Page 23 of Faking All the Way
I shake my head and shove the covers back, ignoring my body’s reaction and the morning wood I’m sporting. I don’t know why I had a dream like that about Kat, but I figure my brain is just processing the weirdness of pretending to be her boyfriend. All those little moments of fake PDA and closeness have clearly scrambled my subconscious.
I get up and head for the shower, letting the hot water wash away the dream and my body’s reaction to it. By the time I’m dressed and ready to face the day, I’ve managed to convince myself it was just a random firing of neurons, nothing more significant than that.
I open the curtains and glance toward the main cabin. Kat’s curtains are open too, but there’s no sign of her. She mustalready be awake, and considering her car is still in the driveway, she’s probably just in some part of the cabin that I can’t see from here.
I’m half tempted to go over there, to grab coffee like I did yesterday morning and see what she’s up to today. Truthfully, I’d much rather hang out with her than do what I actually have to do.
But I can’t.
This visit with my father needs to happen. It’s the entire reason I came to Maplewood in the first place.
I grab my keys and head downstairs to my rental car, glancing at the cabin one more time before I get in. As I’m pulling out of the driveway, I catch sight of Kat through the living room window. She’s curled up in a chair with what looks like a sketchbook, wearing a sweater that’s remarkably similar to the one from my dream. Her hands are wrapped around a coffee mug, and she looks comfortable and unguarded in a way that makes the dream come rushing back with uncomfortable clarity.
I shift my gaze away, focusing on the road as I head into town.
The drive across Maplewood takes about ten minutes through residential streets lined with modest homes and snow-covered yards. Edward’s house is in an older neighborhood where all the ranch homes look like they were built in the seventies and haven’t been updated much since. I pull up outside the address he gave me and sit for a moment, taking in the place.
It’s simple, smaller than I expected. Beige siding, brown shutters, a small front porch with a single chair. The kind of house that says someone lives here but doesn’t put much effort into making it look welcoming. I’ve never been here before, never even seen pictures of it. The last time I saw my father,Edward, was at my mother’s funeral three years ago, and we barely spoke then.
I check the message he sent me yesterday, confirming the address. The texts above it are from our conversation last week when I found out he’d broken his leg. Short, basic exchanges. Him saying he didn’t need me to come out, that he was managing fine on his own. Me saying I’d be there anyway. Neither of us mentioning the years of silence between us, or the fact that this is the first time we’ve had any contact since Mom died.
Part of me feels like an idiot for being here. After all, he’s the one who left my mom and me when I was a kid, cutting us out of his life like we meant nothing to him. I don’t owe him anything. He made his choice years ago.
But still, when I got that text about the accident, I couldn’t just ignore it. Some part of me didn’t like the idea of him being hurt and dealing with it alone, even if it’s his own damn fault he’s alone.
I tuck my phone in my pocket and get out of the car, stamping my feet against the cold. The walk to the front door feels longer than it should, each step weighted with years of the unresolved shit between us.
Edward answers on the second knock. He looks older than I remember, grayer around the edges, with more lines around his eyes. His right leg is encased in a big walking boot, and he’s balancing carefully on crutches. For a moment we just stare at each other, and then he clears his throat.
“Asher.” He sounds almost surprised, as if he wasn’t entirely sure I’d actually show up. “Come in. It’s cold out there.”
“Thanks.” I step inside, taking in the place as I do. The house is warm but cluttered in a way that makes it clear he’s been struggling to keep up with basic maintenance. Mail is piled onthe kitchen counter, a few dishes sit in the sink, and a newspaper is spread across the coffee table.
“How’s the leg?” I ask, because it seems like the safest place to start this conversation.
“Healing, according to the doctor. Another few weeks in this damn boot, then physical therapy.” He makes his way carefully to his recliner, lowering himself down with obvious relief. “Happened about a week ago. Slipped on some ice coming back from the grocery store like an old fool.”
“What kind of break was it? Did you need surgery?”
“Hairline fracture of the fibula. No surgery, just time and keeping weight off it.” He adjusts the boot with a grimace. “Could have been worse, I suppose.”
We go through the basics after that: when exactly it happened, what the doctor said about recovery time, how he’s been handling the limited mobility. It’s stilted conversation, the kind you’d have with an acquaintance you barely know rather than family. But then again, that’s pretty much what we are at this point.
I start cleaning up while we talk, mostly because I need something to do with my hands. The awkward silence is too much to just sit with. I stack the newspapers, load dishes into the dishwasher, wipe down counters that clearly haven’t been touched in days. The place isn’t dirty, just disorganized in the way that happens when you can’t move around easily.
“You don’t have to do that,” Edward says, watching me work.
“It’s fine. Gives me something to do.”
That’s when I hear a soft meow from somewhere near the couch.
A massive orange tabby cat pokes his head out from behind the furniture, studying me with suspicious green eyes. He’s easily fifteen pounds, and he’s wearing a judgmental expression that suggests he’s not impressed by what he sees.
“That’s Murphy,” Edward says with the first hint of warmth I’ve heard in his voice since I arrived. “He doesn’t really like new people. Probably won’t come out while you’re here. Sometimes he hides for hours when strangers are around.”
“That’s fine,” I say, continuing to wipe down the counter. “I’m not really a cat person anyway.”
But even as I say it, Murphy proves me wrong. He darts out from his hiding spot and makes a beeline for my legs, immediately starting to rub against my jeans and purr like a small engine. The sound fills the quiet kitchen as he figure-eights between my feet, looking up at me with obvious adoration.
