Twenty-Five
TWENTY-FIVE
ETHAN
E arly the next morning, Samara shows up at Ethan’s cabin asking after a heart-shaped waffle maker from childhood.
“I’m sure it’s around here somewhere,” Ethan says, still wiping the sleep crust from his eyes. The door stands open, allowing the warming day and the fresh air in. Nana barks behind him, trying to get around his thick legs to get to Samara, who is all too happy to give her the pets she craves. “Why do you ask?”
“I want a waffle,” she says like only a sixteen-year-old can—like this should be abundantly obvious and he’s an oaf for asking.
“You have a final brunch with your friends in two hours. There will be waffles there,” he says, confused but stepping aside so she can come in.
“Okay, and? I want your waffle from your heart-shaped maker so I can spend time with you ,” she says, exasperated. “Jeez, I didn’t know I needed to write an essay just to spend time with you.”
This jolts him awake. “No! Gosh. I’m happy you’re here. Waffles, coming right up.”
In the kitchen, he throws on his apron, grabs the mix from the pantry and then goes hunting under the sink for the desired waffle maker. There are dozens of unused cooking appliances under there, and he regrets not decluttering when Amy and Samara moved out.
“What’s this?” Samara asks from the living room where she’s plopped herself down on the couch. Nana rests beside her, head nuzzled onto her lap. Samara holds up Grimm’s Fairy Tales .
“A book,” Ethan says, holding the waffle maker, which is red and smaller than he remembers it being.
“Yeah, no duh. Where did it come from? I never had a book like this as a kid,” she says, flipping it over and reading the back. “These sound dark.”
Ethan snorts out a laugh. “They are. We had a bit of an eventful story time that day. Um… Taylor bought that.” He plugs the waffle maker into the outlet by the fridge and begins mixing the batter in a metal bowl on the island.
“I’m assuming this is Taylor’s, too, then?” Samara asks, kicking a sock Ethan hadn’t seen before across the carpet. It must’ve been trapped under the couch and Nana dug it out. Ethan’s about to deny it when she says, “It’s a little small to be yours.”
“Turn sixteen and suddenly you’re a public defender, huh?” he asks, laughing nervously. While he and Amy may not see eye to eye all the time, they still run everything by each other when it comes to parenting Samara. Telling Samara about his houseguest-turned-something-more seems like a line he shouldn’t cross without consultation. Though that would be difficult when Amy isn’t speaking to him. He focuses back on the batter.
Samara crosses into the kitchen and plops down on the chair at the island. She’s wearing a white fleece zip-up with black koi fish swimming across it. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and there’s a hint of her makeup from last night still shimmering on her upper eyelids. “I texted Taylor this morning to say that I hoped everything was okay with his family and he immediately texted back, ‘What do you mean?’ Then sent, ‘Oh, yeah. All good now.’ Which leads me to believe that Mom lied to me.”
Ethan sprays the griddle, then pours his batter into the mold. Shutting it, he sighs. “Shouldn’t you be grilling your mother about this?” If only he could train Nana to use the coffee maker so he could down a scalding, caffeinating cup right now. He’s not alert enough to field these questions.
“I would’ve, but then I remembered the way you two were looking at each other over fish and chips. Then the way you were looking at each other during archery. Then how grumpy you looked all through my party last night and how awkward Mom was when she lit his candle.” Seriously, if this girl weren’t so good at photography, she could have a career as a prosecutor. “Factoring all that with the book and the sock and the blush creeping up your neck right now…”
Ethan slaps at his neck like there’s a mosquito there. Christ, he’s in uncharted territory here. “This visit had nothing to do with the waffles, then?”
“Oh, no. I’m mainly here for the waffle,” she says. “Syrup?”
“In the pantry.”
With her head strategically ducked inside, she asks, “Do you have a thing with Taylor?”
Ethan nearly burns himself by reaching directly for the finished waffle instead of using the spatula. He saves himself at the last second and says, “I’m not sure we should be discussing this.”
She slides the fancy bottle of Vermont Maple across the island. “I’m sixteen now. I’ve been around the block with a boy or two.”
“What boys? What block?” Ethan asks, protector mode ripping through.
“Ha! No need for your teddy-bear-with-a-head-cold voice, Dad. Two boys, both Mom-approved, and I’ve done nothing more than kiss. Promise,” she says, giving him a Scout salute. It’s her even-keeled maturity that winds him down from high alert. She’s self-assured and strong. No boy would dare take advantage of her. “Let me rephrase my question—do you like Taylor?”
“Christ, I didn’t realize I was on trial. Should I return the camera and get you LSAT prep books for a gift instead?” he asks.
“You wouldn’t dare,” she says, drowning her waffle in syrup. “I’ve just been watching Legally Blonde a lot. It’s my comfort movie. Don’t avoid the question.”
“Remind me what the question was again?” he asks just to rile her up a little more. They’ve always had an easy back-and-forth ever since she learned the full power of her charming sass.
“Do. You. Like. Taylor. Frost?”
Worn down, he relents with a sigh. “I do. Does that bother you?”
After a big swallow of no-pulp orange juice that he’s poured for her into a tall glass, she says, “Not at all. I like Taylor, too. I like Taylor a lot!” She sets her fork down and looks at her lap. “Honestly, I don’t really like the way Mom treats him. She gets stressed out and then she gets snippy, especially with him, and he always smiles through it, and like, yeah, obviously I love Mom, but as a boss, she’s, uh, not the best.”
