Page 125 of Dream Chaser
She smiles, pulling out a beat-up harmonica case and opening it like a treasure chest. “That’s the good stuff. The scary stuff.”
“Tell me about it,” I say, taking it from her and slipping it into the bag.
“You don’t need to explain anything to us,” she adds, standing and brushing off her jeans. “You never have. But if you ever want to talk about it—really talk about it—you know your father and I are here.”
“I know.” I look down at the instruments, now stacked and ready to go. “Thanks for not pushing.”
“When something’s still growing, you don’t pull on it to see how tall it is,” she says, picking up the tote. “You water it, give it sun, and trust that it’ll bloom when it’s damn good and ready.”
I follow her out of the mudroom, toward the kitchen, a little lighter now.
She glances back at me. “Tambourine, cowbell, harmonica; what next? Girl band name?”
“Working title: Hormonal Harmony,” I deadpan.
She snorts. “I love that for you.”
I let out a real laugh and keep moving, reminding myself—quietly, firmly—that whatever this is, whatever it becomes … I’ve got a damn good crew backing me.
When Mom and I come back into the kitchen, Griffon’s gone.
I frown. “Um … where did he go?”
Dad stands, brushing off his hands like something grave just occurred. “Said he had some things to do.”
I narrow my eyes. “He didn’t say goodbye?”
“Said he’d see you later.” Dad shrugs. Then he turns that patented Jake Ross disappointment face on me—chin tilted, arms crossed, all judgment and fatherly righteousness. To be fair, I’ve only seen it once, maybe twice, which makes it thatmuch more effective. “I gotta say, Izzy, I’m a little disappointed in you.”
My stomach twists. “What? Why? What did I do?”
He sighs, slow and theatrical. “I had a whole plan, kid. You know that, right? First guy you brought home? I was gonna be waiting at the table, cleaning one of my guns. Nothing too flashy—just the twelve gauge, something that saysI’m approachable but also own land and ammo.”
“Dad—”
“I hadlines, Izzy.” He stares at the ceiling like he’s mourning their loss. “‘If you hurt her, I’ll hunt you like deer season opened early.’” He points to the spot where Skinner was just sitting. “‘I’ve got a shovel, a woodchipper, and the kind of buddies who don’t ask questions.’” He turns to Mom. “Tell me I didn’t practice that one.”
“You workshopped it for two years,” Mom says, deadpan.
“I even had the ‘You can date her, but remember—I taught her to shoot. Trust me; she’s better than you.’ Locked and loaded.”
“Wow,” I mutter, trying not to laugh. “You really went all-in.”
“And now?” He waves a hand at the empty space where Griffon Skinner was. “The guy’s in here, telling us why he’s going to prove he’s good enough for our daughter, Wile at his feet like he’s been part of this family for years, and I didn’t even get to glare at him properly.”
Mom pats his arm. “He did squeeze your shoulder and thank you for raising her. That kind of diffuses the intimidation factor.”
“I could’ve rallied!” Dad insists. “Talk shit about his tattoos.” He looks at me. “Gold, right?”
“I’m sorry,” I choke out between snorts. “I didn’t know I was supposed to stage the introduction for maximum dramatic effect.”
“You robbed me, kid. That’s all I’m saying.”
I shake my head, trying not to smile because part of me is mortified, part of me is terrified, and the other part? The biggest part?
Relieved.
Because, yeah, I didn’t announce anything. I didn’t sit them down and prep them for the fact that I’ve fallen hard, and fast, and scary-deep for a man I didn’t plan on loving. But Griffon Skinner sat here and did the damn thing anyway. And Dad’s not sharpening knives. He’s spouting rejected one-liners and calling it a tragedy that he actuallylikesthe guy.
