highly doubted I was going to find it on vacation.

My dad wiggled his eyebrows at me and nudged me with his elbow. “Nothing wrong with a little—”

“I’m begging you, Dad, do not finish that sentence. Neither of us needs to live with the memory of you saying that to me.”

He threw his head back in joyous laughter. Sometimes, I worried that I’d missed out on that gene—the one that made youfun, made youhavefun. I wondered what my life might have been like if I’d been lucky enough to inherit that from him. But, there was no changing that now. The best I could do was go forward with my vacation and attempt to have the best time I could.

And that did not include my dad making comments about my sex life.

“We’re all adults here,” he said, dishing up the soup.

“Cerberus isn’t.”

“Oh, that’s not true, is it, Cerberus?” he asked in that cooing, baby voice he often talked to Cerberus in. I was sure he’d spoken to me with that voice when I was a baby.

I wondered whether I should have been more offended that he talked to me and his dog in the same tone. If I didn’t adore Cerberus as much as I did, maybe I’d have been more concerned.

“Cerberus is a teenager, at best. It’s inappropriate,” I said firmly.

“He’s also a dog, Speckle. I don’t think he’s the one being scandalized here.”

I laughed reluctantly, bringing the bread and butter over to the table. “Fine. It’s me. I don’t want to talk about it. So, let’s have a lovely soup dinner, watch some TV together, and pretend that never happened.”

He placed the bowls on the table and ruffled my hair again. “Whatever you like. But, that rule only applies to tonight. No promises for what I say when I drop you off at the airport tomorrow.”

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