My phone sounded, pulling me from my thoughts.

Alan.

"Hi," I answered, hoping to sound enthusiastic.

"So, I'm at the store, but they don't have red peppers, only green, is that okay?"

My heart broke at the excitement in his voice. It'd become a thing—him shopping for the ingredients. After the fourth time I showed up with groceries in hand, he knew to expect me. He asked me to write out the ingredients for the Taco Casserole and made me promise I'd never buy them again. He said that it was bad enough that I was feeding him every other Sunday; I shouldn't have to be using my hard-earned money to do so.

"Green's fine," I told him. I wanted to ask him if Logan was going to be there, or ask him why he didn't tell me that Logan was back, but all I could say was, "I'll be there soon."

***

I let out a relieved sigh when I pulled into their house and no other cars were there apart from Alan's. I told myself on the drive over that I would just act as if nothing had changed. Logan wasn't here. He didn't exist. That was the way it'd always been with us, and that was the way it would stay. Yes, we discussed Logan, but never in the present tense. It was always about what he was like as a kid.

"Maybe you should look at helping out kids like Logan," Alan once said.

"What do you mean?"

"I know you want to get into nursing, but I see your compassion, your heart, your need to understand why he is the way he is. Maybe you should do something with that."

And that was all it took. Two days later, I'd decided to major in Child Psychology.

He opened the door before I could knock. His enthusiasm to see me always made me smile. No one knew I came here; we'd even decided to not tell my mom. It might have seemed odd to some people, and I could understand why, but every other Sunday, in the walls of this house, he gave me a piece of my life I never admitted to missing. He also gave me a father when my own seemed to no longer exist.

***

"I got you something," Alan said. He sat in his usual spot on the counter, drinking a beer while I made dinner. Just like the first time, only then, Logan was here.

"You don't need to get me things. Don't you think it's bad enough that you guys paid for my tuition?"

He raised his hand and got off the stool. "It didn't cost me anything. Besides, that was Logan's money, not mine. It was his choice what he did with it."

I rolled my eyes.

"Did Logan ever tell you about my Tina?"

I nodded.

He pulled out a wooden box and put it on the counter. "She was my girlfriend, all through high school and college."

I stopped chopping the peppers and wiped my hands on my dress, then leaned forward on the counter. Whatever he had to say, I wanted to give him all my attention.

He smiled at my movements, but it didn't reach his eyes. "She actually reminds me a lot of you," he said. "Not physically, but more . . . in your hearts. You're both so . . ." He paused, and thought for a second. "Genuine. Your hearts are genuine."

I didn't have the words; I stayed silent, in my own thoughts.

He pushed the box towards me. "This was hers. I want you to have it."

"I can't—"

"Make an old man happy," he cut in.

I took the box in my hands and flipped the lid open. Inside were dozens of bracelets, neon colored plastic ones, thick bangles, bright friendship bracelets, and a few chunky gold chain ones. I couldn't control my smile. "It's like the 80s threw up in here."

He threw back his head in laughter. "She loved them. She always had a wrist full of bracelets, kind of like you." He pointed at mine. He knew I wore them to hide something, but he never asked, and I never offered. That's why we worked as well as we did.

I took a few out of the box and put them on, shaking out my hands to get them comfortable. I had a good twenty on each arm. At first, I did it to hide what was there, and then it became habit to wear them. I was fully aware that they probably bought more attention to that area than if I didn't wear them at all. But like I said, habit.

"Are you sure you don't want to keep them? I mean, the sentiment is so much more valuable to you than if I were to have them."

He shrugged and took a swig of his beer. "What am I going to do with it, Amanda? Give it to my daughter? You're pretty much it for me."

My chest tightened at his words. Looking down at the box in front of me, I cleared the lump that'd formed in my throat. I wanted to tell him how much his statement touched me, and that it went both ways, that he had become like a father to me. I wanted to tell him how much these Sunday dinners meant to me.

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.