“Nope, it’s girl time. No boys allowed.”
There’s a brief pause before Dad talks again. “I just want to check in on my girl.”
“I’m fine, Dad.” I beat Willow to the punch this time. Jesus, this is like a dizzying ride on the merry-go-round.
“Are you sure?” He hesitates for a second. “I didn’t know he’d stop by after he was done working.”
“Great,” I grumble. I knew he worked for various farmers and had his own welding company. “Of course, he’d be working for my dad. The shit storm that just won’t quit shitting.”
Willow turns to me in a panic, clueless where to go with this.
“I’m just going to finish up chatting with Willow then head to bed. It’s been a long day and I’m beat.”
“Okay, but, uh…” he trails off.
“Yes, I know you’re here for me, and seriously Dad, I’m fine.”
“Okay, love you, Annie.”
“Love you too, Dad.”
I wait until I hear the sound of his boots trailing off.
“I’m so screwed.”
Willow takes her place back on the floor across from me. “I’m pretty much clueless about part of that conversation, but what I do know is that you’ve got to tell your dad sooner than later. You heard the guy, he’s worried about you.”
I pick at the string dangling from my top. “I will, and that was Weston that walked in.”
“Oh.” Her eyes grow wide. “As in Weston Crusos, the boy you fake married out in the pasture every summer until you were in middle school.”
“The one and only,” I reply.
“As in your first kiss, prom date, and the boy your dad busted you with in the barn.”
“Stop!” I toss a dry washcloth at her. “You know exactly who he is.”
“Great plot twist.” She strums her fingers against each other.
And with that, we both erupt into a fit of much-needed laughter. Willow gives me one final hug before standing up.
“Take a shower and I’ll cover for you. You need some rest.”
I nod.
“I love you, girl.”
“Love you more.”
Willow was right once again. A hot shower was just what I needed. When I make my way into my room, I spot an old journal and a fortune cookie on my bed. The journal brings back so many memories. Willow bought it for me on my eighth birthday. All the letters she wrote me are pasted on the worn, loved pages along with some serious cheesy middle school thoughts and dreams.
Voices out in the hallway catch my attention. It’s my dad and Willow, exchanging a heated and hushed conversation.
“She’s my daughter.”
“I know, Cree, but right now she needs space and you’ll give that to her.”
“It’s my job to protect her. Dammit, Willow.”