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“No. I love you. Not like a wife,” she quickly amended. “More like a friend who thinks you’re stubborn and stingy with your emotions. For what it’s worth, I like Waylon.”

In the spirit of sharing, I could have told her that he wasn’t staying, but she was right…I was stingy with emotions, and I wasn’t ready to think about impending heartache.

“He’s a good man. And I’m sure Chad is a good⁠—”

“Oh, please. Chad’s a buffoon. We broke up last week.”

I laughed. “Phew. I thought he was a dick in high school. I just didn’t want to rock the boat. C’mere.”

We hugged like old friends.

And we were.

Our relationship hadn’t ended. It had changed. It might not always be smooth sailing, but we were trying. I’d take that as a win.

“Was that Judy Campbell?” Dad asked, glancing up from his workstation in my garage. “What? I peeked in the kitchen.”

“You were eavesdropping?”

“Nope. Couldn’t hear a word. Too bad.” He waggled his brows lasciviously. “Hubba-hubba. She’s a looker, eh?”

Did anyone say hubba-hubba anymore?

I snorted, adjusting the temp on the portable heater and taking a seat opposite him. We’d been sanding the nightstand drawers for what felt like hours. This was Waylon’s happy place, not mine. He could sit with my dad, listening to sports highlights or Johnny Cash songs on the radio and the scritch, scritch, scritch of sandpaper on wood all afternoon and rarely check the time.

“No, Dad. That was Judy’s daughter, Jess. My ex-wife.”

Dad cocked his head curiously. This was new information colliding with old information. I could tell from his lost look that something wasn’t computing. Someone didn’t fit. Sometimes that caused panic, but today he shrugged it off.

“She’s pretty. What did she want?”

He’d lowered his chin, intent on his work. Johnny crooned about a ring of fire while mini snowflakes stuck to the garage door windows. In less than thirty seconds, Dad would forget the question, and he wouldn’t notice if I didn’t respond.

Not that I’d say much.

But for some reason, I did. I wanted to get it off my chest.

“She wanted to yell at me for not telling her about Waylon. I think she’s mad she didn’t know I was bisexual before we were married. And she’s right. I should have been honest.”

“Bisexual.”

“Yes, bisexual.” I studied the fluff of white hair on his head and poked a little more. “That means I like men and women.”

Dad put his sander on the table and squinted at me. He was weighing my words, but he was with me. He understood.

“You told me.”

“You didn’t like that…when I told you.”

Dad stared at me intently. “I know. I’m sorry.”

My breath caught.

I’d waited thirty years for this.

Thirty fucking years. I wanted more.

So I opened my mouth and said the one thing I knew I shouldn’t.