He’s staring at my dad, who looks like he’s about to shoot death-lasers from his eyes. Dax gives a little wave and a sly smile. “Yeah. See you later, Katydid.”
Oh, that nickname. It did me in, every time. He used to say it mockingly: Katy did’n do nothin’ bad. But then every time he’d coax me to doing something just a little bit dangerous, like sneaking out to meet him under the tree outside the house, he’d cock his head to the side, grin mischievously, and say, Katie did. What else can Katie do?
And now his green eyes lock with mine, and I can’t help the way it forces the air out of my lungs. I open the door and step outside, and I know something for sure.
I need to stay away from this man. Far away.
If I don’t, I’m going to fall harder than I did last time. And last time?
It was a disaster.
Chapter 4
The rain has pretty much stopped as I step out at the curb of the home I grew up in. Dax’s tow truck growls to life and grinds slowly away.
I force myself not to look after his truck as he drives off, try my best not to be aware of the churning ache in my chest and stomach as I experience the sense of loss when he’s gone.
Just a few minutes of seeing him, hearing his voice, and I’m back, as if I’ve stepped into a time machine. Back to being in his grip, needing and wanting him all over again, the way I swore I’d never let myself feel again.
I stand at the curb until there is nothing but the sound of the birds chattering in the tall trees surrounding our property. I walk up the long, puddled gravel driveway, bracing myself for the third degree to come. My father has disappeared from the front door, but that doesn’t mean the thought of Dax has disappeared from his head.
No, more than likely it’s blooming in his head, turning into all these crazy scenarios in which That Dax Harding has corrupted his only child.
The house hasn’t changed since Christmas, except now the Santa decoration on the roof is gone, the lawn is freshly mowed, my mother’s geraniums are popping up from the window boxes, and they’ve added a new red birdfeeder to the large oak at the side of the house.
I met Dax at the base of that oak a dozen nights for hungry, forbidden kisses, his hot fingers skirting my ribs, searching desperately underneath my t-shirt . . .
Shaking off that memory, I suck in a breath as I step onto the front porch. My father suddenly appears behind the screen door, popping it open and stepping outside. “Oh, Katie!” he says, as if he’s surprised to see me. He has a Robert Ludlum thriller in his hands and is using his finger to bookmark the place, but he wraps his other arm around me and gives me a kiss on the top of the head.
I study him as he pulls away. I only saw him for graduation three months ago, but he’s changed since then. He has a smart new haircut and he looks thinner. When I’d spoken to mom a few months ago, she’d said he’d gotten pretty serious into exercising on the treadmill. But despite the new, fitter look, his eyes look . . . tired. Sad. Defeated.
He pokes his head past me and searches down the hill, but Dax is long gone. “Was that a tow truck I saw?”
Real smooth, dad. “Yeah, my car broke down.”
“What? What’s wrong with your car?” He peers at me over his bifocals. “Why didn’t you call us?”
“I don’t know. But I can handle it. I called the auto club and they sent Dax out,” I explain breezily, but I can already see my father’s body responding in the way it always does whenever Dax Harding’s name is mentioned: eyes firing up, posture tensing, fists clenching. I add quickly, “Don’t worry, Dad. He just gave me a ride.”
He presses his lips together. “I told you . . .”
Yes, he’s told me lots of things. And for the most part, I’ve always listened.
He’s standing in front of the door so I can’t even escape past him into the house. I give him a friendly nudge. “Come on, Dad, it’s no big deal.” I look past him. “Where’s Mom?”
He steps aside, then grabs my bag from me. “In the kitchen. We were expecting you for dinner, so she made your favorite. Summer stew.”
I step into the foyer, inhaling the mouth-watering aroma of tomato sauce simmering with zucchini, and look around. My mother thinks decorating a house means filling every square inch of the walls with photographs, and since I’m their favorite subject, there are about two-dozen photos of me in this room, covering the flowered wallpaper. I walk past the leaded glass mirror and smile at the newest addition: a photo of the three of us from my college graduation.
Then I catch a reflection of something in the mirror and frown.
Boxes. Dozens of them, all packed up in the living room. All my father’s railroad memorabilia from down in the basement, packed and ready to go.
This is why I’m home after all.
My parents are splitting up.