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August 25th
Angie
“Hey, bunny,” my dad grins, bringing me into a familiar hug and wrapping me in his scent. His scratchy, short salt and pepper beard tickles my face as he plants a kiss on my cheek. “So good to see you.”
“Good to see you too, Dad.” Once again surprising me, he’s quite put together wearing nice jeans and a dark blue T-shirt that actually fits and doesn’t have holes in it. Who is this man? If my dad isn’t at his office job working in a sad polo, he’s home or working a side job wearing clothes that most people would deem rags. Even his short hair is trimmed up and styled. “You look great.”
“Not as great as you, honey. And Raf, how are you, son?” he asks affectionately, the way he always has to my friend.
“I’m good,” he says as we step inside my childhood home. It’s a small two-story house that would suit an average size family of four just fine. But somehow the giant Johanssen family squeezed in here all these years. My dad and brothers are all over six feet tall and so is Ivy. I’m the shrimp of the family and I’m still above average height for a woman. Dad’s tall Swedish genes did not miss our family, that’s for certain.
“Bunny, can I get you an iced tea? Raf, a beer?”
My eyebrows raise at that. “You have iced tea?” This man never has anything other than water and the occasional warm Mountain Dew hidden away in his workshop.
“Yeah,” he nods, making his way back to the kitchen from where we’re standing in the living room.
“Okay, I’ll take a tea,” I say.
“I’m not drinking,” Raf says. “I’ll have an iced tea too.”
When Dad disappears into the kitchen, I turn to Rafael. “You’re not drinking?”
“No. I haven’t had anything to drink since you found out you’re pregnant.”
“You haven’t? But there’s been so many socials since then.”
He simply shrugs. “I’m doing it for solidarity.”
Well, that’s freaking sweet of him. “I had no idea. Thank you, that’s—really nice actually.”
“Actually? Am I a douchebag normally?” he chuckles.
“You know what I mean. Thank you.”
“How’s the season, Raf?” Dad asks, walking into the living room with our drinks, the hardwood floor creaking with every step.
“Good,” he smiles and we all take a seat on the oversized leather sectional. “We just had our first official fall match yesterday morning against Pittsburgh. Smoked ‘em.”
“Good for you. And how about you, Ang? How’s work going?”
“It’s great. I just wish I could stay awake all day. I feel bad for zoning out on the kids sometimes,” I admit with a grimace.
“Can I?” Dad asks softly, hovering his hand over my baby bump and looking a little sheepish.
“Knock yourself out. They’re not kicking right now, but you never know.”
He quickly sets his beer bottle down on the coffee table and places both hands on me. “Can I…talk to them?”
Shut the fuck up, this man is going to make me cry.
“Yeah,” I swallow thickly.
“Hey, little ones,” he coos, bringing his mouth only a couple inches from my stomach. “It’s your grandpa. Are you giving Mama a hard time?”
That makes me giggle. “Yes, they are. The heartburn is starting to kick in, and last week I thought it would be a good idea to make enough homemade pasta to last through the next presidential term.”
“And then she fell asleep halfway through making her last batch,” Rafael adds with a smirk. “Found her on the couch covered in flour with Goodbye Earl blasting through the speaker.”
