Page 42 of Love in the Lab (Delaneys in Love #2)

This neighborhood has had the same mail carrier for fifteen years. “Frank knew before me?” I joke. “I’m hurt.”

That night, lying on the squeaky mattress in my dad’s guest bedroom—which used to be Tamara’s bedroom; he turned mine into a study—Molly shifts onto her side to talk to me. “Today made me realize that in our haste to get married, we skipped over a few important talks we should have had beforehand.”

I yawn. “Like what?”

“Children. Do you want to have children?”

“Considering how tired I am after playing with my nieces for just a few hours today, I vote no.”

“I’m serious.”

I consider it. “Honestly, I don’t think I have a preference. If it’s important to you, I’m open to it. But it’s not something I dream about or anything.”

Molly looks relieved. “I … don’t think I want children.

I know now that I can be more flexible in my life than I have been, but I’m still getting used to it.

Still getting used to sharing my life with you.

Parenting requires so much focus and attention to do it right.

I think it would take away from being the best scientist and partner I can be.

I know lots of people make it work, and that’s great for them.

It just doesn’t feel like a priority for me. ”

I run my thumb across her cheek. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah, Carrots. Whatever you want.”

She bites her bottom lip. “Thanks. I reserve the right to change my mind, though.”

“Always.” I pause. “Except about me. You’re never allowed to change your mind about me.” I tease.

“I would never even consider it.” She smiles and yawns.

“Any other big topics we need to tackle?”

She pats my shoulder. “Not tonight.”

I can’t sleep, so I make my way to the kitchen for a snack.

The house is dark and quiet except for a light shining through the sliding glass door to the back porch.

I know without looking that my dad’s out there.

It’s his spot for thinking, or just letting his mind wander, even when it’s the dead of winter and below freezing outside, like tonight.

It was hovering just above freezing all day, but now that the sun has set, it’s got to be in the low twenties out there. After more than ten years living in warmer climates, I can’t handle this kind of cold anymore. I bundle up in my coat and slide my sneakers on before joining my dad on the porch.

Even then I’m not prepared. “What the h—” I glance at my dad. “—eck kind of weather is this?”

Dad chuckles. “When you were a kid, you’d be outside in worse than this for hours, building snow forts and playing with the neighbors, challenging me to snowball fights.”

I sit on a chair next to him. “Yeah, yeah. That was before I moved south, and my blood thinned out, huh?”

“You said it.”

We sit quietly for a few minutes while I gather the courage to say what I need to say.

“Molly’s great,” Dad says, breaking the silence before I can.

“She is,” I agree. “She’s amazing.”

More awkward silence. I really need to learn to communicate with my parents better.

I take a breath. “Listen, Dad. I owe you an apology. Actually, I owe you about eighteen years’ worth of apologies.”

“What for?” He turns his head to study me.

I look down at my lap. “I’ve been mad at you for a long time—about Mom leaving, about the divorce. It felt safer, I guess, to lash out at you rather than face the grief I was feeling. I’m sorry I let that continue for so long.”

“I appreciate the apology, son. What I really want, what I’ve always wanted, is a relationship with you.”

I lift my head, staring out into the murky backyard. I blink back the tears threatening to form in my eyes. “That’s what I want, too. I’m not angry anymore, but I miss the relationship we could have had, you know? I miss all the memories we could have made together. We’ve lost so much time.”

“We still have time to make memories.” My dad lays his hand gruffly on my shoulder and squeezes.

My eyes still trained on the backyard, I watch as one snowflake floats gently down from the sky and lands on the frozen ground. Soon, the sky is sparkling with wafting snowflakes. I puff out a breath and watch it freeze in front of me.

I turn to look my dad square in the face. “Like right now.” I smile and jump up from the chair, racing down the steps of the back porch. I scoop a handful of snow from the ground, the new mixed with the old, and pack it into a ball.

Before I can spin and launch the snowball at my dad, something hits my shoulder and snow bursts around me. Laughing, I twist to find Dad with his arm raised, another snowball in hand. Before he can throw, I send mine flying toward him, and it explodes against his chest.

Dad shoots two more at me before I can even form my next snowball. “I guess I’m a little rusty,” I call.

“You should practice against Hannah,” he shouts back. “She is fierce.”

I laugh. “I believe it.”

We toss snowballs back and forth for another fifteen minutes before I concede. We’re both out of breath as we settle into our seats on the back porch. I’m warmer now, at least.

“Jonny, there’s one more thing I need you to do to make things right between us. I need you to apologize to Sharon and be more respectful of her going forward.” His voice is stern, a tone I recognize from childhood that means Dad won’t tolerate anything but compliance.

My eyes widen a little, but it’s a fair request.

“Think about Molly,” Dad says quietly. “How would you feel if I treated her the way you’ve been treating Sharon?”

My heart thrums in my ears just thinking about it. “I’d be furious,” I admit. “I’ll talk to Sharon tomorrow. I promise.”

“Thank you. Come on, let’s get inside before you catch your death.” He stands, holding out a hand. I take it, and he pulls me to my feet. Instead of stopping once I’m up, I throw my other arm around his back in a bear hug. He returns the embrace.

As my chin comes to rest on top of his shoulder, my nose stings. I know I need to forgive myself for causing a wedge between us for so long—Dad already has—but I also know I’ll never forget how many moments like this I’ve robbed us of.

Once we’re inside and unbundled, we say good night at the bottom of the stairs. I tiptoe back to the guest room and climb into bed, careful not to wake Molly. She stirs a little anyway, reaching her hand out for me, so I scoot closer and hold her in my arms.

“Babe, you’re so cold,” she murmurs sleepily. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I whisper. “Better than I’ve been in years.”