Page 45 of By A Thread

“That looks good,” I said, pointing at the soup on his tray.

He grumbled under his breath.

I pulled out my phone and cued up my Dad Playlist. There had always been music in our house. Dad’s Latin roots combined with his love of BB King, Frank Sinatra, and Ella Fitzgerald created the soundtrack of my childhood. He played the piano well and the guitar a little less well. But his enthusiasm made up for it.

He’d given me the gift of music appreciation. And so much more.

Now I was failing him.

Dad’s fingers drummed out a beat to Tito Puente’s “Take Five.” At least it was one thing the disease couldn’t rob him of.

“Did you know that Tito Puente served in the Navy during World War II and paid his way through Julliard on the GI Bill?” Dad mused.

“Really?” I asked, pulling the chair up to his bedside.

“You look familiar. Are you Mrs. Vacula’s daughter?” he asked.

“I am,” I lied brightly and felt my neck flush red. Mrs. Vacula had lived across the street for twenty years—gracefully enduring hundreds of Dracula jokes—before moving to Mesa, Arizona. I’d learned quickly that correcting him, reminding him of the things he didn’t know anymore, only hurt us both.

“Your mother makes the best beef vegetable soup, you know,” he said.

“It’s true,” I said. “Let’s see how this recipe measures up.” I picked up the spoon and held it out to him.

* * *

It was latewhen I let myself into my father’s house.

I nudged the thermostat down a degree or two and wandered into the kitchen, helping myself to a bowl of ramen and a stale bagel from yesterday’s work snacks. Emergency carbs that I’d snagged before they’d thrown out the leftovers. I’d thought a fashion magazine would have had nothing but juice cleanses being passed around. But the sheer amount of food in my department alone was the only thing standing between me and being too hungry at night to sleep.

I yawned. I’d get through this. I had no choice, and it was stupid to lament about it.

Heading upstairs, I stepped over the weak spot on the landing and continued into my childhood room. Too tired to worry about neatness, I left my clothes in a pile on the floor. My legs were red from the cold and itchy from the synthetic lace of the tights.

After bundling into a pair of sweat pants, a long-sleeve shirt, and a hooded sweatshirt, I climbed under the covers on my twin bed.

Wearily, I pulled out my phone and fired off a text to my catering boss, apologizing again for missing my shift that night. It was definitely going to hurt being out that money.

I should boot up my laptop. See if any invoices had been paid. Go through the bank account and see what I had to work with for next week. Not that I needed to. I knew down to the penny what was in there. It wasn’t hard keeping track of three figures.

At least the hospital bills would take weeks before they started to trickle in. Because I wouldn’t see a paycheck fromLabelfor another week or two, I’d estimated low there just in case I’d calculated the taxes or the health insurance withholding wrong.

A full-time paycheck was going to make all the difference to me. I just had to hang on until payday, and then I could reassess everything and make a new plan.

For now, I’d just tighten the belt one more notch.

My phone buzz-clunked in my hand.

The text came from an unknown number.

Unknown: Did you make it home? By the way. This is Charming.

I stared at the text as I chewed stale bagel.What the hell was Dominic “I Hate Your Guts” Russo doing texting me at 11 p.m.?

Maybe it was an accident. Maybe the text was meant for someone else. Someone else who also happened to nickname him Prince Charming.

While I debated the possibilities, another message arrived.

Dominic: Nelson was crushed that you wouldn’t let him go to Jersey with you. You owe him an apology.