Alis did this.
I know it. I feel it down to my toes. Something about this sweet gesture has my gut twisting painfully. It’s such a simple thing he’s done, but it means everything to me.
I’m dying to stalk him down in this house, pin him to the nearest wall, and kiss the hell out of him for it. But I need a shower, and my breath is probably offensive as fuck. After a quick shower in a bathroom much nicer than my old one, I dress in a pair of black boxers before pulling on my navy Adidas wind pants. Since I’m still hot from my shower, I forgo a shirt as I brush my teeth. I comb through my hair, mess it up some, and decide all this primping can be done later.
I need to see him.
Now.
Strolling out of the room, I head downstairs when I hear voices and laughter. My heart pinches painfully at the light sounds. Everything has been so heavy back home. I forgot what it felt like for people to be happy in their own home.
Dad is perched at the bar in the kitchen with a cup of coffee and a bowl of granola and yogurt, scrolling through his iPad. Quinn is rinsing a bowl, his eyes glued to the small television under the cabinet as the newscaster analyzes stocks or some shit. Absently, they’re discussing their plans for the day that include swinging by the jeweler to have their wedding rings fitted. They don’t notice me yet, but I’m stunned by the domestic ease.
I clear my throat to make my presence known. “What’s for breakfast?”
Quinn whirls around, grinning at me. For not being Alis’s real father, they have similarities that can only be learned from spending time with someone. The easy grin that lights up his face. A probing intensity in his eyes as if he’s searching my expression for my mood. Both Quinn and Alis are on the smaller side, but where Alis wears more muscle on his athletic frame, Quinn is slender and almost elegant.
“Want some yogurt and granola?” Quinn asks. “We just picked up some more of your dad’s favorite granola at the organic market.”
Dad has a favorite granola?
I can’t refrain from rolling my eyes.
“Pass,” I grunt, unable to keep the bite out of my tone. “Got any donuts or Pop-Tarts?”
Quinn’s smile falters at my rudeness, and Dad stiffens at the bar. I dart my eyes back and forth between them, wondering what the hell is wrong with my question.
“Processed sugars are…” Quinn trails off, biting on his bottom lip as he frowns. I swear to fuck, Alis makes the same damn face.
“The devil,” Dad finishes, chuckling. “How do you think I’ve gotten so fit?” He curls his bicep, and it pops up. “Quinn is a hardass when it comes to our diet and what he allows in his house.”
“But,” Quinn rushes out, holding up both hands in a placating gesture, “we can get you what you like. Alis can’t live without his Coke, so it’s not like sugar is forbidden in the house, just frowned upon. It’s your father and me who don’t need to be consuming it because we’re getting old. Write whatever you want on the list we keep on the fridge, and I’ll make sure we get it.”
Dad playfully coughs out the word, “Softie.”
Quinn shoots him a stern look before smiling at me. “I could scramble you some eggs or something.”
“Yogurt’s fine,” I grumble. “Bowls?”
After I’ve made myself the world’s most boring breakfast and choked it down, I stare absently at the fridge where there’s a picture of Alis when he was a kid, maybe ten or eleven. Quinn is smiling, but Alis stares without expression. Something about the picture makes me sad.
“You okay?” Dad asks, squeezing my shoulder. “It’s okay to say you’re not. I can see it in your eyes. I’m here to talk about it if—”
I shake off his hold and shoot him an icy glare. “I do not want to talk about it.”
Defeat shines in his blue eyes, and he nods. “Right. Well, you know where to find me if you do. Quinn and I are heading out. Maybe the four of us can go out for sushi later if you’re hungry and up for it.”
“Maybe,” I grunt, though sushi sounds a hell of a lot better than granola yogurt shit.
I slip out of the kitchen, escaping the silent conversation they seem to be having with one another about me. I’ll save them the trouble. They can talk about me all they want when I’m out of their sight.
Anger churns in my chest as I damn near stomp up the steps on my hunt for Alis. Once again, he’s not in his room or mine. I eventually find him in his studio. Like before, he’s engrossed in his sculpture. His white-blond hair is messy and looks as though he spent hours running his fingers through it. He wears a yellow T-shirt that’s too small and too short, stained with paint and littered with holes. I will never understand this guy’s sense of style.