Harry and my father are both seated at the kitchen table when I emerge from the bathroom, Harry's phone in hand.

"I'm wilting away here babe," Harry says when I reach them.

I place my hands on the back of his chair and he leans his head back, his damp hair touching my fingers.

"Then I suggest you make yourself something to eat," I snap. I sit his phone down in front of him and he looks up at me with a completely neutral expression.

"Okay.." he stands to walk to the refrigerator, "Are you hungry?" he asks.

"I have my leftovers from Applebee's," I say.

"Are you upset with me about taking him drinking today?" my father asks.

"I'm not upset but I don't want it to be a regular thing,"

"It won't be, besides you're moving," he reminds me and I look across the table at the man I've only known for two days now.

I don't reply, instead I join Harry at the fridge and pull the freezer door open, "What do you want to eat?" I ask him.

He looks at me with wary eyes, clearly trying to assess my mood, "Just some chicken or something, or we can order some take-out?"

"Let's just order something," I sigh. I don't mean to be short with him but my mind is whirling with possibilities of what was on his phone that he felt he needed to delete.

After Harry and my father finish bickering over Chinese or pizza, Harry wants pizza and he wins the argument after reminding my father who will be paying for it. My father doesn't seem offended by Harry's digs at him, he just laughs or flips Harry off.

It's a strange sight really, to watch the two of them. After my father had left I would often daydream about him when I would see my friends with their fathers. I had created the vision of a man who resembled the man I grew up with only older, not a homeless drunk. I had always thought of him carrying a suitcase stuffed with important documents, walking to his car in the morning, coffee mug in hand. I hadn't imagined he would still be drinking and he would have no where to live.

I can't picture my mother and this man being able to hold a conversation, let alone spend years married to one another.

"How did you and my mother meet?" I speak my thoughts.

"In high school," he answers.

Harry picks up his phone and leaves the room to order the pizza, or call someone and delete the call log.

"How long were you dating before you got married?"

"Only about two years, we got married young,"

"Why?" I feel uncomfortable asking these questions but I know I wouldn't have any luck getting the answers from my mother.

"You and your mom never talked about this?" he asks.

"No, we never talked about you. If I even tried to bring it up, she shut down," I tell him and watch his features transform from interest to shame.

"Oh,"

"Sorry," I'm not sure what I'm apologizing for.

"No, I get it. I don't blame her,"

He closes his eyes for a moment before opening them again. Harry joins us back in the kitchen and sits down next to me.

"To answer your question, we got married young because she got pregnant with you and you're grandparents hated me and tried to keep her away from me so we got hitched," he smiles at the memory.

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