“You want me to meet your dad?”
“No, not particularly.”
His knuckles turn white against the steering wheel. I rest my hand on his thigh and give it a gentle squeeze, something to let him know I understand and I’m here.
“But I’m not going to keep that part of my life from you anymore.”
“Thank you.”
He smiles, but it’s tight. “Three things before we get there. Don’t mention my mother, and don’t talk about alcohol. Those are the two things that could tip him over the edge. Lastly, don’t get too comfortable, because we won’t be staying long. I’m going to fix the leaky sink, and then we’re out of there.”
“I don’t have to go with you. If this makes you uncomfortable, or it’s something you’re just not ready for, say the word.”
“That’s not it. You’ll end up meeting him one day or another.”
If hearts could sigh, mine just did, because what he just said means what he sees for us is long term.
A few minutes later, we pull in front of a small house.
“Is this where you grew up?”
“No,” Lincoln says, sliding from his truck. He comes around to hold my door open and helps me out before hitting the lock button on his key fob. “He lost that house a few years ago. I bought him this place because he didn’t have anywhere to go, and no way in hell was he moving in with me.”
“It’s cute,” I say, following him up the walk. The landscaping is minimal but looks nice—a few bushes and some colorful flowers.
As soon as we hit the front porch, Lincoln’s demeanor shifts. His shoulders stiffen, his back goes rigid, and he takes a deep breath as though it’ll give him the courage he needs to knock.
“It’s a shithole,” he mumbles, walking in rather than waiting for someone to answer the door.
The first thing I notice are the boxes scattered across the room. Pictures are everywhere, as though someone has been trying to categorize them. And then I see the older man sitting on the edge of the couch. His nose is in a photo album, but when he shuts it and looks up, I nearly fall on my ass.
Lincoln looks so much like his father—minus the weathered skin, wrinkles, and spare tire around the midsection. His father’s eyes are a lighter shade of brown, more like whiskey, and they’re watching me closely.
“Who’s this?” he asks.
Lincoln steps to the side and grabs my hand. “This is my girlfriend, Adley. Adley, this is my dad, Christopher Bennett.”
“Chris,” his dad corrects. “You can call me Chris.”
Chris’ eyes shift between me and Lincoln. Setting the photo album off to the side, he leans into the arm rest of the couch. “I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.”
“There’s a lot about me you don’t know.” Lincoln’s voice is clipped, and when he turns away, Chris’ face falls.
He quickly hides the look of disappointment when I hold my hand out.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you. Lincoln has told me so much about you.”
He stares at my hand before giving it a quick shake. “He has?”
“I have?” Lincoln says from the other room.
“Okay, no, not really. But isn’t that what most people say?”
I can’t see Lincoln, but I hear him snort, and Chris smiles.
“So, you like my son, huh?”
LINCOLN