I started to speak, but got cut off when the front door opened.

His eyes were wide. So were mine. We stood still, frozen, waiting for something to happen.

And then it did.

His voice seemed astronomically loud, but maybe that was in my head. "Dad?"

Alan's smile was instant, but disappeared just as fast when he looked at my face.

"In the kitchen," Alan yelled back.

My head dropped and my eyes cast downwards as I busied myself with prepping dinner.

"What are you doing in the ki—" His word died. He must've seen me.

I inhaled deeply and shut my eyes, slowly building the courage I needed. When I felt I was ready, I opened my eyes and raised my head.

And he was there.

Four days.

It had only been four days since I saw him, and already his presence was making me weak.

How the hell did I go a year?

***

Logan

She was standing in my kitchen.

Why was she standing in my kitchen?

I turned to Dad. He offered no answers.

Why was he not saying anything?

I looked at her. She just stared back. She had a knife in her hand. I took a step closer to see what she was doing; she took a step back.

We paused.

Dad sighed.

"Shit," she said.

"What?" I asked.

Dad sighed again.

"I gotta go." She placed the knife down on the counter.

"What?" Dad huffed.

"Huh?" I said to him.

What the hell was happening?

I instinctively took another step forward, and she took another step back. Her hands were up in a defensive stance.

Dad laughed.

Laughed.

We both faced him.

"What?" he asked, his body still shaking with laughter. He walked over to the fridge, pulled out a soda, and handed it to me. "Welcome home." He patted me on the shoulder. "Looks like you both got a lot of explaining to do."

And then he left.

Just like that.

I turned back to Amanda. "Hey."

She sucked in a breath. "Hey."

I took in our surroundings. "You're cooking dinner?"

She nodded so slowly I almost missed it.

I stepped forward. She stepped back.

"You do this a lot? Come here and cook dinner, I mean?"

She nodded again, but her lips were pressed tight.

"How often?" I stepped closer, and she stepped back, only this time her back hit the counter behind her.

She didn't respond.

"How often?" I asked again, taking another step.

A gasp caught in her throat. I moved again; I just wanted to be closer to her.

Her eyes fixated on the floor as she said, "Every other Sunday."

I let out a breath; it shifted the hair on her head. She gazed up at me, her blue eyes penetrating.

Just like that moment. The first time I saw her at Jake's house with blood on her finger and a terrified look on her face.

That was three years ago.

But she had no reason to be terrified, not now. I chanced my luck and closed the space between us. Her hands went up against my chest, but she didn't push me away like I’d expected her to.

"For how long?" I asked.

She swallowed, but her eyes never left mine. "A year."

My stomach tightened. I don't know whether it was the good kind or the bad. "Why?" My hand went to her waist.

Her eyes drifted shut at the touch. "Because he asked me to once."

I lifted her chin with my other hand. "Amanda."

"Mm?" Her eyes were still closed.

I asked her to open them.

She did.

"And you came back here, twice a month, for a year. Why?"

She sucked in a breath, her chest rising with the effort. Her mouth was slightly open. She wet her lips.

"Why?" I asked again, more assertive.

Her eyes intensified. "Because." She lifted her chin. "I felt closer to you when I was here. I missed you less."

Thump. Thump.

"Baby," I breathed out, moving my face closer to hers.

Her hands on my chest became blocks of cement. "Don't you dare kiss me," she said.

I pulled back. Reality set in. "You're going to have to give me something else to do then, because I don't think I can control it."

She pushed off the counter, placed her hands on my shoulders and moved me out of the way.

"Help me with dinner," she said.

So I did.

In dead silence.

***

Dad prepped the dining table, so it didn't surprise me at all that he set it up the way he did: two settings on one side, one on the other. He was already sitting and waiting for us. You can guess which side he was on.

"I'm starving," he announced once we were seated.

Amanda's bare leg brushed against mine. I wore work-out shorts; she wore a loose blue summer dress. No bra. Not that I was looking.

"Sorry," she whispered under her breath.

I cleared my throat. "It's fine."

"You guys are so awkward," Dad said.

Amanda giggled quietly. I wanted to, but I contained it. Dad didn't talk much, so when he did, it made an impact.

"How are you feeling?" he asked me. There was an underlying tone to his words, but I didn't want to discuss it, not with Amanda here.

I glared at him, hoping he'd understand. "Fine," I ground out.

His eyes went from me, to Amanda, and he understood.

It was quiet for a while as we served up the food. After the first mouthful, I swear, my mouth orgasmed. I didn't even wait to swallow before announcing, "Holy fucking shit, this shit is good!"

"Logan Wilbur Matthews," Dad reprimanded.

Amanda's guffaw filled the room. "How funny," she said to herself, and then snorted. "Wilbur."

I was about to warn her not to tell anyone or I'd hunt her down and start making out with her in random places, but Dad spoke first. "You could've had Taco Casserole more often if you'd come back when you said you would."

Buzz. Fucking. Kill.

I sighed. I didn't want to get into it with him. Not now.

"Sorry," Dad mumbled. "I didn't mean for that to come out the way it did.

My shoulders lifted, but I stayed quiet. I reached out for my drink, but my hand trembled. I watched as it attempted to pick up the glass.

"Logan." His voice was strained. "I thought it was getting better."

I didn't speak, just concentrated on my dry mouth and the need for some form of liquid. I gripped the glass, but my hand hadn't improved. A small amount of soda tipped over the lip and onto the table. I cursed under my breath.

I felt her hand first; it brushed against my forearm, then her fingers second, as they slowly linked with mine.

I turned to face her but she was looking at our hands, her lips turned down into a frown.

In my head, I counted the seconds it took before the shaking stopped. It wouldn't take long. It never did when she was comforting me.

One.

Two.

Then her head raised and our eyes locked. "Taco Casserole is pretty amazing," she declared. Her smile was genuine. It wasn't pity. It wasn't forced.