In Between the Lines

Chapter 5: The Dragon, the Princess, and the Kiss

The house didn't just smell like burnt food—it smelled like downright ash. I ran towards the kitchen, where there was a light trail of gray smoke wafting into the hall.  I knew it couldn't possibly be Marco cooking; the only person who ever burned food in this house was—

"Dad!" I ran to my father, who'd been glaring violently at a tray of what appeared to be chicken turned coal. Seeing him standing there, for a gleaming moment, everything that happened at Lupe's Cocina turned into background noise. "You lied to me! You said you wouldn't be back until Wednesday!"

My father turned and his glare instantly turned to dough as he caught me in an embrace. "Princess!"

I held onto him tight, breathing him in. He smelled like fall spices and Cuban cigars. He smelled like Dad.

"I'm sorry for lying." He kissed the top of my head. "I wanted to surprise you." 

"Forgiven." I pulled back from our embrace to roll my eyes. "Duh."

He laughed and gestured towards the tray in front of us apologetically. "I tried . . . "

"A for effort." I shrugged. I didn't care about the food. I was just glad he was home. "And anyway," I added, "I'm still pretty full from earlier."

Relief washed over those blue-green eyes. My eyes. It was the one thing my father and I shared. Everything else, unfortunately, I got from my mother. Whereas my father had light brown hair and perfectly tanned skin, I had hair as black as a starless night and skin that was far, far less tan. I was only glad I didn't have my mother's brown eyes; otherwise every time I looked in a mirror, I'd have risked seeing her, too.   

"Honestly sweetie, I think you've done us both a favor. This wasn't bound to end well for either of our stomachs." He laughed. "So how about dessert, then? How does ice cream sound?"

I arched a brow and smirked. "It sounds like something you couldn't burn even if you tried."

"Hey, now." My father frowned. For a moment, I thought I'd actually offended him. Then he said, "Are you doubting my abilities to burn things?"

I laughed. This. This was why I missed having my best friend home.

"Never."

We went a little ways down the street to a local ice cream shop and both got our favorites: chocolate-covered strawberry cheesecake cones. We'd decided to take them home and devour them from the comfort of the ocean and our backyard. All the essential catch-up talk had been done—how his trip was, how his flight went, how school and work were going for me. But before he'd even asked about my day, it seemed my father already sensed something was wrong.

"What happened when you went to dinner with your friends?"

"Nothing." I said it too quickly for it not to sound like denial. He only gave me a pointed look.

I huffed. "How? How do you do that?"

"I'm your father." He smiled easily. "Plus—and don't take this the wrong way—you're not exactly an expert at masking your emotions."

I glanced at the ocean, the red-orange light bouncing against the glittering surface. And then I looked to my father and saw the way that light brought out the streaks of silver in his brown hair. The way it contrasted the tired lines on his face—lines that told the story of a man who worked too hard, who worried too much over his daughter when he wasn't home and yet somehow managed to muster up enough energy to take her out for a scoop of ice cream.

Who was I to add any more stress to that?

"Lyra, if you think you've seen him, you need to tell me—"