“For the moment,” I said, “I’m good just navigating the obstacle course that is our house.”

“Three weeks from now, you won’t recognize the place.” His chest puffed as he shifted his weight from one steel-toed work boot to the other.

Charlie popped between us, then, with a loud “Boo!” before erupting into giggles, even though neither of us had jumped.

“You want me to make this chili or what?” I asked them.

“With spaghetti!” chimed Charlie.

“The stove works now,” Dad offered.

“That’s lucky.”

Surprising me, Dad set the groceries down on the walkway. He looped an arm around my shoulders and jostled me into him so that the scent of his Old Spice deodorant wafted over me.

He planted a kiss on my hair.

Affection from my father usually came awkwardly and out of the blue like that.

For me anyway.

But the one-armed hug was his way of telling me thanks.

Thanks for being me. And for helping him play understudy to the person we both missed. The person Charlie had never known.

Dad gathered the groceries again with calloused hands.

I knew better than to try to help him, so I went back to my car to get the rest.

I stopped, though, jumping at the sight of the gigantic moth from the tree, which had perched itself, wings outspread, on the edge of my open trunk, its dark body contrasting starkly with the Civic’s bright blue finish.

The thing, mammoth in size, as big as my palm, flickered its yellow-accented wings, its segmented, cigar-thick abdomen giving a shudder. Then it took off, flittering up and away.

But not before I had glimpsed the strange emblem on its back.

The symbol, a brownish-yellow skull, must occur naturally in the species.

Still, it disconcerted me nonetheless.

SEQUESTERED IN THE attic, I sat on the antique periwinkle chaise lounge I’d found there and smirked at my phone screen.

“Lucas Cheney,” I said, eyeing the profile I’d finally managed to bring up in a search. Officially, Hipster Glasses had a name.

Too bad my recon-slash-procrastination session would soon be over since, due to his locked profile, I couldn’t glean much more from social media than that. Aside from some basic info and a few photos of him decked out in his Archie duds, it was tumbleweeds.

“Figures,” I muttered, dropping my cell into the cushions.

Then, cringing at the attic I still did not want to get started on, I picked it up again.

This Lucas guy was, after all, way more fun to look at than the disaster spread out before me. He was interesting, too, because why, in every one of his photos, did he look like he was headed to a sock hop?

I could ask him about that. I could also ask him more about the house.

Maybe I should have given him my number when he asked for it. Then again, maybe I would have if he hadn’t point-blank said he wasn’t interested in me.