Page 32

I don’t plan on going back to Lindon until mid-July when I promised Judy I’d be back to help at Fishtail. I always try picking up as many shifts as I can before the semester starts because I have to cut my hours back to make time for classes and homework. “I’ll be here. But you better be extra nice to me since you’re feeding me to the lions.”

Okay, calling Dad a lion gives him way more credit than he deserves. But whatever. “You’ll be fine” is all he says, making me roll my eyes.

“Whatever, Sergeant Butt Face.” The name he used to call me when we were kids makes him snort, cracking a grin on my face.

When we disconnect I mentally prepare myself for the next handful of hours. I’ll be miserable, but at least I’ll fulfill my annual duty of seeing my father. He sends me cards and birthday texts every year, and usually a present consisting of a gift card orcash at Christmas but doesn’t make much of an effort outside of that.

One day.

Six hours max.

That’s all I need to get through.

CHAPTER NINE

Olive

Six hours wasgoing by as slow as a sixty-second plank. Not that I ever do those. Obviously. I just hear they suck.

And being around my father sucks too.

It’s been two hours.

Two very, very long hours. It started off okay. He came out as soon as I pulled into the driveway and gave me a hug that felt almost fatherly. It was…strange. But it didn’t last.

Nope.

As soon as I walked inside holding the bottle of Coca-Cola that I bought at a gas station, it went downhill quickly. Mostly because Candi told me how bad soda was for me as if this was new news. The woman who barely looks my age is apparently unemployed after being fired from a club where she was a hostess. I don’t know how one gets fired from hosting, but it doesn’t seem like she’s too upset about it or that eager to find something else.

“…ten teaspoons of sugar! That’s an entire day’s daily intake of sugar inonedrink,” Candi drones on. I thought we’d moved on from this, but here I am, drinking my brown-dyed sugar liquid and nod like I’m supposed to care. “The least you could do is switch to Coke Zero if you’re going to continue living this way.”

This way.Internally, I snort. If being slightly addicted to Coca-Cola is the worst thing I do, I think I’m doing okay. It could be heroin. “At least I’m not drinking the original recipe that had residual cocaine in it from the leaves they used,” I offer with a smile on my face.

Candi blinks, trying to decipher my chipper tone. “Cocaine is a horrible drug. I used to have a friend who thought she could lose weight on it, but the exact opposite happened. Shegainedweight. At least twenty pounds.”

I look between her and Dad, wondering if he’ll step in. But who am I kidding? He won’t. “I hear heroin does wonders for weight loss. You should pass that along to her.”

“Olive,” Dad chides, as ifI’mthe one being unreasonable even though she’s the one who brought up her friends bad dieting habits.

“What? That’s what I’ve heard.”

Candi pats my father’s knee. “She’s right, Luke. It’s so sad to see how many people go to drugs.”

I roll my eyes and finish my drink.

“You know,” Candi says, turning to me. “I used to be a health coach.”Here we go.“And I could give you some pointers. Maybe help you lose some weight or learn how to eat right.”

I know how to eat right, I just choose not to get my daily intake of vegetables like I do my sugar. I don’t need anybody to give me a basic food list of things everybody knows theyshouldbe eating.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I tell her, knowing damn well I won’t take her up on it.

Dad clears his throat. “She’s helped me lose about fifteen pounds since we started seeing each other. It could really help you. I even go to the gym three times a week on top of that horrid cycling class she insisted I join her at.”

Standing, I force a smile before he tells me more about the exciting world of cycling. “I have to use the bathroom. Excuse me.”

On the way to the guest bathroom on the other side of the kitchen, I stop when I hear a door close outside. Peeking out thecurtain covering the door, my brows shoot up when I see who’s walking up the front path.

Unlocking the deadbolt, I open the door and gape at the Chris Hemsworth lookalike. “Seb called you,” I say, still shocked when Bodhi stops a few inches in front of me. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since that day at my mother’s house.