Love: Not Until You, Part 8. Roni Loren

quick peck, then grabbed his bag. “Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

      “All right.” I went to grab my things but then realized I had no things. I’d basically gone out in my pajamas last night. No phone. No purse. Just my keys. Then the rest of that reality hit. “Shit.”

      “What’s wrong?” he asked, pulling the door open.

      “Remember how angry you got when I didn’t check the peephole?”

      “Yeah,” he said cautiously.

      “Well, that is going to look like a trip through the daisies compared to how livid my father is going to be when I get home.”

      He wagged a finger at me. “Ooh, someone’s getting grounded.”

      I swatted his arm and laughed. “Shut up.”

      He put his arm around my shoulders. “See, at least when I punish you, you get some fun out of it.”

      “I’ll add that into your pro column.”

      He gave me a squeeze. “Good, I need all the help I can get.”

      I leaned into him and sighed. Being there with his arm wrapped around me again was like finding my comfortable corner in the universe. Something inside me smoothed out when I was with him. He thought he was the one that needed help. But really, it was me who was in trouble.

      Because if I followed my head, I had a feeling I’d never find anyone who made me feel this way again. And I would always wonder what could’ve been if I walked away from him.

      But if I followed my heart, I was going to alienate the people who meant most to me in the world.

      Either way, someone’s heart was getting broken.

      ***

      Foster dropped me off with a promise to call me and to be back as soon as he could. I kept the good-bye brief and chaste, knowing that my parents were probably crowded up against the blinds in their house, spying on us.

      But when I opened my front door, I realized the truth was even worse. My father was sitting on my living room couch, drinking a cup of coffee and staring out my front window. He’d at least changed out of his pajamas from last night into a pair of jeans and a Rangers T-shirt, but otherwise didn’t look like he’d slept or shaved. He didn’t look my way.

      “Papá, what are you doing here?” I asked, too tired to even get angry that he had a key.

      “Are you okay, Marcela?” he asked, still staring out the window. “Did he hurt you?”

      I blew out a breath and dropped my keys onto the table by the door. “Of course not. Foster’s a friend and a good guy.”

      “A friend who you take off with wearing next to nothing. A friend who doesn’t bring you home until morning.” The quiet anger rumbled beneath his words.

      “Papá, I was dating Foster in Dallas. We were in a relationship. Maybe still are.”

      He turned to look at me then, lines of strain around his eyes. In that moment, I felt bad that he carried that stress, that he felt the need to watch over me so closely. I saw the age there, the wear of years gone by while I’d been away. “Is he why you were delayed moving back home?”

      I shifted on my feet, my gaze flitting away. “Yes.”

      “And what are you going to do now, Marcela? Did he come here to try to bring you back?”

      I hugged my elbows, folding in on myself, the fear of admitting the truth to my father making a shiver go through me. But what else could I do? I’d lived my whole life trying to land on the right squares of hopscotch so I wouldn’t get ejected from the game, wouldn’t disappoint my family. But if winning that game meant never taking a risk, never following my heart, then I guess I was finally prepared to lose. “I think I love him, Papá.”

      A black cloud seemed to eclipse his expression, chilling the temperature in the room. He stood. “Go change clothes. We’re going for a ride.”

      I straightened. “What?”

      “If you still have any respect for me, you will do as I ask and come with me.”

      I clenched my teeth together, wanting to tell him that I was tired and wasn’t in the mood to go anywhere, but a lifetime of good behavior was too deeply ingrained. I couldn’t disrespect my father. “I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

      ***

      An hour later we were pulling up to a spot I hadn’t been to in years, with a sack full of breakfast tacos and tall cups of coffee. The view through the windshield made nostalgia wash through me, dragging me backward in time. I glanced at my dad, waiting for an explanation. He hadn’t said much of anything the entire drive out here.

      He nodded at the grease-stained paper bag. “Get our breakfast. Let’s see if our spot is still there.”

      I grabbed the bag and got out of the car, my tennis shoes hitting the packed dirt of the makeshift parking lot. In front of me stretched a line of trees that marked the entrance to the nature park. A Don’t Feed the Animals sign sat askew on a wooden post. I could still see myself at eight, carrying my backpack on my shoulder and walking past that sign, ponytail swinging. Back then, my dad had tirelessly fed me information and answered my endless questions while we traipsed along the trail. What kind of bird is that? How do raccoons always manage to break into the Dumpsters? Where do the squirrels hide all those acorns? Why do armadillos look like that?

      This had been our no-one-else-allowed place. No Mom, no Luz, and no Andre. Not that any of them would’ve wanted to come anyway. Neither of my brothers nor my sister had ever shown a real interest in animals or my father’s job like I had. And Mom was about as outdoorsy as a houseplant. So this place had been sacred to me back when I thought my father was the best man in the world and time spent with him was a special privilege.

      Sadness settled over me as I followed my dad down the path, passing the old sign. The place hadn’t changed. The trees had gotten bigger and the underbrush more tangled. But the scent of wildflowers and morning dew still hung in the air. The hum of life buzzed around us, as if the bees and dragonflies were excited that we’d finally returned. It was all so familiar. Comforting. But as I looked ahead at the back of my father, his gray hairs now more prominent than the inky black of all those years ago, his proud gait a little hunched, a sense of loss filled me. Everything has stayed the same except us.

      Life had tarnished that dappled sunlit photograph of a doting father and the daughter that worshipped him. The long afternoons of discussing the wonders of nature and the animal world had shifted into butting heads and growing distant. I didn’t even know who those two people were anymore.

      Papá stopped at the small clearing where two picnic tables had sat for as long as I could remember. He set down our coffees and bent over to check beneath the tables. A smile touched my lips. I didn’t have to ask what he was doing. Ever since the day I had a very unfortunate encounter with a pissed off yellow jacket, my dad had always checked for nests before we sat down.

      He stood and patted the top of the table. “All clear, mija.”

      “Thanks.” I set the bag down in the center of the table and climbed onto the bench. “You want the brisket or the chorizo?”

      “Give me one of each. I haven’t had them in a long time. Your mamá has me drinking smoothies in the morning. Green ones.”

      I cocked an eyebrow at him, having a hard time imagining him drinking such a thing. “Do they have bacon in them?”

      He laughed. “I wish. She puts kale. Have you ever heard of such a thing?”

      “I think I’d rather eat a salad.” I unwrapped two tacos for each of us, spreading the paper out on the table.

      We ate for a few minutes, the chirping birds providing the soundtrack, and I began to wonder if we were going to share the whole meal in silence. But as soon