Page 93 of The Weight Of Falling
“Your father is concerned about your door,” Mom says.
“My door is fine.”
“Your door isn’t fine,” Dad maintains. “An intruder could sneeze and he’d be inside.”
“That’s what I’ve been telling her,” Joel says, interest flaring in his face as he joins my dad at the door. “And she leaves it unlocked.”
I stare at him, open-mouthed.Traitor.
My dad looks at me from under his brows. “I taught you better than that, Kenzie Ellis.”
“We just want you safe, honey,” Mom says, switching my oven on. “We know you like to keep your door open to the world, but maybe not literally.”
Dad raps on my front door. “I’ve seen cereal boxes with better structural integrity.”
Joel nods. “A firm opinion could open this door.”
Dad lets out a booming laugh. “That’s a good one. I must remember that.”
“You guys are making a fuss over nothing,” I tell them.
“My daughter forgets other people worry about her,” Dad says to Joel.
“That’s because she worries about everyone else,” Joel says quietly, holding my gaze.
At the look in his eyes, my stomach goes all hot and fluttery.
“You know our Kenzie well.” Dad cocks his head at the door. “What do you think of the lock?”
“Decorative at best.”
“I agree. She needs a new deadbolt.”
“We should look at her windows too,” Joel says. “A few of the latches are flimsy. I’m thinking we could add secondary locks and a dowel in the track for the slider.”
Dad looks at him with fresh eyes, clearly impressed. “Great idea.” He holds up a bag. “Lucky I stopped by the hardware store.”
They move through my cottage, talking and gesturing energetically, bonding over my abysmal security.
Mom comes to stand at my side. “He’s handsome.”
“He is, but don’t get any ideas.”
“And careful about your safety. I like that.” She leaves a pause, then says, “As long as he’s careful with your heart too.”
“Mom, it’s a fake engagement, remember?”
She pats my hand. “Oh, honey, there is nothing fake about the way that man looks at you. Or the way you look at him. He may be quiet, but his eyes aren’t.”
She puts the lasagna in the oven and sets a timer. I wash my hands, take out the salad ingredients, and start chopping.
While the lasagna cooks, Joel and Dad work in easy tandem as though they’ve done a hundred weekend projects together, measuring, tightening, testing. Turbo follows them everywhere.
“You want to give it a kick?” Dad asks when they’re finished with the front door. “See if it’ll hold?”
“I’m in a rental, Dad,” I call from the kitchen. “You can’t go kicking down my doors.”
“Probably not a good idea,” Joel says. “But I think the door will hold.”
