“Dad!” Mere jumps out of her chair. “Clementine ordered dinner. She wanted to say thanks to you for yesterday and this morning.”
Keith pins me with those ocean-green eyes. His rigid muscles and pinched lips telling me he’s thinking about our encounter in the kitchen.
I clear my throat before clarifying, “For the lift to work.”
I notice the tightness in his shoulders easing just a tiny bit. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Yes, but the food is already here,” Mere mumbles and suddenly this doesn’t look like the best idea.
I feel like I’m superimposing myself on him.
“I can take my food upstairs.” I stand, grabbing a cardboard box from the table.
“No, stay,” he mutters. The way his lips flatten should be a mood-killer, but my stupid, crazy brain finds his grumpiness cute. “Give me five minutes and we can start.”
Like yesterday, no one blinks an eye as the father-daughter duo puts plastic forks into the take-out containers. I follow suit. If my mom could see me eating like this, she’d have a heart attack. I snicker at the thought.
“Why are you smiling?” Mere asks with a grin on her face.
“I was thinking of what my mother would say if she found me eating like this, out of a cardboard box.”
“You can use the dishes.” Keith points to the silverware behind the glass cupboard. The frown that crawls up his face makes him look too handsome, but also tells me he has taken my comment as an offense.
“No. I like it this way,” I respond in haste.
“Yeah, and it’s comfortable! We don’t have to wash the dishes and everything.” Mere waves her hand toward the sink.
“Yes, otherwise Mere here”—Keith points his fork at his daughter—“is buried under all the cleaning and washing.” It takes me a second to realize he just made a joke.
“Oh! Poor Daddy. He has to do everything alone.” Mere pinches Keith’s cheeks.
The shocked smile that appears on his face indicates to me that this touch of affection is a rarity in the Adams’ house. Warmth infuses inside me, running through my veins. This dinner scene is so different than the one in Hawthorne Mansion, where I have to dress up every night and a take-out box can never reach the dining table.
But this feels so natural, so real. The perfect way a family should have dinner.
9
KEITH
“How is Vanshionista?” Mere asks Clementine, who is eating in my kitchen, shattering my plan of keeping a healthy distance from her.
“It’s good, though a little stressful. Vanessa is…”
I tune her out as she chatters about her first day at work. Instead, I bring my focus to my daughter, totally immersed in Clementine’s stories.
All other days, Mere prefers eating in a stony silence. Lately she has even started taking her dinner to her bedroom by the ruse of homework. But today, her excitement is over-the-top palpable. I’m conflicted at this shift in her behavior. I’d wanted Mere to open up but…I’d hoped it’d be with me.
“My project is selected among the top five. If it wins, I’ll take part in a state-level competition.” Mere’s fingers play with the silver chain around her neck, as she bashfully answers Clementine’s question about what’s new at school.
I try to mask my surprise and irritation at the fact my new tenant is the first one to know about this. “That’s great, kid. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I did, Dad. Don’t you remember? You signed the permission slip, allowing me out-of-town travel if I’m selected,” she says in a low voice, not outright calling me out. But there is no missing the touch of disappointment on her face.
Fuck! I remember the morning when she asked me to sign the paper. I’d zoned out and lost a major part of her conversation. Raking a hand down my face, I look away from her as regret churns my insides.
“Yeah. I…remember.” I clear my throat. “It just slipped my mind.”
There’s a silent moment until it’s broken by Clementine. “What kind of project is this?”