He was teasing me. I didn’t think it was particularly funny, but I laughed it off anyway, spreading my fare out on the island and reaching into a cabinet for the vase I wanted.

“And where would I meet someone?” I asked, convinced there was no answer.

“One of those apps. Bundle or Timber?”

“Bumble and Tinder,” I corrected on a chuckle. “I don’t know. It just seems so … random. And unnecessarily risky. I’d rather meet someone in real life and forge a connection than pick someone from a stable like a horse.”

“That’d require you to actually get out of the house.”

I frowned down at my hands as I trimmed stems. “You sound awfully judgy tonight, Dad.”

A sigh, heavy and full. “Sometimes, I worry I’m holding you back,” he admitted openly, as was his way. As was mine.

But I shook my head, eyes on the flowers, heart in my throat. “You’re not holding me back, Daddy. You’re holding me steady.”

A pause, long and pregnant. “Come here,” he said gently.

For a moment, I didn’t move. But there was no denying him, not of one single thing he wished. When I met his eyes, they were sad and deep. I didn’t know when he’d gotten so old. In my mind, he was still young and smiling, his face smooth and hair thick and shaggy. But in moments like this, his life was etched in the lines of his face like a story on stone.

He took my hand. “I love you, Tess. And I want you to make me a promise.”

“Anything, Daddy,” I said softly.

“Be wild. Because life is lived in the moments you don’t see coming. Not in the comfort of predictability, but in the thrill of the unknown.”

My heart folded in on itself at the thought. “But I … I don’t know if I know how.”

But he smiled. “Then that’s what you should figure out. Do one thing this week that scares you. Just one. And if you can’t think of anything, ask Ivy. I’m pretty sure she has a running list.”

At that, I laughed, the sound catching in my throat, tightened from emotion.

I couldn’t deny him. But I didn’t know how to honor the request.

The acrid smell of meat a little overdone hit my nose, and his too.

“Better get that,” he suggested, effectively letting me off the hook for an answer.

I hurried to the stove and grabbed the pan, picking it up to cool it a little as I salvaged dinner and digested what he’d said.

He wasn’t wrong, which was perhaps the most bitter taste left once I’d swallowed his words. I hadn’t been on a date in an unspeakable amount of time, and since Ivy had landed herself a bun in the oven and a serious boyfriend—fiancé soon, if I had to bet—we’d barely gone out at all. Not that we’d gone out much before. I was as bland as my father had suggested. There wasn’t much time to party when you were up at four every morning and at the flower shop at five, six days a week. By nine, I was toast, crispy and rough and in desperate need of some buttering up.