“He didn’t ask for me to be his waitress tonight,” I say, almost to myself.
“Interesting. No more garçon?”
I shrug. Honestly, I was a little disappointed.
She looks at me. “By the way, remember the guy I hooked up with at the toga party last year?”
“Yeah.”
“Pretty sure it was Blaze.”
I snort and nearly choke on a fry. After taking a long drink from my soda, I say, “How do you know?”
A sheepish grin crosses her face. “Just something he said. Apparently, he was also at that party and can’t remember much of it.” She gets a faraway look on her face. “All I can recall about him is this thing he did with his tongue—”
I hold my hand up. “Just stop right there. I want to be able to talk to him in the future without picturing what you’re about to describe.”
She giggles.
“And back to Ryker…I’m not his type, so nope. You’re wrong.”
Charisma thinks. “Hmmm, if you say so. But you did just bring him up again.”
I tuck more fries in my mouth.
She sighs and smirks down at her curves. “I wish I could eat like you do.”
“At least you have boobs.” I wave at my chest area. “Underneath this vintage Buffy the Vampire Slayer shirt is a sixty dollar push-up bra. Thank you, magic brassiere.” I look around the room and lean in. “With the cutlets stuffed in this contraption, everyone thinks I’m at least a solid B cup.”
“Stop it. You have tits,” she says.
“Correction. I have titlets.”
She giggles. “That’s not even a word! How do you come up with this stuff?”
I tap my head. “But in my stories, the heroine always has big boobs.” I twist my lips. “Maybe I should get a boob job.”
She shakes her head at me. “Do it for you, but no one else.”
I nod. “Of course. The man who falls for me will love my titlets.”
“Please stop saying titlets.”
We both laugh.
I shrug and check my phone for the time—my break is almost over—and eat a few more bites of my burger. “Will you feed Vampire Bill for me when you get home?”
“No. He hates me.”
I wave her off. “The pellets are in the pantry, and if you can chop up some kale, maybe some banana, he’ll be all set.” I give her a grin. “Also, if you can tell him the word of the day again. We’ve been working on llama. Tell him I love him, too.”
She glares at me. “Seriously. Anything else? He’ll try to peck me. And llama? Ryker inspired?”
I shrug.
“It was!” A gleam grows in her hazel eyes. “I’m going to teach him something good, something that will definitely make him a cool bird.”
I give her a look. “He already has enough dirty words. I know he learned ‘shit’ from you.”
“I know nothing.”
I sigh. “Just give him a little head scratch before you put him in my room, okay? Maybe turn on some music so he doesn’t get lonely. Backstreet Boys is his favorite.”
She takes a sip of her soda. “I don’t mind. I just hate that you work so much. You know your dad would pay your bills, right? All you’d have to do is ask.”
I exhale. He has offered to pay what my academic scholarship doesn’t cover, but I refuse. Mom left me the house and some insurance money when she passed. I’m not destitute.
“I don’t mind working. It keeps me busy.” It keeps my mind occupied, too, and I’ve always been one who needs that.
The door chimes as customers enter. I glance up at the door and stop, eyes widening.
It’s as if I conjured them.
I exhale. My dad, Carson, and his wife, Cora, waltz in with their new baby, Cyan. Yes, all their names begin with C.
“Ah, the new family,” Charisma murmurs as we watch them talk to the hostess for a few minutes. They’re probably up there requesting my section. I’m glad I still have a few minutes on my break.
“Looks like your dad is hunting you down,” Charisma says, arching her eyebrow at me. “You probably should have said yes to dinner.”
I sigh.
We watch as the hostess talks to them, and I study Cora. She’s pretty in a girl-next-door kind of way with straight blonde hair and an oval face with high cheekbones. Her frame is small with a soft middle from being pregnant. She hides it with flowy tunic-style shirts, wearing them with style and confidence.
The hostess points over at me, and my dad tosses a hand up then Cora does the same. She’s holding Cyan on her hip, and my gaze lingers there.
