Psychoanalysis with a Side of Chicken Piccata and Fatherly Advice.
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ANTHONY ANDERSON'S CAR was in the garage and all the lights were on by the time Jude came home from her run. It was past sunset, and Jude purposefully left five minutes before he was usually due for home after the train so it would be a surprise to see his car in the drive, and it would be a surprise for her dad when she entered the house.
The house already felt more full with his car there.
She opened the door into the house, toed her shoes off at the door, and walked into the kitchen where her dad was standing. His back was to her, still in a suit, but had shucked his jacket. He had the cassette player that was pushed against the counter wall blasting Elton John at a volume loud enough to classify it as party music. At the island, he was whisking something together. While Jude usually dreaded having to come up with something for Cal to eat, her dad loved cooking and would try just about anything once. It was once of the many things that made Jude happy she had a dad like Anthony. His open mindedness.
Her dad looked over his shoulder, saw Jude, and dropped his whisk into the bowl so he could walk over and hug her.
His arms wrapped around Jude's shoulders, and she reciprocated the motion, both of them squeezing tightly. Jude had to tilt her chin up to a probably uncomfortable degree in order to rest it on his shoulder, but it was the most comfortable she had been all week.
"Oh, my duckling," he said. It was a really stupid nickname that he had adopted for Jude when she was little. Whenever they went out after it had rained, she would jump in every single puddle that formed in front of her. Jude was resigned to the fact that he would never grow out of calling her it. "I missed you!"
"Oomph," Jude groaned when he squeezed her one last time before letting her go, "missed you more!"
He looked at her appraisingly and hummed, "Not possible, I'm your dad."
Jude rolled her eyes, "That's not how that works."
"Hm, pretty sure it is," Anthony said, walking back over to what Jude could now see was a spread of ingredients and cutting boards and pans across the granite top. "I forgot to ask— how was Daphne's birthday? Did she like her gift?"
"Oh, yeah!" Jude lit up, proud of her gift giving abilities and pleased with her dad pulling through with the Barnes & Noble trip. "She kicked War and Peace from its place on her shelf."
"Outranked Tolstoy. That's how you know it's a winner!" said Anthony. Then, he gestured to the dinner prep he had amassed across the counter, "Speaking of winners, a client and I got to talking, and she wrote down this, apparently phenomenal, chicken piccata recipe."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, and—" he stuck a spoon into the bowl he had been whisking and had Jude try the sauce, "Good?"
