Page 54 of Mountain Daddy

This creaky house alerts us to Luther’s arrival, and we both look that way.

Luther stops at the edge of the living room, narrowing his eyes at us. “Were you talking about me?”

Dad says no at the same time I say yes.

“Okay.” Luther drags out the word before turning his attention to me. “Kendra, it was nice to meet you.”

“You too.” I roll my lips together.

“Thank you for breakfast. It was delicious.”

“Anytime,” I say before I can think about what I’m implying.

He gives me the smallest smirk before nodding to my dad. “Joe.” Then… he’s leaving.

I want to stop him.

Want to ask him if he’d like to sit on the couch with me. Stay a while.

But obviously I can’t do that.

So I watch him walk away.

And I watch him pause. Watch him look back over his shoulder at me, one last time, before he disappears out the door.

I stay sitting, not wanting to run down the hall the moment Luther leaves. But that look he gave me… I have a feeling…

And I only have to wait long enough for Dad to put his melted ice packs in the freezer before he tells me he’s going to take a shower.

As soon as he disappears, I climb off the couch.

I’ve had all afternoon to sit here and think about my dad’s best friend. To wonder what will happen next. Wonder what I’ll have to do to see him again.

I mean, I know he’ll come back over.

I didn’t know Luther was really Rocky when I slept with him. But now that I know, I know Rocky’s the guy my dad is always talking about.

I’m pretty sure they go fishing every month.

Pretty sure they see each other most weekends for some meal or another.

So I know I’ll see Luther again, probably soon. I just don’t know how to get him alone.

As my feet lead me down the hall, I wonder, for the hundredth time, if I’m a terrible daughter.

Because I feel like a good daughter would let the guilt win.

A good daughter would bury the one-night stand deep down inside, pretend it never happened, and make sure it never happened again.

But as I step into my bathroom, as I see the matchbook sitting on the counter, I accept I’m not a good daughter.

I pick up the matchbook, rubbing my thumb over the simple Rocky Ridge Inn logo before turning it over.

No, I’m not a good daughter at all. Because Luther wrote his number on the back of the matches, and instead of lighting the whole thing on fire, I take out my phone and save the digits.

“See you in the morning,”Dad yawns as he rises from the couch.

“Not too early.”