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I'm halfway to him before Everett reaches the van and offers his hand to my father while the therapist gets out his walker from the back.

"Mr. Taylor," Everett says. "It's good to finally meet you."

My father looks at him, then takes the hand.

The handshake is brief but firm.

"Everett Kauffman... I've heard a lot about you."

I hold my breath and wish I hadn't told my father all the things that I had about Everett. Especially the bad ones.

Everett sends a knowing smirk in my direction. I'm sure he can guess how much I've vented to my father.

"I'm sure her interpretation was accurate, sir. But I can promise you that I have every intention of taking good care of her now."

"And I'm sure you’ll do right by her? She’s special, you know."

"I know she is. And I will sir."

My father looks at Everett the way he used to look at boys who showed up to take me to prom—like he's running a background check with his eyes and the results aren't in yet.

"Aria tells me you own a hockey team," he says.

"The Hawkeyes, yes sir."

"I used to play hockey back in middle school. I played defense and liked checking kids into the boards. I never did play a whole game. I spent too much time in the sin bin," He says with a teasing smile. "Though I doubt I’ll be able to play again."

Everett doesn't flinch. Doesn't laugh politely. Doesn't do any of the things people usually do when my father references his condition.

He just nods. "Nonsense. We should get out there and maybe you can teach our guys a thing or two. Got any tips on hooking without getting caught by the refs?"

My father pulls back to look at Everett a little closer, as if not expecting that from a man in a tailored suit.

"I like him," my father looks over at me as the physical therapist comes around with his walker. "He's funnier than you said."

"I never said he was funny."

"Exactly." He pats Everett's arm. "She complained about you nonstop. That's how I knew."

Everett's brow lifts in my direction. "Knew what?"

"That you were important. It’s always the one you never expect."

I am going to die right here on this driveway.

"Dad—"

Everett's eyes find mine for just a moment and then he glances away.

"A bruise fades," my father says, already moving past me toward the front door with the confidence of a man who has decided this is his house now. "A splinter keeps reminding you it's there."

Everett looks at me and then back at my father.

"Splinter?" Everett asks.

"Don't ask," I tell him.

"You compared me to a splinter?"