I could hear immediately how guilty our joined answer made us sound.

“Really?” Dad asked.

“Really,” I answered, but he wasn’t looking at me anymore. He and Elliot were having some kind of male Windtalker exchange that included prolonged eye contact, throat clearing, and probably some mysterious form of direct communication between their Y chromosomes.

“We were just reading,” Elliot said finally, his voice shifting deeper midway through the sentence. I’m not sure if this sign of his impending manliness was reassuring or damning as far as my dad was concerned.

“Seriously, Dad,” I said.

His eyes flickered to mine.

“Okay.” Finally he seemed to relax and squatted down next to me. “What are you reading?”

“A Wrinkle in Time.”

“Again?”

“It’s so good.”

He smiled at me, reaching out to swipe his thumb along my cheek. “Hungry?”

“Sure.”

Dad nodded and stood, making his way toward where Mr. Nick was busy building a fire.

A few seconds passed before it seemed like Elliot was able to exhale.

“Seriously. I think his palms are the size of my entire face.”

I imagined Dad’s hand gripping Elliot’s entire face, and for some reason the image was so comical it made me laugh out a sharp cackle.

“What?” Elliot asked.

“Just, that image is funny.”

“Not if you’re me and he’s looking at you like he has a shovel with your name on it.”

“Oh, please.” I gaped at him.

“Trust me, Macy. I know dads and daughters.”

“Speaking of my dad,” I said, adjusting my head on his stomach to be more comfortable, “guess what I found last week?”

“What?”

“He has dirty magazines. A lot of them.”

Elliot didn’t respond, but I definitely felt him shift beneath me.

“They’re in a basket on the top shelf in the far corner of his closet at the cabin. Behind the nativity scene.” This last part felt somehow very important.

“That was oddly specific.” His voice vibrated along the back of my head, and goose bumps spread across my arms.

“Well, that’s an oddly specific place to put something like that. Don’t you think?”

“Why were you in his closet?” he asked.

“That’s not the point, Elliot.”

“It’s precisely the point, Mace.”

“How?”

He placed a bookmark between the pages and sat up to face me, forcing me to sit up, too.

“He’s a man. A single man.” Elliot used the tip of his index finger to push his glasses up and held my gaze sternly. “His bedroom is his fortress of solitude—his closet is his vault. You might as well have been looking in his nightstand drawer or under his mattress.” My eyes widened. “What were you expecting to find on the top shelf in the far corner of his closet behind the nativity scene?”

“Photo albums? Cherished mementos of a lost youth? Winter sweaters? Things of a parental nature?” I paused, giving him a guilty smile. “My Christmas presents?”

Shaking his head, he turned back to his book. “Snooping will always end badly, Mace. Always.”