Cowboy Baby Daddy

But, when I turned around to greet him, no one was there.

“Oh, Daddy,” I said in a whisper.

A tear dripped onto my cheek before I drew in a shaky breath. I threw the door to his office open, watching the dust slowly drift around in my vision, and the first thing I saw was the floor-to-ceiling shelves of books that he would never touch again.

I got my love of reading from him. I had a goal when I was younger to read every single book he had on his shelves by the time I graduated with my bachelor’s degree. I’d come home every single weekend and devour the books in his office, but I was only halfway through them by the time I finished my two-year degree.

I walked over to his desk, trembling with emotion while the tears slid down my cheeks, and my fingertips reached out to grace the edge of his desk. The deep, thick mahogany wood was smooth underneath my touch, releasing smells into the air it had absorbed over the years. That was the thing about walls and furniture — they seemed to sense when there was a loss.

I was convinced houses had muscle memory. They could soak up secrets and memories and smells, then release them whenever someone was absent. The walls would open their microscopic crevices and release the scents and sounds they were holding onto, and the furniture would blow small puffs of memories into the air. It would fill rooms with the sensory reminiscence of the things it missed most, and I convinced myself that this was why houses always smelled like the people who inhabited them.

I closed my eyes and drew in a deep breath, soaking in the smells the desks and books had for me while the memories they whispered blanketed my conscious mind.

I was so wrapped up in my memories and looking at all of my father’s trophies and awards that I didn’t even hear someone walk in.

“Hey there, Stella.”

I startled and opened my eyes to see Greyson leaning up against the doorway of my father’s office. He wore a smirk while his hands were jammed into his pockets, and the look in his eye told me he wasn’t here to

give his condolences.

I wasn’t in the mood for his sly tricks and bullshit accusations. Not today.

Not during this moment in my life.

“Hey, Greyson,” I said.

“How are you?” he asked.

“Could be better,” I said, sighing.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“My dad died,” I said, flatly.

“Ah, that. Well, why don’t I take you to dinner? Cheer you up a bit?” he asked.

“No, thanks. I don’t really feel like going anywhere,” I said.

“It’ll get you out. I’m sure you’ve been drowning yourself in tears in your childhood bed or something,” he said.

“Not really. Just walked in about an hour ago,” I said as I walked over to my father’s trophy case.

“He was a very intelligent man,” Greyson said.

“I know.”

“You take after him,” he said.

“I know that, too,” I said.

“Then, let me tell you something you don’t know,” he said. “If you come to dinner with me, it will take your mind off things. I have many stories to fill you in on, and I’m sure you have plenty of stories yourself.”

“You know I can’t talk about the cases I see at work,” I said.

“Oh, come on. You’re just a paramedic. I know a few paramedics. They talk about what they see all the time.”

“Well, they’re not supposed to,” I said.