Page 63 of Home Ice

“What are you doing?”

“Cooking dinner.”

My gut tightens as I move closer. “Do you need help?”

“Nope.” He picks up a cutting board covered in roughly chopped onions and pours them into the pan. The sizzle as they hit the heat and let out an amazing smell—but it doesn’t help me relax.

“I could stir for you?”

“You can sit over there and watch. I’ll let you know if I need you to jump in.”

He’s asking the impossible, but I do what I can. The whole time I’m watching him, it’s like this burrowing urge to get up and help. I don’t feel right staying still, especially when I know that I can do things faster than he can, but I force myself to stay put.

I can’t remember the last time Dad cooked a meal. He’ll make sandwiches or force me to down a bowl of cereal before work, but after the time he burned his arm badly while I was out, he sticks to the microwave and anything he can eat directly from the fridge or pantry.

The question of why is growing heavy between us, and I’m too chickenshit to bring it up.

So he does.

The smile he throws me over his shoulder tells me he can read exactly what’s on my mind. “No one’s getting hurt with tacos,” he says.

“You sure about that?”

“Reasonably. But I can’t test that theory unless I put it into action.”

I bite back my response about not needing to test it at all.

“I’m fine, Tai.”

“I know.” I don’t know.

He laughs. “Tell that to your face.”

“Can you blame me for being worried?”

“Of course not. You’ve had to deal with a lot.” He turns down the heat, meat simmering, and shuffles around to face me. “Maybe I’ve relied on you for too much.”

“You’ve relied on me exactly enough.”

He sets his hands on the counter and studies me. “You’re the best kind of stubborn. What did I do to deserve you?” Most of the time, I’m not even conscious of his slow words, I’m so used to them by now. But tonight, it’s more exaggerated than usual, and I can’t help wondering what he’s been pushing himself to do while I’ve been out.

“You are solely responsible for turning me into this person, so you only have yourself to blame.”

His eyes twinkle across at me. “Then you know how capable I am.”

“Yes, but …” My gaze strays across the oven. “Things have changed. And I’m glad you want to do this, but I’d prefer that you wait until I’m home before you take any big steps.”

“Big steps? It’s dinner.”

I point to the scar on his dominant arm. “Do we want a repeat of that?”

“It was five years ago. I’ve been doing really good, and I can manage to cook up a bit of ground beef.”

His voice is bordering on impatient, and I don’t want us to end up in a fight. The thing is, this is good. Dad being motivated to make changes in his life is supposed to be something that makes me feel hopeful, but I’m scared to death. I don’t want to feel this way. I don’t want the anxiety to eat at me or to feel three steps away from screaming into my pillow, and what I really want is to be encouraging and supportive.

Instead, this change, this house, my life are suffocating. I need to get out, go for a walk or something, but I can’t leave while the oven is on.

“Belli said you’re going to work at the cafe.”