Chapter 23 #2
Shuffling comes from the living room. My dad appears in the doorway looking exactly like I expected. Gaunt, unshaven, wearing the same flannel shirt he's probably worn for days. His eyes are hollow and distant, barely registering that we're here.
"Scout," he says. Flat. No warmth. His eyes go to Silas, narrowing suspiciously.
"Hi, Dad. This is Silas. He's... he's my boyfriend." The word feels strange coming out. I probably should have asked Silas about labels.
Then again, he did get me a Valentine’s Day present.
My dad gives Silas a distrustful once-over. "Nice to meet you."
"You too, sir," Silas says, his voice gentle.
Dad shuffles back to his recliner in front of the TV. It's already on, some daytime show flickering with canned laughter. He sinks into the chair with a sigh.
I look around the house and my stomach drops. It’s undeniably worse than last time. Dishes piled in the sink, probably growing things. Laundry scattered across every surface. I’m sure there’s a fine coat of dust on everything.
"I'm just going to..." I gesture vaguely at the mess. "Clean up a bit."
Handing the remote to my dad, I flash Silas another apologetic look. "We'll be out of here before you know it."
"Please." Si's gaze hardens. "Just tell me what to do."
“Honestly, just sit.”
Silas gives me a hard look. “Put me to work, sweetheart.”
I give up, looking around. "It'd be nice if you dusted in here. I can start doing the dishes. Then I can try to fix dinner."
"Scout..." Dad grunts, leaning back and scratching his beard. "I don't want you going to any trouble on my account."
"It's no trouble, Dad. Honestly." Except for the fact that I’ve dragged Silas into this mess. I shouldn’t have agreed for him to drive me. It wouldn't be the first trip I’ve made up here in poor driving conditions.
“Can I get some dusting supplies?” Si asks. Because he’s the best guy in the world and he’s rolling with this, even though it’s way outside his role as maybe-boyfriend.
“Right.” I hustle into the kitchen and grab a feather duster, some paper towels, and some Windex for dusting. Silas meets me in the doorway and grabs them.
"Thanks," I whisper. "We'll be out of here in no time. I promise."
He smiles at me, his ash-blond hair falling in soft swoops around his face. Reaching out, he brushes a stray curl back from my face with gentle fingers. He's so tall and broad and just all together hot.
"Don't rush. I'm here as long as you need me."
I almost swoon. This hot guy is here for me? He's smiling at me and helping me clean my dad's house? Enzo certainly never did any of those things the entire time he was my husband. He never set foot in this house.
"Thanks, baby." I give Si a quick kiss, not trusting myself to stop getting all mushy. Crying isn't going to help this house get clean.
With stars in my eyes, I move to the kitchen on autopilot and start washing dishes. Scrubbing counters and sweeping floors is next. The familiar rhythm settles something in me. Knowing how to do this, cleaning and taking care of somebody else, makes sense when nothing else does.
We work in silence for the next two hours. Kitchen first, then living room. Vacuuming, dusting, throwing out the trash that’s collected around the room.
Silas helps me when he's done dusting and vacuuming. Not a word passes between us, but I can see Silas looking at my dad now and then. The entire time, my dad watches TV. He doesn't say a word or even thank Silas.
It's fine when it's just me my dad is ignoring. But it burns me up inside that Dad would pretend this stranger cleaning his house is normal. I swallow the bitterness like every other complaint I’ve ever had.
But I’m embarrassed by it nonetheless.
By the time I finish, my hands are raw and red. My back aches from bending over. To my relief, though, the house looks better. Almost livable.
Next, I make dinner. There isn't much in the fridge, but I keep the pantry well stocked and the freezer full of veggies.
I pull out the ingredients for chicken broccoli fettuccini.
It's the kind of simple, hearty meal my mother used to make on a weeknight.
Soon, the smell of pasta fills the house.
And for one brief moment, it feels like before my mom died.
Any moment now, she might walk in from the other room, smiling and asking if I need help.
I stir the fettuccini noodles and wipe my eyes. Mom would always stand right here, humming and making dinner. Smiling, talking to me as I helped, washing the potatoes and dicing the carrots. God, how I miss her right now. If only my mom hadn't gotten sick…
But it’s not the time to get emotional. My dad can’t handle anyone else around him being sad. He has enough grief to fill any space he’s in. He doesn’t need to deal with my tears on top of that.
When I turn the pasta out into bowls, I call my dad and Silas. "Dinner's ready."