Perhaps he sees the trepidation on my face because he says something to the hostess and she leads them over to someone else’s section.
Charisma’s voice brings me back. “I’m heading home and crashing. You good?”
I give her a nod, and she takes off after leaving me cash for her check. I linger around the booth, taking my time, but eventually the laws of Southern etiquette demand I face them.
With a sigh, I clock back in and make my way to their table. It’s on the far right side in an alcove that’s rather secluded.
My dad is feeding Cyan orange baby food as I approach—something he never did for me. He looks up, sees me, and gets to his feet. “Hey, you,” he says, brushing his hands with a napkin.
“Hey.”
He towers over me, about six three, a handsome guy with auburn hair and gray eyes. He takes the few steps over and attempts to hug me, and I let him. It’s this dance we do. He wants to make everything right between us; I’m not sure it ever will be.
I play with the gold chain around my neck, fingering the locket.
“I took that picture at the hospital the day after you were born,” he says, indicating the necklace.
What? I blink up at him, my equilibrium thrown. I think about the faded picture inside the pendant. Mom is smiling down at me, wearing a white nightgown with tiny rosebuds on it. I’m mostly a blob, just a baby in a pink dress. My eyes are open and they gaze right up at her. It was always us, since the beginning.
I shrug. “I assumed you ran out of town before the big day. Was it the offseason?”
His face doesn’t change, taking my shit well.
With a deep breath, he continues. “You were a C-section, and I was terrified when they wheeled your mom into surgery. The blood, the smell of the hospital, the scrubs we put on—but once they pulled you out and put you in my arms…” He stops and studies his hands for a moment then looks back at me. “It was the offseason, but that wouldn’t have mattered. I wouldn’t have missed seeing you born.”
I frown at the emotion his words carry, my face tight. I don’t want to feel soft toward him. “And then I didn’t see you for ten years. Nice.”
He pauses. “I took care of you.”
“Child support.”
His lips flatten—because he knows I’m right. “It’s been three years since your mom passed. Maybe we should try to talk—”
“Her name is Vivien.”
He nods his head in accord. “I cared for her too, you know.”
“She never told me you were at the hospital when I was born.”
He nods and looks away. “We didn’t leave on the best of terms. I had a team to get back to, and she had her doctorate degree to work on here.”
My jaw tenses, and I flick my gaze over to Cora, who I know can probably hear us but is pretending not to. I sigh.
“Some people just aren’t meant to be together,” he tells me. “Your mom…she knew we were too young, and she only wanted the best for you. That was her.”
Because he was busy living the baller lifestyle. Women. Parties.
“I made mistakes, Penelope. Having Cyan has made me see that.”
“Now you see. How fortunate.”
He watches me. “Just because there’s a new baby doesn’t mean we don’t want to see you.”
I frown. I don’t know what to say.
“How are you doing?” Cora says brightly after that, standing to join him. She picks up Cyan from her high chair and places her on her hip. This close up I can see Cora’s peach lipstick when Mom wore pink…how short she is when Mom was tall.
“Fine,” I murmur. Cora is nice.
“You should come to dinner soon,” she adds softly. “I’ve been itching to make a lasagna. I heard it’s your favorite.”
Cora doesn’t wait for an answer, just holds Cyan out to me, and I take her and settle her on my side. I’m not sure how to hold her, but I loop my arm around her waist and her legs seem to just know what to do as they straddle me. Red hair sprouts and swirls from odd places, mostly in the front and back of her head. And her eyes—they’re just like mine, the color of fog in the morning.
I can’t help it. I smile down at her.
“She’s six months today. We’re celebrating,” Dad says, watching me with Cyan. “We were hoping you were working, and here you are. Want to join us for a few minutes?”
I raise my head and meet his gaze. “I have to work, but thank you.”
He gives me a short nod. “Of course. I admire your work ethic. Vivien was the same when it came to teaching.” A brief smile crosses his face. “Everyone at Waylon adored her.”
“She is—was—the best art professor here,” I say, reminding him that she was part of Waylon before he came back.