Page 32 of Doctor's Bossy Match
We head home with arms full of paint cans and brushes, the faint chemical scent clinging to my top.Back inside, we roll up our sleeves and tear into the spare room.Dust puffs up with every box we drag out.Old blankets.Board games with missing pieces.
Then I see it, wedged in the back of the closet like it didn’t want to be found.A cardboard box, soft at the edges.My breath catches.I know what this is before I even touch it.Dragging it out, I lift the lid.
Photos.Maybe hundreds of them.
Snapshots of us at Pulse Point.Another of us wearing ice cream mustaches at the beach.Dad steadying me on my very first bike.I was so small, so happy, and I miss that time with dad.
I pick up one in particular, pressing my thumb gently into the worn corner.“Oh my God… do you remember this day?”I ask.“Mom dragged you to that country festival in Heartwood.You bought me that ridiculous pink rhinestone cowboy hat.”
“Think I still have it.Top of the linen cupboard.”
I look at him as an ache settles in my chest, surprised he’s kept it, but also means that memory was also special to him.
My chest tugs tight at the memory as I smile down at the photo.“That day was so fun.”
It’s a good reminder that Dad wasn’t always angry.That we used to have a normal relationship once, and hopefully, this is the beginning of finding our way back to that.
“I might frame a few of these photos,” I say.“They deserve better than this box.”
He nods slowly.“Yeah.I think that’d be good.”
We go back in, disassemble the old bed, roll up the rug, strip the room bare.He pours paint into a tray.I dip the brush and cut in along the trim, while he rolls long, even strokes across the walls.
The hours fade as we paint together.
At lunchtime,I run to the sandwich bar while Dad cleans up the paint brushes and trays.I come back with Italian B.M.T.wrapped subs in hand.Dad’s now on the sofa, with photos on his lap, and some spilling over onto the cushion beside him.He’s hunched forward, elbows on his knees, staring at a black-and-white picture.Looking at him right now makes him seem unguarded, and I almost don’t want to interrupt.
I step around the coffee table and set the bag down.“Here you go.”
His mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but close.His eyes flick up, then back to the photo.I lean in to take a look.It’s an old family one at a Thanksgiving dinner.It makes me sad seeing us in a happier time.
“I think they’ll still live up to the hype,” I say, unwrapping mine.“These sandwiches were basically my childhood.You raised me on them, remember?”
He laughs.“You practically lived off these during high school.”
We eat in silence, mostly.No small talk, just the occasional comment about the photos or the room.Our chewing fills the space.
As the paint dries, we get started on cleaning up.
I tape up the donation box while Dad carries old furniture parts and junk into the truck and then into the thrift shop.
A woman behind the counter straightens when she sees us.She has long dark hair, with striking features that belong on TV, high cheekbones, and expressive dark eyes.
“Not sure if any of this is worth much, but—” I lift the box onto the counter with a huff.
She reaches in and pulls out something with dials and metal arms, some kitchen tool.
“Oh my God,” she gasps, holding it up like it’s rare.“I haven’t seen one of these in years.”
“I was thinking maybe I shouldn’t give that to you.”Dad chuckles behind me.
I glance sideways at him, one eyebrow raised.He’s messing with her.I can hear it in his tone; see it in the way he’s trying not to grin.Is this one of the women who asked him out?The one he said he wasn’t interested in?Because right now, he seems pretty interested.
She clutches the gadget to her chest.“This is mine now.”
Dad reaches out, like he might snatch it back.“Come on now.Change of heart.”He smiles full-on this time.The lines around his mouth soften.There’s a spark in his eye that I haven’t seen since I arrived.
I press my lips together and watch them.Does he even realize he’s flirting?
