Page 23 of Hot Damn
Looking up I stare at my daughter—the one I swear just yesterday was asking me to carry her but is now telling me she can carry things on her own—and I wonder where the years went.
When did the little girl who relied on me for everything turn into this beautiful young woman?
Cami’s right. She’s a remarkable young woman and I should be proud of myself for having a hand in that as much as I’m proud of her and all she’s accomplished.
“I’m proud of you.”
“What?”
“I’m proud of you. I love you. I don’t say either enough.”
“You tell me you love me every day, Dad.”
“I do?”
“Yes. Not always in words, but every day you take care of me, you show me you love me, and actions are far more believable than words most of the time.” She moves beside me and wraps her arms around my waist. “I love you too but if you try to serve me bleeding meat again, I’ll smother you in your sleep.”
“That’s a little extreme.”
“Meh.” She shrugs. “I couldn’t find those candles.”
“I think I left them in the garage when I unpacked the groceries.”
“Should I go get them?”
“No, the spray should be enough. I’ll dig the candles out tomorrow, put them in the utility room so they’re closer to the patio.”
Whit glances around. “We really should do something with the garden. Make it more usable.”
“What’s wrong with how it is?”
“It’s too… Pretentious.”
“Goes with the house.”
“Yeah.” She looks over her shoulder, her expression one of concern. “We need to fix that too.”
“Okay, I think your steak is black enough now. Let’s sit down and talk about what we want to tackle first.”
“Our bedrooms, or mine, since you don’t care about that.”
“I can tell you right now that I do care about the fact my walls are covered in pink floral wallpaper.”
“It’s not as bad as the psychedelic crap on my walls.”
“I told you to pick a different room,” I remind as I transfer the steaks to our plates.
“But I want that one. It’s got the window seat that overlooks the garden.”
“The pretentious one?” With an arched brow, I pull out my seat and sit. At her unimpressed glare, I say, “Okay, first thing is getting someone to remove the wallpaper and paint the walls.”
“Can I choose the color for my room?”
“Of course. Didn’t I let you choose at our last house?”
“Yes, but you complained about it the whole time we lived there!”
“Well, you have to admit mustard yellow isn’t exactly the best choice.”
