Page 16 of The Handyman

Mason stands there in dark jeans, a gray henley that fits him perfectly, and boots. He looks like himself, but there's something different in his posture. Something uncertain. His arm hangs at his side, but instead of gripping his massive toolbox, his fingers are wrapped around the stems of a bunch of sunflowers.

This is the first time I've seen Mason look unsure of where he stands. His shoulders are squared, but his weight shifts from one foot to the other. His jaw is tight, and his eyes go from me to Dad and back to me.

Mason Burk, who fixed my plumbing while I chattered at him, who carried me, who kissed me senseless against my front door this morning. Mason looks so uncomfortable and awkward that it tugs on my heartstrings. The sunflowers remain at his side as his eyes lock onto my father.

I cross the room, go up on my toes, and wrap my arms around his neck. When I kiss him, his arm comes around my waist and pulls me closer.

I turn to face Dad, Mason's arm still around my waist. His other arm raises the flowers toward me, and I grab them.

"Dad, meet my boyfriend."

His gaze darts from me to Mason, to the sunflowers, then down to Mason's arm around my waist, then back up to Mason's face.

His right hand comes up and lands flat on his chest, palm over his heart. Then he sits down slowly in the nearest chair. Dad can be dramatic at times, which is the only reason I haven't called 911 yet.

"Have I somehow shortchanged you, Mason? Have I pissed you off? Why would you do this to me?"

Mason's arm tightens around my waist. He sighs and says, "Your house is crumbling, Phil. Just think how many thousands of dollars you’d get to save if I'm your future son-in-law."

I want to laugh. I want to kiss him. I want to elbow him in the ribs. The line is so perfectly Mason—dry as desert sand, delivered with zero inflection, and with the straightest of straight faces. Romantic, in a Mason-the-handyman kind of way. I suppose. I can't decide if it's the best or worst possible thing to say. My face grimaces. My eyes dart from Mason to Dad. Then back again.

Dad's hand presses harder against his chest. "Son-in-law? God, I think I'm having a heart attack. Or maybe my plane crashed, and this is nothing more than a horrible nightmare."

I place the sunflowers on a side table, drop to my knees in front of his chair, place my hands on his legs, and look up at him. "Would you rather I'm with that slimy Coop? Or no one at all?"

Dad stares at me, his hand still on his chest but loosening slightly. His jaw works from side to side, and I can practically see his gears turning.

Dad doesn't like any of the options right now, but he's too smart not to know which one is the best answer.

He shakes his head and rubs his temples. "I've known Mason for five years, and he's a solid guy. Expensive, but solid. Reliable."

Relief floods my chest, warm and bright, and a smile spreads across my face. I have so much love for this ridiculous, dramatic man who's sitting in a chair pretending his heart can't handle the shock of Mason dating his daughter.

"So, we have your blessing?"

Dad looks at Mason. His hand drops from his chest, and he sits up straighter. He points one finger at Mason. "If you ever hurt my daughter⁠—"

Mason crosses his arms and nods. "You have permission to bury my body."

The corner of Dad's mouth twitches. He's fighting it, trying to maintain the gravity of the fatherly threat he just issued, but Mason's expression is so serious, and the words are so absurd that he cannot hold a straight face knowing he's been outmaneuvered at his own game.

"I will hold you to that promise, Mason. I'll bury you all right. And with your own shovel, too. Right after I plant those fucking sunflowers where the sun don’t shine."

“Over my dead body.” Both men look at me. “The sunflowers are mine. They’re going straight into a vase. If I can find a suitable one. I think I know the perfect one. Oh no, I broke that last year. Oh, I will find another. Sure. Or buy one.”

I stand, pick up the flowers, reach for Mason’s hand, see his grin, and turn to Dad's chuckle.

EPILOGUE

MASON

One year later

The suit jacket is trying to strangle me. The collar sits wrong, the shoulders pull when I move, and the cuffs keep riding up my wrists. I tug at them for the fourth time in five minutes.

Phil watches me from his seat at the table, fork halfway to his mouth, wearing the expression of a man enjoying a private joke.

"For the love of God, Mason, sit down. You're making me nervous, and I'm not the one proposing."