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“Slow...burn? That sounds painful. Is that because love hurts, like when your mother insists, after twenty-fiveyears of marriage, that if I give her kimchi just one more try, it won’t numb my tastebuds?”
I grin. “It’s not about pain, Dad. Slow burn is when the romance takes its time, builds up all this irresistible tension before anything happens. You know, like in a Colleen Hoover book.”
He furrows his brow, clearly trying to connect the dots. “So, like inThe Hunt for Red October? The way Tom Clancy makes the tension slowly burn from distrust to a tentative alliance between Captain Ramius and Captain Mancuso?”
I can’t help but laugh, shaking my head. “No, nothing like that. Not unless Ramius and Mancuso discovered their undying love for one another and it led to a hot, steamymano-a-manoshower scene.”
Dad deadpans, leveling me with a look. “First of all,manomeans hand, not man. And second, I backpacked El Camino for months. That is definitely not whatmano-a-manomeans,” he chuckles.
“In male-male romance, it is,” I counter, grinning.
He arches an eyebrow, unamused. “I’m not even going to ask how my sweet, innocent youngest daughter knows that.”
“Probably best that way,” I say. “Then, think more like Edward and Bella fromTwilight.”
He blinks, completely lost. “Who?”
I sigh, patting his arm. “You stick with Clancy. I’ll tackle the romance.”
I shove my hand into a bag of chips he’s miserably trying to hide in the corner of the couch. That’s when I notice his notepad.
One glance at it, and my stomach tightens. Angi’s name isscrawled across the page, along with a date, time, and location: midtown.
“Has she called?” I ask, the lightness of banter evaporating into thin air.
Dad exhales a heavy, frustrated breath, rubbing his temple as if he can massage away the tension. “No, but she tried withdrawing five hundred bucks from my account.” He points a stern finger at me, his eyes pleading despite the tough exterior. “Don’t tell your mother.”
My heart sinks, a familiar ache settling in my chest. It’s her pattern—Angi’s go-to move when life backs her into a corner. Once again, she’s drowning and has nowhere else to turn.
But Mom’s been firm, unwavering—no money until she comes home and checks into a program. Something, anything, to get her on the straight and narrow path to sobriety.
But knowing she’s still out there, struggling—it’s like a punch to the gut. The weight of it all presses down on me, but I nod, swallowing my worry, because what else can I do?
And no matter how much I try to keep it together, it tears at me little by little.
And for a former Marine, Dad is all soft teddy bear with a marshmallowy center—sweet, easily forgiving, and always the first to offer a second chance.
But by the way he’s about to rub all the skin off the back of his neck, even he’s at his wit’s end. Ghosted for months, only to be tapped for cash from the Bank of Dad? It’s wearing him down.
“Did you give it to her?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
He shrugs, his expression a mix of resignation and worry. “I cleared two hundred. Though if I had five I would’ve given itto her. The thought that she might be out there, who knows where, doing who knows what...” His voice trails off, the weight of it all pressing down on both of us.
I lean in, close enough that our shoulders touch, offering silent support. “I know.” I pull out my phone, showing him the screen. “I text her every night withI love you to the moon and back,” I say, adding, “Totally plagiarizing Sam McBratney for her.”
“You also pay her phone bill,” he adds, giving me that paternal look that makes me shrink a bit in my seat.
“I don’t want her without a phone. In case of an emergency.”
He boops my nose, a small, affectionate gesture that pulls a smile from me despite everything. “You’re mighty responsible for the youngest,” he says, then quickly shifts gears, trying to lift the mood. “And I hear you have a new job.”
“I was going to tell you, but if Mom knows, you know. And technically, I haven’t started yet.”
He drops the paper, mutes the TV, and turns fully toward me, his eyes bright. “I want details, and now that I’m retired, if you need a sidekick, count me in. I’ve got a trench coat and hat, and I’m a self-appointed expert in Clancy and all things espionage. I’m well-versed in the necessary three-letter agencies: FBI, CIA, MI6—and I can crack codes like it’s my day job.” He waves the crossword puzzle in front of me with a flourish.
I give him an appraising look, playing along. “Your credentials are pretty solid. But what about your rates?”
He leans back, that satisfied grin spreading across his face. “The usual family discount.”
