I hobble through the door, making sure to bob my head so I don't knock it against the frame. The walk back took twice as long as it usually takes with only one functioning leg. Tyler let me borrow some of his clothes because mine were still damp in my bag. I had to pull the trousers up every couple of steps despite the waistband being tightened as much as possible. And even after having to roll up the legs three times, I didn't care. They smell like him. All the way back I was encased in his scent, and it was comforting. It felt like he was there with me, letting me lean on him as he did at his house.

"Scarlett, is that you?" My dad calls from the kitchen.

"Yeah, It's me."

My good leg carries me forward to the table. I slump into one of the chairs that are already pulled out and rest my bad one on another. My head falls back with a groan. The dull throbbing in my calf causes me to shift in my seat.

Through half-open eyes, I watch my dad doing the dishes. "You've used too much dish soap," I say. He shrugs nonchalantly, placing a bowl coated in suds on the drying rack. If my mother could see him now, she'd be rubbing her eyes, convinced he was an apparition. My dad never did the dishes, it was always my mother until I was old enough to be trusted. The radio's playing nineties throwbacks, and he sways his hips to the beat.

"I tried calling you."

Subconsciously, I grip Tyler's shirt a little tighter. "Yeah, sorry. I was with a friend."

"Does this friend have a name?" He asks.

I don't know why but I blush at his question. My heart constricts in my chest. "Tyler."

"Tyler," he repeats. Testing the name out. "When do I get to meet this Tyler?"

I resist the urge to cover my face with my hands. The way he says it- with an edge of warning behind his voice- makes me regret telling him. I pick a bit of lint from Tyler's shirt. "It's not like that, dad. He's just a friend."

He wipes his hand across his trousers and comes up behind me, placing a kiss on the top of my head. I scrunch my nose. He pulls out the chair that my leg's resting on. "Shift," he says. I sit up in my seat and slowly turn around, unable to hide the wince that escapes my lips when my leg hits the ground. "Honey?"

I grit my teeth. A forced smile hides the pain. "I'm fine, just sore from today. Tyler was teaching me how to surf all afternoon, so my muscles aren't really my friends anymore."

He raises a brow. "Surfing? I didn't know you were interested in that."

"I'm not, just thought I'd give it a go. Don't worry though, I was terrible. I don't think I'll be doing it again any time soon. What did you call about?"

He grabs a plate out of the refrigerator. "I tried making your mom's lasagna you always used to love. Look," he points it towards me. "You can scrape the burnt bit off the top before you eat it. Do you want it heating up now?"

The pride in his eyes crumbles my resolve. I smile gratefully. "Yeah, why not?"

He puts it in the microwave eagerly before walking past me. "I'm going to go get a can of pop from the cooler, want one?" He shouts over his shoulder.

"I'm offended you even have to ask."

Sometimes it's weird sitting in a room with just my dad. It feels like only yesterday my mother was here, laughing at his foolishness or wrapping her arms around my shoulders, pulling me into a hug I didn't know I needed. I can tell he feels it too. This tension. Like we're acting out a scene every time we talk. Pretending to be these people who aren't broken. Every so often, I find myself believing the lie. Then when the night ends and I'm lying in bed alone, I cry until my chest aches. Tear the scars further.

The microwave dings. And dings. And dings. Until I can't leave it any longer. I push myself off the chair and shift my weight onto my good leg. Slowly, I hobble over and grab the lasagna.

"Hey, let me get that." He rushes to my side and takes the plate out of my hands. "What happened to your leg?"

I fall back into my seat, finally releasing a breath. "I hurt it surfing, it's no big deal. It feels worse than it is. You always said I had a low pain tolerance," I brush it off. "I think I just need to stay off my feet for a couple hours, it'll be fine in the morning."

He doesn't look convinced. "Are you sure?" He eyes me skeptically. His hand rests on my knee. Exactly where Tyler's was less than an hour ago. My cheeks flush at the thought of our proximity. At the thought of going to the lighthouse once my leg's feeling better.

"Dad, honestly, I'm fine. I just need to sleep it off. Mind if I take this to my room?"

"Sure, honey. Do you need help getting up the stairs?"

I stand up and he's there, helping me to my feet. "I think I'll be okay."

Once I'm in bed, I find my mind wandering to what Tyler said. My parents took it off me about a year ago. Something happened and- they, uh, didn't want me to have any chance of putting myself in the same situation again. If things were different, would we be on call right now? Falling asleep to the sound of each other's voices? And even though it feels like I'm betraying him to wonder, what situation do his parents want him to avoid?