This is torture.

The three of us sit quietly at the dining room table and eat our meals while we catch up on sports news on ESPN. Actually, the two of them catch up on sports. I on the other hand start to push my spoon back and forth in my bowl and reminisce about the last time my mom made soup for us.

It was the summer before the accident. I was sick with mono and feeling lethargic and depressed. I wanted to be outside with my friends, but I just didn't have the energy. So, she made a pot of this soup as her sure fire way of curing me from the inside out. My mom believed that food was the best medicine, but her soup damn sure didn't taste this salty. It makes me want to throw my bowl against the wall.

God, I suck at this.

"So, how's work?" my father asks. Looking at me with gentle eyes as if he knows what I'm feeling, but obviously there's no way that he could. He's slurping the soup like it's the best thing he's ever eaten. I bet the salt has to be burning his raw throat.

"It's good. You know I love my shifts in the emergency room."

And I do. I love being an ER nurse. The shifts are grueling, but the work is meaningful. I get to treat people when they're at their most vulnerable. When they're most frightened. People need a firm hand yet an empathetic heart when they come into the ER, and I think I've mastered the art of how to administer both.

"What's to love about treating people with the flu during the week and gunshot victims over the weekend."

I roll my eyes. We've been over this ad nauseam. While I know that my father is proud of me, he's always been vocal about the fact that he'd rather I work in the bike shop with him than as a nurse. He thinks I'm in constant danger, and the protective part of his personality can't stand it.

"Gunshot victims go to the hospital across town, Dad. They have a better triage for those types of injuries. I've been telling you that for years. And what hospital do you think I'm going to work in that doesn't have its share of people with the flu? If you don't get some sleep soon, you're probably going to be the next patient I admit."

I'm not totally sure, but I think I see the tiniest smirk form on Stone's face. Wait, nope. He was just belching.

"So, you actually like working around sick people all day?"

"Yes, Dad." I exhale with aggravation. "I love my job. I've told you this about a thousand times."

I check my cell phone after it makes a series of beeps and also some vibrations. All different notifications for incoming emails and texts I missed while my phone was dead.

Stone gives my phone a curious look. I'm not sure why. I know he's been incarcerated for a while, but I don't think cell phones have evolved that much over the last five years.

"Well, while Florence Nightingale here works weird hours, you will be starting at ten a.m. every day," my father says to Stone. "We're going to need to leave the house about nine to open on time."

"You're not going to work, Daddy," I say waving my hand dismissively.

"And you're going to be working at the shop?" I ask Stone.

He looks at my father first before answering and so do I. My dad is crazy if he thinks I'm going to let him go to work with the flu, plus he never mentioned anything about Stone working at the shop. Living with us and working in the family business? That's quite a lot of access for someone we don't really even know.

"Yeah," Stone responds somewhat indifferently.

I guess someone isn't too thrilled about his new job. Well how about that. That makes two of us.

"Are you finished eating, Dad?"

I walk around and lift his bowl off of the table before waiting for an answer.

"Uh oh," he says. "Guess I'm in trouble. She swiped my dinner."

"No trouble," I say. Doing my best to lie. "You're finished with your soup and I think you should get to bed. You have a fever."

"All right, hun. I know you're probably exhausted from your day. Thanks for the meal."

After my dad goes to bed, I quietly begin clearing the dishes while Stone basically stares at the last spoonfuls of soup in his bowl. I lean over to clear his bowl, but he holds it down with both of his hands so that I can't lift it.

"Leave it," he says tersely.

Both of Bottle's ears perk up and she sits on her hind legs staring very carefully at Stone. She doesn't like his energy and frankly neither do I.

"I thought you were finished."

"I am."

"Then let me take the damn bowl," I say with an attitude.

He continues to grip the bowl and raises his eyes to meet mine.

"I'll do it."

Bottle growls lowly at Stone. At least somebody in this house has my back.

"I want to clean the kitchen before I go to bed so–"

"You don't want me here, do you?"

I give deep consideration to what I'm going to say in response to Stone's very straight forward question. My father and I spent fourteen long days arguing about how much "help" he was going to give to Stone after his release.

I thought that my father's generosity should have ended with giving him a small starter loan and the occasional listening ear if things were tough at first. My father disagreed. He wanted to do more.

So, when Stone called and asked if he could stay indefinitely at our house, my father jumped at the chance to say yes. It was exactly the type of big gesture he was looking for. He was ecstatic about it. Me not so much.

But Stone seems to be a straight shooter a.k.a. asshole, so there's no need to handle him with kid gloves. Direct is best with a guy like this.

"No, I don't want you here."

And then the oddest thing happens after that.

He smiles.

* * *