Dad finally turns off the TV and shuffles in the kitchen, sitting at the small dining table. He sits in the same chair he's occupied for thirty years.
I serve him with shaking hands, waiting for some kind of response.
Silas watches me with a carefully neutral expression.
God, what kind of pieces is he fitting into place in the puzzle of my life?
He accepts a bowl of pasta and sits, his frame dwarfing the small kitchen chair.
In his hands, the fork looks ridiculous.
Dad takes a bite and chews slowly, then swallows. Then something in his weathered face softens just slightly.
"This is good. Real good, Scout. Just like your mom used to make."
My eyes sting with tears that I refuse to let fall. "Thanks, Dad."
"The house looks nice too." He glances around like he's actually seeing it for the first time today. "You're just like her, you know. Always doing things for me. Taking care of everything. Making sure I'm fed and the place is clean."
His words land like punches. Suddenly, I can’t breathe.
"I should grab... something." I rush to the other side of the kitchen, pressing my palms flat against the counter, fighting the tears that want to come. Behind me, I hear Silas's chair scrape. Please. Please don't come over here right now. I’m barely holding it together.
I slink out of the room, just out of sight. Sitting at an angle where I can see Silas and part of my dad’s back, but they can’t see me, helps me to calm down. I blow out a slow stream of breath.
Si clears his throat. "Thank you for having me."
My dad takes a second to answer. "I think I should probably be thanking you, son."
Silas waves his fork. "I'd do anything for your daughter, sir."
"You can call me Tom." My dad sizes Silas up. "So I'm guessing that you're a hockey player?"
Silas pauses then says, "Yeah."
A few moments pass before my dad says, "Scout just divorced a hockey player."
"Yeah. Enzo." Silas's voice goes hard as steel. "I'm not him. We're nothing alike."
"Didn't say that you were." Dad's laugh is thin as paper. "Scout's wonderful, you know. She's always been so helpful. It's how she shows she cares, I guess. Must have learned it from her mother."
"She is helpful," Silas says. His voice is quiet but absolutely fierce. "I try not to take advantage too much. Scout's always looking out for everybody. She needs someone who'll take care of her."
"And that's you?"
Silence stretches. "I'd like it to be."
"I see. Well, I don't care how big and brawny you are, son. If you hurt my little girl, I'll kick your ass."
Si's head dips. "Yes sir."
God, Silas is pushing all of my buttons. Wiping my eyes hastily, I force myself to go back out, even though I want to hide. My dad is standing now, looking uncomfortable in a way I've never seen. Silas has barely touched his food.
"I should go lie down," my dad mutters. "Thanks for dinner, Scout. And for cleaning. Both of you."
He gives me a half-hearted hug and kiss on the cheek, then totters off toward the staircase. It hurts my heart to see him walk. He's out of shape and sort of shuffle-hobbles up the stairs.
Silas looks toward the window. "The weather is getting worse. Visibility's going to be terrible on those mountain roads. We should probably hunker down here for the night."
"Oh god." I rush to the window and see flurries falling from the sky. My stomach drops. "We can’t stay here. There's a motel a few miles down the road toward town that I usually stay at."
"Why not stay here? The house has room."
"It's just... wouldn't be good. Dad doesn't like the house disturbed by overnight guests."
Silas looks pointedly at the cluttered living room I just cleaned. The pile of junk mail. The years of accumulated neglect. "The house was already disturbed."
"Silas. Please." My voice cracks. "We'd have to clean out a room, okay? Trust me when I say that it's a whole can of worms. Let's just go."
I say goodbye to my dad through his bedroom door. He gives me what might be a 'drive safe' without opening the door. That’s all I get.
Silas helps me into my coat and hustles me out the door. Luckily the snow flurries are mixed with rain, so it's sleeting more than anything. Still not great driving weather, but way better than being trapped in this American Gothic rerun.
He drives slowly, taking every turn with care in the growing darkness. When we get to the motel, it's small and run down, but clean enough. Bev, the woman at the front desk, recognizes me and gives me a sad smile.
"Back again, honey?" she asks.
"Yeah. Just for tonight. We don't want to risk driving back to Seattle."
"Very sensible." Bev eyes Silas and winks at me. "I wouldn't mind staying the night with a big hunk of a man, either."
As she rings up the room, Silas's jaw tightens. He leans down to whisper in my ear. "You stay here often?"
"Sometimes. When I visit Dad." I sign the register with numb fingers. "Like I said, he doesn't like overnight guests disturbing his routine."
He arches an eyebrow. "His house was a complete disaster when we got there."