“Don’t say that about your mother,” Ethan says, using the last of the batter to make himself a waffle, too.
“You don’t see her in action every day like I do. She is so go-go-go that I barely see her. I spend more time with Taylor than I spend with her, and if I’ve cracked the case like Elle does with Chutney’s perm, then Mom fired him!”
Ethan squishes his eyes shut, flashing back to the confrontation outside the Snow White cottage. “She did.”
“Ugh. I knew it!” She pushes her plate away. “Just because you two hit it off? Like, she’s seeing the resort photographer now. Why does she care what you do?”
Hearing this from his daughter’s mouth forces him to consider it further. “It’s a matter of principle, I suppose.”
“I’m just saying, you both deserve to be happy.”
“I am happy, Sam,” he says while once again almost burning his fingers off because he’s too distracted by the bold-faced lie he just spouted. Taylor’s presence in the cottage gave him so much—confidence, comfort, joy—but it also showed him a harsh truth: he’s lonely. And even the most solitary of people can’t be entirely happy when they’re constantly secluded. Emotionally shut-off.
“Fine, whatever. Let’s say for the sake of this argument you are happy—” she cocks a dark, threaded eyebrow at him “—Taylor makes you happier, yeah?”
He sets his plate down on the island, dumping the remains of her waffle atop his own to create a syrupy tower that mirrors his emotions: runny, messy and, like his father said, sticky . “I guess…”
“Dad, come on. This isn’t the open-ended writing portion of the SAT. It’s a simple yes or no.”
“Have you been prepping for the PSATs? You know if you need, I can hire you a tutor,” he says.
“I’ve got it covered. Mom won’t let me forget. Now, focus. Yes or no. Don’t think too hard.”
He holds up his hands in defeat. “Okay. Yes.”
“Thank you! Was that so difficult?” she asks, reaching for his plate and splitting the distance between them as she grabs for a bite of his fresh waffle, leaving him with her semisoggy leftovers. Obviously, his vulnerability has resuscitated her hunger. “Happy doesn’t need to be the default. Happier could be nice for a change. When I think about you out here at the resort, all alone with only Nana, I don’t know, I get sad.”
He bites the inside of his cheek with shame. “Hey, I’m the dad here. It’s my job to do the worrying.”
“Yeah, right. Because that’s how worry works. Thanks for the psychology lesson.” She swipes a napkin across her mouth. “I miss you. I know we have our calls and our regular trips and visits and I know you’re good at being on your own and you have Grandma and Grandpa nearby, but…ugh, with Mom breathing down my neck about college and her obsessing over the California location of Storybook Endings, I’m scared.”
Despite her age and displayed maturity, he can’t help but hear the echo of the eight-year-old girl who, on their first night in the cottage, stood in the dark beside his bed holding her stuffed rabbit, sniffling.
“What’s wrong?” he’d asked, sitting up immediately. Amy stayed fast asleep.
“I hear noises in my room,” she said in a hiccupping mumble. “I’m scared.”
His heart melted in that moment. He took her by the hand, brought her back to bed, and pulled the tiny chair away from her desk. Sitting down beside her, he grabbed her hand again. “I built this house just for us and this room just for you. This is our kingdom, and this room is your royal chamber, Princess. Nothing’s going to harm you here. There’s nothing to be scared of.” If he’d had to dig a moat around the cottage and fill it with the gnarliest crocodiles to make her feel safe there, he would do it. Christ, he’d do anything for this girl.
He sat in her room until she fell asleep and even for a few moments after, watching her sleep peacefully beneath the painted lanterns on the wall and the stars on the ceiling.
He watches her now with the same awe, the same tears rimming his eyes. “What’s scaring you, Princess?”
For the first time in a long time, she doesn’t cringe or stick her tongue out when he calls her that. He apologizes anyway, and she waves it off. “I don’t mind. I really felt like a princess last night. Thanks in large part to Taylor.” She beams, then confides, “I’m scared that our trips are going to get pushed aside for college visits, and that Mom is going to be so consumed with her new location that she won’t let me come see you.”
“Sam, we’d work all that out,” he says.
“Yeah, I know. I guess I’m just saying I’d probably worry less if I knew you had someone like Taylor looking after you,” she says.
The response at the top of his mind is: I don’t need anyone to look after me . Which is a true statement. However, what is it she just said? Happier could be nice for a change. His needs may be met, but he does have more love to give, and if someone wants to give him love in return in the form of looking after and care, well, he’d be a fool to inhibit that.
Which would be a beautiful revelation if Taylor hadn’t left by saying he had no room for Ethan in his life. Maybe that had always been the case. They hadn’t discussed it. His mind could’ve run away on a jet fueled by fantasy.
“That’s a nice thought,” Ethan says. But he doesn’t let himself snuggle up inside it this time. It takes two to tango, and Taylor dropped the rose from between his teeth and stepped on it when he left the resort. “It’s sweet that you feel that way. Thank you for sharing all of this with me. I miss you, too. We’ll do whatever it takes to make sure we get our time together.”
“All right,” she says, greedily stealing the last of the waffles for herself. He shakes his head. “What? You can have some at the brunch, too!”
“Get cleaned up while I go change or we’ll be late,” he says, smiling to himself as he exits the kitchen. Happy that even though she lives on the other side of the country, even though she’s sixteen now she’s still his little girl, forever his princess. Thankfully, just not one that needs saving.