As soon as we get home, I practically shove two Motrin down my dad's throat and order him to get into bed. Then I make a beeline for the bathroom.

I take the longest pee ever. You know how when you hold your urine too long and then when you finally go it takes forever to trickle out? That was me. Next up was a shower. I felt gross. After a long day at work, dinner, and an arrest by Philadelphia's finest–I was more than ready to wash the day away and binge watch a Netflix series.

I'm sitting on the couch with my legs bent underneath me and a pint of pistachio ice cream in hand when Bottle runs toward the front door, hearing a stranger's car pull up way before I do. Bottle is my chocolate brown, seventy-five pound, rescue Labrador retriever named after her number one obsession. Crushing plastic water bottles with her jaws.

"Who is it, Bottle?" I ask her in my soft, baby-like voice. "Is it the guy who's going to smother us in our sleep tonight?"

I have to laugh at myself. Maybe I'm being too hard on this son of Jack. Maybe he has some redeeming qualities.

Bottle's tail wags and she begins jumping up and down. Circling around and around in front of the door. Excited that someone is coming to visit. Actually, a little too excited. Neither of us have ever been really good about training her not to jump on people or furniture.

I stand on my tiptoes, and peek through the door's small glass window pane. I want to get a glimpse of him before he comes inside.

Stone.

What kind of a name is that? I think my dad mentioned once that he's had that name since ever since he can remember. Did Jack name him that when he adopted him? Or was that his name before. I mean who nicknames a kid Stone? Only a parent who thinks that their child is destined for a life of crime or maybe a boxer or even a rapper. Definitely not your average term of endearment.

Bottle starts scratching at the door as I watch a silver Honda with an Uber sticker in the window come to a complete stop in front of our driveway. I reprimand her for jumping, mostly because my anxiety is feeding off of her frenetic energy.

"Shh, Bottle. Sit!"

It's dark out and the glare from the glow of the light post prevents me from clearly seeing Stone's face while he's still seated in the car; but when one of the back doors open and a large booted foot lands heavily on the concrete, I inhale a quick breath.

He's definitely no longer the boy I remember from an old picture my father has of him in one of our family photo albums. The young boy in a transformers T-shirt with a permanent scowl etched across his face.

That boy is gone and has morphed into a man.

A mammoth of a man.

When he completely exits the car he literally takes my breath away.

He's tall.

He's got to be at least three or four inches over six feet tall.

And he's wide.

Like a Mac truck.

He looks like he could swallow me whole.

Sheesh, maybe they sprinkle their food with Miracle Gro in prison.

Bottle can no longer contain herself as she starts barking as he begins walking toward the front door. She's very excited about the new human entering her domain. Bottle loves people. Other dogs not so much.

The unexpected noise of her bark startles Stone, and he glances toward the window. When he does I move quickly away from it like the weirdo that I am. Obviously I don't want him knowing that I'm peeping through the window like a creeper. I'm not sure whether or not he saw me. I didn't see any sort of look of recognition pass across his face.

"Quiet, girl."

I shush my dog and run into the kitchen, pretending like I'm working on my dad's soup which is actually already finished. I knew he had already dozed off after my shower, so I was going to wait to bring it to him later.

The doorbell rings.

Damn, didn't Dad give him a key?

"Baby girl, I think that's Stone," My father calls out.

"I thought you were asleep," I fuss back.

"Can't sleep until the house is settled."

My heart is racing and I feel jittery. I take a quick look at my reflection in the refrigerator, smooth a bit of my curls behind my ear, and then the realization hits me. My anxiety is not based in fear, but because I'm actually nervous. Nervous about what this strange felon is going to think about me.

Will he remember me?

Will he think that I'm pretty?

Am I losing my damn mind?

The bell rings again.

Oh crap, now I hear my father around.

"Never mind, Ariana. I'll get the door," he says grumbling. "You're always so slow."

Yeah, slowly losing my common sense.

He beats me to the door, so I just stay in the kitchen. Suspended in motion. Using a wooden spoon to stir a pot of my homemade chicken and rice soup that's already finished cooking.

I can hear the two of them clunking around the living room moving toward the enclosed deck. Carrying what I suspect are Stone's purchases to his new abode. Dad has spent the last seventy-two hours getting what was once a neglected pet project of his into an actual livable space for Stone. It looks really nice now.

He installed insulation and drywall and painted it a soft sugar cookie batter color (my paint selection). He also bought a dark brown sofa bed on clearance, which will be great if Bottle decides to lay on it, because you won't be able to see her hair on the couch at first glance (another one of my bright ideas). Vacuuming Bottle's fur is definitely one of my least favorite chores to do. Pretending that it's not there because it blends in with the couch is a much better plan.

"Sit, girl!" I hear my father reprimand Bottle. I can hear her claws clicking and sliding across the floor. She's definitely jumping all over the place.

"Sorry, Stone." I hear him apologize. "She's just excited."

While my dad has never said the words, I think that he is the one who's beyond excited that his dear deceased friend's son is coming to live with us. My father loves to live his life swaddled in the memories of the people he loved. Jack included.

"What's taking you so long, baby girl?" he asks from the other room. I can hear him settling into his recliner. An ugly piece of furniture that he refuses to donate or toss or preferably burn.

"I'm fixing your soup."

"Smells good but give it a rest, and come out here to say hi to Stone."

I plunk the wooden spoon down on the counter and take a deep cleansing breath as I wipe my clammy hands on a dishtowel.

"Coming."

I'm being silly. If my friends Sloan and Elizabeth could see me they would smack me into next week. I give myself an inner tongue lashing in honor of their absence.

I take a final breath and walk into the living room with a wide smile and my boobs pointed high.

He's just another man.

His opinion doesn't matter.

Let me just get this introduction over with.

* * *