Page 137 of Puck Your Feelings

My father steps out, and for a moment, we just look at each other across twenty feet of parking lot pavement. He's wearing a suit—always a suit—and his expression is carefully neutral.

He walks toward us. Stops a respectful distance way.

"You played well tonight," he says.

His voice is colder than mid-game ice, but… A praise coming from him? It's progress.

"Thanks," I manage.

Awkward silence. Becker's still recording, phone half-lowered but camera still pointed vaguely in our direction.

My father's gaze flicks to Becker, then back to me.

"I'll see you at Thanksgiving," he says finally.

Another fact. Not a question. But also not a demand.

"Yeah," I say. "Thanksgiving."

He nods once, turns, walks back to his car. The SUV pulls away, taillights disappearing into traffic.

I stand there, processing, until Becker's hand finds mine.

"So," he says. "Your dad almost smiled."

"That wasn't a smile. That was gas."

"I'll take it." He squeezes my hand. "Now, about that spider situation—"

"We're stopping at the pet store. You're getting exposure therapy."

"Absolutely not. I refuse. I'll die first."

"You're not going to die from looking at a tarantula."

"That's what someone who's never faced a tarantula would say."

I turn to face him fully, this ridiculous man who sets off fire alarms and makes me laugh and somehow convinced me that letting someone in wouldn't destroy me.

"I wouldn't change a thing about you, you know?" I tell say.

Becker grins. “Not even my fire alarm habit?"

I roll my eyes. Swat his the chest. Then kiss him anyway.

THE END