The rest of their drive is uneventful, although Mindy does make him pull over right before they arrive so she can change. Dumping her bag out in the passenger seat elicits a sad little whine from her. It appears that the few items of clothing she carries with her are either wet or stained.
"I can't meet your dad like this."
"What? It doesn't matter. What you're wearing now is fine."
She glances down at her dusty white dress, bare toes peeking out from the ragged hem. "Danny, who is your dad gonna think I am to you? Dressed like this. And, oh my god, look at my hair, it's a rat's nest and there's dried mud in it."
She doesn't stop to contemplate exactly why she feels the need to make a good impression on his father, or why she's suddenly self conscious about the bits of dry plant matter tangled in the waves of her hair. It's just that he'd looked at her so strangely earlier, and she couldn't get a read on him. It was usually easy to see what stranger's saw. She was either a pathetic lost soul to be pitied out on the road, or the target of some pretty salacious intentions. Very rarely was there any kind of in between.
Instead of the argument she's expecting, he merely sighs and pops the trunk to drag out his suitcase. "There's gotta be something in here."
His clothes smell like him, unsurprisingly of course, but fainter, like a scent shadow. The clean smell of detergent nearly drowns out the slightly sweet aroma of his cologne and even the not so unpleasant odor of long ago smoked cigarettes. She takes her time going through the garments, looking at each neatly folded article of clothing like it's going to reveal something about the man standing impatiently beside her. His packing job is efficient in a way that's hard to believe, socks like little sentinels all in a row at the top of the suitcase, toiletries all contained in the zippered pockets.
She ends up wearing the one salvageable pair of tights she owns and one of his crisp blue button downs (there are three identical ones stacked on top of each other), the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. He even fishes out a hair brush for her to run through the mess of raven waves springing out around her head. Danny's attention is absorbed, watching as she threads her slim fingers through the locks, transforming them into a long braid flipping over her shoulder. His gaze makes her feel self conscious, blushing as the bristles knock free the remaining debris.
She turns away from him, hiding the helpless smile she feels tugging at the corners of her mouth. She pretends to admire her reflection in the side of the dirt streaked car, saying, "I look like a suburban housewife."
In truth, she kind of marvels at the way she looks, feeling like a chameleon in the bright desert sun. If she squints, she looks like a picture of her mother, some faded polaroid from the early eighties. It makes her chest feel funny, a little pitter patter for things that are still out of reach, and something else still for the man whose eyes she can still feel on her exposed skin.
She needs to break the spell. Throwing her arms up over her head, she spins in a lazy pirouette, laughter wrapping itself around her. "Maybe not your average housewife."
When she stops, Danny is still watching, one corner of his mouth hitched up in a crooked smile, the faintest hint of a blush creeping up his neck as he realizes he's been caught staring. He clears his throat bashfully, and comments, "Not even close."
Mindy plants her palms firmly on Danny's chest and digs her heels in, pushing back against his forward movement. "Turn around, right this minute." The words hiss out in an angry whisper.
They're just close enough to his father's front door that someone might hear if they start yelling at one another, so Danny hisses right back. "I've changed my mind!"
"You didn't spend over a week on the road to chicken out. Turn around!"
The front door swings open with a faint squeak, and Danny freezes, a blank look settling over his face. Mindy slides her hands from his chest to his shoulders, and encourages him to turn and face the father he hasn't seen in twenty-five years.
Alan Castellano is not how Mindy pictured him. She expected an older version of the man standing beside her, soft dark eyes and defensive stern expression, but what she encounters is nothing of the sort.
Alan is much taller than Danny, shoulders broad underneath a faded flannel shirt. Mindy can see that once he was probably quite an intimidating figure, but now age has made him thinner, cheekbones a little too pronounced. His face is heavily lined, years of wear and tear coupled with the dry heat of the desert have made him look drawn, and she can see the faintest hint of jaundice in the whites of his eyes. She can't imagine what it's like for Danny to be seeing him for the first time in so long.
The tension is horrible, and it's hard for Mindy to fight the urge to jump in with some off the wall comment, but she does. Instead, it's Alan that breaks the silence, croaking out Danny's name like it's a word from some foreign language he's only begun to learn.
Mindy can see Danny's right hand curling into a fist, and it alarms her. She's not so sure that he's abandoned his violent plan, but she knows it would be a terrible idea to take a swing at the old man. The horrifying image of a brittle orbital socket crumbling in on itself propels Mindy into action. Stepping forward she slips her hand down his wrist, prying his fingers apart with her own until they're holding hands. It snaps Danny out of his trance, and he glances down at their interlocked digits frowning.
Alan observes them quietly, looking back and forth between them. Realization settles over the old man and he smiles, temporarily brightening his wizened visage. He steps back, clearing a path through the doorway. "Danny, come inside. Have a seat. You and your wife look tired."