Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 82829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
He’s here now, and I don’t know what that means.
“Hi, son,” Dad says, looking almost shy. It’s not an expression I’ve ever seen from him before. I’m not sure what to make of it.
“Dad.” I nod. “The specials are…” I describe the two meals on special for the day, my eyes holding his stare the whole time. I can do this. I want him to see I’m not a child, not the boy he still pretends I am. “Would you like anything to drink?”
“Just water is fine.”
“I’ll get that and come back for your order.”
Just as I turn, he says, “Marsh told me the smoked salmon is incredible. He also mentioned some kind of pork with spicy honey. What do you recommend?”
My hands shake, heart taking off in my chest like it’s just started a fifty-yard dash. “I don’t think you’ll like the pork. You’ll love the salmon, but the special—the beef tenderloin with shallots—is even better than it sounds. We marinate it in a Merlot, which really brings out the spices. I think you’ll love it.” He smiles, and I frown. “What?”
“Nothing. You just…look good…sound good. I don’t know, you’re just smiling.”
“Food makes me smile,” I admit.
His brows pull together, wrinkles forming on his forehead. “Okay. I’ll have that.”
I nod, unsure I can find the words to speak at the moment. I’m not sure what is happening here. The second I put the order in, I send Marshall a text.
Me: Dad is here… Did you know?
He answers immediately.
Sir: I had no idea. If he’s there, it’s because it’s where he wants to be. I didn’t tell him anything that wasn’t mine to give.
I breathe out a sigh, but really, I already knew that. It’s not how Marshall works. He wouldn’t have told Dad I want to be a chef.
Me: Thank you. I love you. I’m freaking out, but also…hopeful.
Sir: It’ll be okay. No matter what. You got this.
And the thing is, I do.
I bring Dad his water, then go about my business, making sure I do my job. I talk to my customers when I drop off their food, make suggestions, and just enjoy being around people.
My nerves hit me again when it’s time to bring Dad his food, but I ignore them, carrying his plate to him.
“It’s nice here,” he says.
“It is. The food is excellent. The staff is awesome. I’m really happy here.”
He gets a far-off look in his eyes, a little sad, though I don’t think it’s for the same reasons it would usually be. “What time do you get off?”
“Seven tonight. I got my shift changed so I can get home and see Marshall a little earlier.”
I brace myself for him to flinch or make a comment about Marshall, but he doesn’t. “If I stick around, do you think you can give me a few minutes before you go home?”
“Sure,” I say, emotion twisting me up.
“Thank you,” Dad says. “Now let me taste this.” He cuts into the tenderloin and takes a bite. “Wow…this really is good.”
“I knew you’d like it,” I find my voice to say. “Can I, um…get you anything else?”
“I’m okay for now.”
There’s only an hour left of my shift. I’m surprised when Dad does stay, only paying when it’s just about time for me to get off. I tell him I’ll meet him outside, then clock out and grab my things, all while fighting not to get my hopes up, to be prepared to stand my ground.
Dad is waiting out front with his hands in his pockets. He looks up as if sensing me, and I can see the same emotions warring inside me reflected in his gaze—fear, sadness, hope. “Can we walk?” he asks.
“Sure.”
We’re both quiet as we make our way down the sidewalk. I wait to see what he has to say. He’s the one who came here, so I’m going to give him the chance to tell me why.
“I was watching you in there. You’re really good with the customers. I heard the woman at the next table say how she always likes it when you work.”
“I like what I do,” I say simply.
Dad sighs. “I don’t know why this is so hard… I guess admitting you’re wrong is never easy, but I owe you an apology.”
“You owe Marshall one.”
“I owe you both one,” he amends. “But right now, I’m not talking about you and Marshall. I’m talking about you and me.”
We turn the corner to a quieter street, and I stop to look at him.
“I know I haven’t been the perfect father. I’ve spent the last month or so doing a lot of reflecting, and I think…I think I’ve made you feel very alone sometimes. I think I haven’t shown you very well that I’m proud of you. That I know you’re strong, confident, and smart.”
“That’s not how you acted before.” Maybe I owe him a better response than that, but the truth is, I’m hurt.