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"Y/N!"
"Yeah, dad?" I yelled back, eyes still fixated on a point in the distance. The rain continued pelting the street, seeming far away.
"Back in the house! It's raining!" He answered a moment later, voice still sounding muffled and distant.
I noticed, I thought as I smiled thinly, before pushing open the car door and stepping out onto the floor of the garage. The entrance was slick with dirty water that had washed in, like a muddy brown ink stain.
Slamming the door of the bright silver Toyota, I made my way towards the overhead doors, shortly pressing down on the green close button. I watched as the door unraveled in slow motion, slowly but surely cutting off the noise of the rain on the street until it was only a faint murmur behind the metal.
"Y/N!"
"Yeah, dad!" I yelled again, and sighed, walking backwards in the direction of the door connecting the house and the garage. I don't know how well other people managed walking like that in an occupied garage, but I had the layout of this one memorized, having been here enough times even though we had only moved here a couple of months ago.
The ends of my jeans were slightly damp when I entered, kicking off my converse and walking barefoot into the kitchenette. My father stood at the counter with his back to me, probably chopping up a salad. I hated those, but usually obliged to eating them for his sake.
Usually, I had soggy ramen straight from the cup, so this was a sort of upgrade for me.
"Ready?" He turned party to allow me a worn smile, the corners of his mouth and eyes crinkling with smile lines and worry lines alike. I shrugged, my answering smile thin-lipped.
"Wash your hands first." He sighed, bringing up a hand to wipe his forehead with the back of it. I did as he said, and then pulled back a chair from the small table just outside, which scraped the floor in a way that used to annoy me before I got used to it.
He joined me a moment later, wiping his hands on his apron—mom's apron—before untying it from around his waist and hanging it lazily on the back of his chair. "Help yourself." He gestured to the food.
I didn't say anything, but dug in, keeping my eyes on my plate as I piled up as much as I could on it. As my dad was normally a late worker, this was one of the rare nights we got to eat dinner together, but I was almost on tenterhooks. He was a used car salesman—it definitely didn't sound special, not special enough to explain his late returns, but I wasn't in a position to inquire about anything. And I was fine with that, after all that had happened.
"Ready for college?" He tried to keep his tone light and conversational, but there was a hesitant undertone to it that I knew he wouldn't be getting rid of anytime soon.
