Make It Right by Megan Erickson

remembering when he brought her packs of Starburst and she picked out the orange and pink, so he had to eat the yellow and red.
    His smile dimmed. “So, I want to talk to you about something. About Max.”
    His name sent a shiver down her spine and warmed her limbs. She’d never flirted like that in her life, joking about a cucumber’s girth. And the man was making treats for his cat. It warmed her inner cat-lady’s heart. Lea exhaled and focused on her cousin. “Look, Nick, he just offered me a ride—“
    Nick held up his hand, silencing her. “I know. I actually want to apologize for getting on your case about him. I . . . he’s not a bad guy. He gave you a ride to the hospital to see me and I have to give him credit for that. And I know you can handle yourself. In fact, if anyone can handle Max Payton, it’s probably you.”
    She pursed her lips, and thought about Max’s soothing voice, his blanket, his hand on the small of her back. The way he rambled on about making cat treats. She looked down at her hands in her lap. “Whatever, we’re just friends . . . I guess.”
    Nick nodded. “Okay, but I’m sorry. Because you’re right, people can change. Or they might not really be who we think they are.”
    L EA HADN’T BEEN home for five minutes from Nick’s place when her doorbell rang. She peered through the peephole and then laughed when staring back at her was the close-up of one big, dark eyeball.
    She opened the door. “Hey, Dad.”
    “La-la,” he said in greeting, leaning in to give her a wet kiss on the cheek, his ever-present stubble scratching her skin. His familiar aftershave conjured up sleepy nights in front of their fireplace, a half-finished blanket over her father’s knees as his crotchet hook flipped and twisted in a blur.
    She wrapped her arms around his neck and soaked him in, love and comfort and safety in a five-foot-ten pudgy package. His nickname, bestowed on her when she called herself La-la as a toddler because she couldn’t pronounce Lea , settled her.
    He ran a hand down the sheet of hair on her back. “How’s my girl?” he said, his lips moving at her temple.
    She leaned back in his embrace. “Great, now that you decided to surprise me.”
    He hiked the nylon straps of his bulging cloth bag higher on his shoulder, then grabbed a grocery bag she hadn’t noticed from off her stoop. “Well, let me in, then. We’re letting the cold in.”
    She moved out of the way as he walked past her and shut the door of her townhome behind him. “So what’s the occasion?”
    “Just in the neighborhood. Thought I’d drop off some things. And I wanted to see your smiling face.”
    Lea ducked her head to hide her blush. There’d been years when she was a teenager that she hadn’t smiled much. Answered her parents with grunts or rude answers. But thankfully, she’d outgrown the insecurities that came with her new body and mended her relationship with her parents. Her father never let her forget how grateful he was they were close again. “You don’t have to buy me groceries. I just went to the grocery store.”
    He dropped the bag on her island counter. “I know, but I worry my La-la doesn’t keep herself fed well. Look at you. So skinny.”
    “I’m not that skinny.”
    He sniffed and pulled out a pie. An entire shoofly pie. Her favorite.
    “Dad . . .”
    “Your mother said the ingredients were on sale.”
    “Oh really? Imagine that, just the ingredients for shoofly pie on sale.”
    His lips twitched.
    “You’re such a liar,” she said, opening up her flatware drawer to pull out utensils. She cut them each a generous slice, then she sat down on a stool at her island to eat. Her dad stood with his back to the counter, plate below his chin.
    As a kid, she’d fallen in love with the sweet, sugary Amish concoction when they visited relatives in Pennsylvania. The thick, wet molasses filler coated her tongue and the dry sugar topping clung to her lips. This pie was laughing