Epilogue Benny
Epilogue
Benny
Summer, nine months later . . .
It’s summer, which means I smell like sunscreen and campfire smoke and run around all day in my swimsuit.
Our lake house has a squeaky screen door—which drives Dad bonkers—and a dock that wiggles when you run on it, and there was a bat inside the chimney three nights ago that put him over the edge, but all in all, who can complain?
This is our off season.
In the mornings Dad sneaks out of the cabin super early and jogs the roads around the lake and does pushups on the dock; sometimes I’m awake and he has me count laps and I add numbers, because once he’s done, we usually go to Loon Landing Café and get coffee to bring home to Layla.
Afternoons we swim until my lips turn blue and she burritos me in a towel and says my teeth sound like “maracas” chattering from the cold even if nothing can keep me out of the water.
Nights we make s’mores behind the cottage, and the smoke follows me no matter where I sit because the smoke loves me most.
Ugh, I hate stinking like bonfire, but that’s lake living, Layla says.
A list of things that are new since last fall:
Dad is happier. He still has game-face sometimes, like when he’s pushing a grocery cart and trying not to bump into people. But mostly he’s relaxed. He smiles more. He laughs Way more.
We have a boat. Not just one, but two! One is a canoe Dad found on the community board at the hardware store and fixed. The other is a small speed boat he bought so he can pull me behind it in the tube, and Layla promised to teach me how to water ski. How cool is that?
We are loud. Happy loud. The kind of loud when you’re all talking in the kitchen at once and someone laughs and then someone else laughs because that laugh is contagious, and no one can hear anything because of the volume.
Also.
Dad and Layla don’t do big mushy stuff in front of me because I’m ten and I would make a face of disgust—obviously—but they have a way of looking at each other that makes me uncomfortable.
Like they wanna kiss and he’s dying to give her a hug and grab her butt with his hands.
Gross. But also . . . not gross? Because it means he’s happy. And she’s happy.
And when they’re happy, the house is happy.
I keep waiting for the day he pulls a little black box out of his sock drawer. I know he has one, because Dad is not as sneaky as he thinks—plus, Layla’s fingers are bare.
If he doesn’t hurry up, I might propose to her for him.
Jeez!
Another thing I should mention? I’ve been campaigning for a dog.
A big honkin’ one. One with floppy ears and a drool problem.
Dad says “maybe next year,” but I caught him scrolling rescue websites, so don’t let him fool you.
Layla pretends she’s neutral, but she already bought a book called Dogs for Beginners, which is basically admitting defeat.
So, yeah—no proposal yet.
No puppy yet.
But I can feel both coming, like thunder when the sky’s still blue. And if I have to keep making faces at their almost-kisses in the meantime, well folks, that’s the price of progress!
Future? Wide open.
Dog: incoming.
Engagement: definitely incoming.
Until then—Dad and Layla are in love, and really, what more does a girl need?