Page 11 of Making It Up

“I was fine,” I tell him, instead of telling him I write fanfiction about a series of romance novels by one of my favorite authors.

Her books are steamy and fun, but there’s a group of us that want more from the stories beyond the happily ever afters she writes. So we have a fanfic forum.

There are a few people who write murder mysteries in her small town that the cop and firefighter she created solve with their friends. A few that have introduced paranormal characters. That started out as an off-shoot of the books one of the characters in the series writes, but it’s expanded beyond that. For instance, there’s a wizard in town no one knows is a wizard and none of us are sure if he’s a good guy or a bad guy yet. I love reading those.

And then there’s the group of us who write the very, very steamy side of town.

Yes, there’s a secret, invitation-only sex club in this little town and there are all kinds of fun things happening there.

That’s where I spend most of my time.

“I could have easily spent the night out there,” I tell David, stubbornly keeping my imagination from thinking that I need to add a Game and Parks officer as a visitor to the club.

I see the muscle in his jaw tick.

“How?” David demands. “No food? No water? A tornado could have tossed you and your car. Hail could have shattered your windshield. Lightning could have hit you?—”

“Isn’t being inside a car when lightning strikes really safe?” I stupidly interrupt. But I can’t not comment, because I’m right. “The electricity is directed through the metal and into the ground, around whoever is inside. One instruction people are given during thunderstorms and in the presence of lightning is to get in a car.” I pause. “We do storm preparedness training at the library in the summer and winter. Tornado season is wild but winter around here can be really dangerous too.”

As if he doesn’t know. I realize I’m poking the bear.

Why? I’m not really the type to do that.

But god he’s hot when he’s protective and upset about the idea of me being in danger.

He takes a step toward me and I suck in a quick breath.

“What about when you got out of the car?” he asks.

“Why would I get out of the car if it’s raining and there’s hail?”

“You don’t think you’re going to need to pee all night? “

“I…” Okay, he has a point. Dammit.

Satisfied that he shut me up, he goes on. “There are also wild animals. Poison ivy and oak. No one even knew you were out there. Tell me how you were fine.”

I’m familiar with what David is doing thanks to another man I know who wears a badge. My dad does the worst-case scenario thing constantly too. I think it comes with these jobs. Or maybe these jobs draw people like this. People who instantly think of all of the horrible things that could happen and then make it their responsibility to keep it all from happening no matter that they’re dealing with full-assed humans with free will. Or Mother Nature.

“Look, it was a flat tire. Shitty things like that happen. Worst-case scenario—” Yes, I’ve learned to point out the real worst-case scenario to my father, so his imagination doesn’t get ahead of things, especially when it comes to my sister, my brother, and me.

Okay, mostly me.

My dad absolutely sees me as needier and more fragile than my siblings.

He knows it. He knows I know it. He tries not to. But even talking to a family therapist, talking to my mom, talking to me, about it hasn’t gotten him fully over that I wasn’t his to take care of for the first ten years of my life and that he didn’t get to be my protector until I was in foster care and he and my mom could adopt me.

“I would have spent the night in my car safe from wild animals, hail, and lightning. Then I would have walked the four miles to Bob’s house in the morning when I had light,” I tell David.

He looks at me with an unreadable expression. “You mean if the tornado didn’t get you.”

I don’t roll my eyes, but I want to. “Yes. If the tornado didn’t get me.”

“Speaking of that tornado, we should go down to the basement.” He turns and starts across the kitchen again.

I sigh.

Scott Hansen never says, “You’re right, I overreacted” either.