Chapter 4: Flowers From the Gas Station

Craig came at noon on Sunday with a bunch of roses from the gas station.

The price sticker was still on the cellophane, nine ninety-nine.

I stood on the porch of a house I had owned for sixteen hours and read it.

"Hey, Jen." He gave me the smile that has gotten him out of everything for as long as I have known him.

"Can I come in? It's cold."

"Sure."

I let him into the front room, where Gene sat in the armchair by the window with his tablet closed on his knee.

"Hi, Dad," Craig said.

Gene looked out the window.

Craig laid the roses on the arm of the sofa and rubbed his hands together.

"Okay. So last night got out of hand."

"It did."

"Dad's confused, Tressa's mortified, and I'm sorry you felt put on the spot."

I waited for the rest of the sentence.

That was the rest of the sentence.

"You're sorry I felt put on the spot," I said.

"I'm saying nobody meant to hurt you. It was supposed to be a nice thing. We were honoring you."

"With a schedule."

"With a plan." He sat down, which he does when he thinks a conversation is almost over.

"Come home tonight, we'll sit down and tweak it. Tressa's flexible."

My phone had buzzed at seven that morning, and I had read the message half a dozen times.

It was from Rob's wife, who has never once sent me a text that was not a recipe.