Page 19 of My Big Fat Daddy Issues

He says my name like he’s been keeping it somewhere safe during the year since we last saw one another.

“Yeah,” I say. My voice comes out thin. “Thanks for coming.”

The silence stretches between us, engulfing us. The wipers drag across the windshield, slapping back and forth, back and forth, and I count the seconds between each pass, trying to calm my pulse. I want to say something, but nothing comes to mind.

“What happened?” He finally breaks the silence, glancing my way before turning his eyes back to the dark road.

“Which part?” I reply. I mean for it to sound light, but it comes out snippy, bratty.

The corner of his mouth twitches. When he speaks, it’s a mixture of frustration and amusement. “Start with why you were sitting at a bus station at midnight with no coat.”

“I have one,” I say even though I don’t. “I… left school because it wasn’t working out. I called Mom, she said…” My throat tightens, choking out the rest of the sentence. I cough, my face hot. “She said she was on her way out of town and if I was old enough to decide to leave school, I was old enough to have a plan of where to go.”

He exhales slowly. The muscles in his forearm shift as he grips the wheel tighter. I watch the motion for too long and have to look away, hoping I can hide the flush creeping up my neck.

His gaze flicks to me, just once, and my heart stumbles. I can’t quite read the emotion in his tone when he says, “And you called me.”

“I didn’t think you’d come,” I admit softly.

“I always come,” he rolls his head in a semi-circle and I hear the bones in his neck snap. “That’s what a father does.”

Father.

Something hot sparks under my skin. I cross my legs, pretending to stretch as I try to give myself a little bit of friction. “You’re not my dad.”

The air changes. He looks at me, steadily in the glow of the dash.

“I’m the man who showed up,” he says, speaking each word slowly, low and firm. “You’ll live under my roof, you live by my rules.”

The words make something deep inside me tense and tremble. It shouldn’t sound like safety, not when I left because I didn’t want control. It shouldn’t imbue me with intense want. But it does.

“Live? Rules?” I echo, aiming for sarcasm, but like muscle memory, it comes out standoffish, childish.

“Yeah, live. It may not be blood, but we’re family. You need a place and I’m that place. You’ll have a curfew. Learn respect. You answer when you’re called,” he says, both soft and sharp at thesame time. There’s no room for me to argue. His knuckles brush the gearshift, and my stomach flips. “You eat what I tell you. You sleep when I tell you. You learn how to behave.”

“I don’t need to be… handled.” Lie.

“You do,” he murmurs, voice heavy as lead. Then he sighs like I’ve hurt him somehow with my obstinacy. “Or you wouldn’t be here.”

My chest burns. He’s right. I hate that he’s right.

The truck hums beneath us, and every vibration travels through the seat into my bones. I feel every movement of his thigh as he shifts, every flex of his arm when his hand tightens on the wheel. My body is a map that knows him even if my mind refuses to.

When I was sixteen, out of control and being a rude bitch to everyone, Jackson never wavered. He still remembered every birthday and congratulated me on every good grade. It was like he was the only person who wanted the best for me.

I still think of how I would lay in bed at night imagining him coming through the door like he did so many times when I was younger. I wanted his comfort so badly.

“You need a drink of water before bed?”

“You want the nightlight on?”

“You need anything?”

By the time puberty hit, I needed something alright. I needed those thick forearms wrapped around me. I needed to pull at his shirt and tuck myself against him, turn my head and feel his lips press against mine.

He turns his head quickly as if he can hear my thoughts.

“Look at me,” he says as he stops the truck at a red light and I swear I nearly come out of my skin.