Page 42 of The No Touch Roommate Rule
Back in the lobby, Parker reads my face like an open book.
I’m sure it isn’t hard.
I’m not sure I’ve ever felt this…shattered.
So shattered, Mitzy’s bright, “Have a great day!” as we head for the door actually makes me flinch.
“I’m sorry, Mack.” Parker’s hand finds my elbow as we step into sunlight that’s also way too bright.
“It’s fine,” I force out, though it’s not fine.
At all.
Downtown is doing its Saturday morning thing—couples sharing pastries outside the bakery, kids dragging their parents to the toy store, folks of all ages out walking dogs and sipping coffee—like the world hasn’t been broken beyond repair. But Saint Magnus is on higher ground. Almost no one lost anything up here, just a few people by the lake and those were all vacation homes, not places where people lived or worked their asses off to make their dreams come true.
My throat closes.
Still, the first sob catches me by surprise, like a hiccup made of broken glass.
“I know, babe,” Parker says softly. “This fucking sucks. Come on, let’s find somewhere to?—”
“I told you I’m fine,” I croak, but I’m already folding into sad origami on the curb, hands coming to cover my face as I fight to keep the tears from pouring.
A minute later, a nice couple with a bag of pastries stops to ask Parker if I’m okay.
I’m about to lift my head and promise that “I’m fine,” for a third time, when a familiar voice says, “Makena?”
I freeze, sucking in a breath that lodges in my chest.
Shit.
Not now.
I can’t handle a paternal confrontation right now.
But when I glance up, there he is—my dad—coming out of Bean There Done That, with the Wall Street Journal tucked under his arm. As usual, even his casual wear is pressed—khakis with a crease sharp enough to cut, polo in a lawyerly shade of blue.
My stomach sinks, even as a part of me, that little girl who used to run to him with bee stings and kid problems, aches for a hug from her daddy.
And for once, it seems like my dad gets the message, without me having to say a word. “Oh, sweetheart, what’s wrong?”
A beat later, he’s on the curb beside me, his big arm around my shoulders, pulling me against his strong, solid self. Even at sixty-five, my father is still a powerful man. Still respected in his career and on the squash court and in every corner of our hometown.
And God, it feels good to be held right now.
“The insurance,” I say, tears finally falling as I lean into the hug. “They won’t cover the contents of the restaurant. Which means I’m getting nothing. I’ve lost it all, and I can’t get it back. All because of one line on p-page twelve.”
“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. Those contracts are so predatory.” He rocks me slightly as his hand rubs gentle circles on my back, and for a few seconds, everything is fine.
Better than fine, actually.
I haven’t felt comforted like this in years.
It’s so damned nice, until Dad adds, “But maybe this is a sign.”
My spine stiffens. “A sign of what, Dad? That I’m yet another victim of predatory insurance practices?”
Now it’s his turn to stiffen as he leans back, meeting my gaze. “That restaurant was killing you, sweetheart. Working six days a week, while taking catering jobs on the side. Sleeping on a shelf like some kind of—” He stops himself, but I hear the words anyway.
