Page 17

Natalie

Her mother would kill her for riding her bike with no helmet, but she doesn’t want to flatten her hair. Besides, her mom would kill her twice if she knew where Natalie was going.

She takes it slow, sticking to the streets with bike lanes, even if it means she’s going to be a few minutes late. Being late is not a problem anyway. She doesn’t want to seem too eager.

It’s not a long trip, and soon she’s one turn away from the bakery café. The meeting spot was her idea. It feels like a safe choice. Casual.

The whole plan is rock solid. So why does she feel like throwing up?

Pausing at the last light, she takes a deep breath and pulls out her phone to check her Instagram. When she sees a new message from him, her heart veers sideways.

He’s going to cancel . She just knew it. She’s half disgusted, half relieved.

But no. The message says,

I’m at a table in back. Hope you like cookies, but I didn’t want to guess what you drink.

A surge of anxiety swirls through her belly. She stashes the phone, turns the last corner, and approaches the shop. There’s a bike rack right outside, and she takes her time parking, giving herself the option to bail. She could turn around right now and go home.

But of course, she doesn’t. She throws back her shoulders and opens the door.

And, yup, when she flicks her eyes toward the back wall, she sees him. He looks just like the videos she found on Instagram. Longish hair down to his shoulders and a slim mustache. It looks cool, though, not trashy. More Keanu than Snape.

His band posts promo clips on social media. Playing in a bar. Playing at a wedding. Playing on a party boat in the bay.

She’d left a comment on a recent video. Looks like fun .

She’d basically dared him to notice her, and it worked.

The very next day he requested a connection. Her account is private, so she let the request sit there while she wrestled with herself. In the end, her curiosity outweighed her anger.

She’d answered him, and they’d started talking. Just a little at first. And then multiple times a day. That was a couple of weeks ago. Now she’s a nervous wreck.

Stalling, she heads for the counter, where she orders an iced hibiscus peach tea with lime and mint.

“Two ninety-five,” the cashier requests.

At the last minute, she decides the order sounds too childish. “Wait. Sorry. Can I have a cappuccino instead?”

The cashier gives her a withering look and rings it up again.

She drops a dollar into the tip jar and scrolls her phone while she waits, fighting the urge to finger-comb her hair or check her outfit. This morning she changed her clothes, like seven times. She wants to look good, but also doesn’t want to look like she’s trying to impress him.

It’s a fine line. She’d settled on faded jeans and a Post Malone T-shirt. No makeup.

Way before she’s ready, the barista hands over her drink, and now she’s out of reasons to stand here.

Deep breaths , her mother would say. Though she’d hyperventilate if she knew where Natalie was right now.

That man against the back wall is her father. After all this time.

She turns with forced nonchalance and carries her coffee across the room. He’s spotted her and stands up as she approaches. Even though her knees feel squishy, she forces herself to look him in the eye.

That means lifting her chin. He’s taller than she’d imagined. That shouldn’t be so startling, but it is. And now she’s there at the table and doesn’t know what to do next.

She’s not going to hug him. And shaking hands would be weird. “Hi.” That’s all she’s got as she puts her coffee on the table and sits down.

“Hi,” he says, flashing her a quick smile before dropping back into his seat. He steeples his hands in front of his mouth and blows out a heavy breath. “I wasn’t sure you’d actually come.”

“I almost didn’t.” It comes out sounding a little mean.

All those years wondering why he couldn’t even be bothered to send her a birthday card. All those times people asked, What’s the deal with your father? Not knowing what to say. There’s no good way to tell a friend your father is in prison for beating someone almost to death.

“Yeah, okay. I can understand,” he says softly.

“Can you?” Years of anger seem to be spilling out. And that’s not what she planned.

His expression falls. “Yeah, honey, I can.”

Honey.

He looks down at the table. “You don’t owe me anything. I’m just glad to see your face. All I’ve got to say for myself—and it’s not much—is that when you were small, I didn’t have a lot to offer.”

And now? She’s too chicken to ask it aloud, and sips her coffee instead. It’s so hot that it burns the roof of her mouth.

Across the table, he picks up his drink, too. The sticker on the cup says hibiscus peach iced tea with lime and mint.

Her eyes get weirdly hot. My father . She tries those words out in her head. They’re words she never says aloud. Not if she can help it. But now they’re just sitting here together. Like any father and daughter in a coffee shop.

He nudges a plate toward her. It has four cookies on it, two different kinds. “So I need to know—are you a chocolate person?”

“Well, sure,” she says quickly. “Who isn’t?” She chooses a chocolate crinkle cookie, breaking it in half. He picks up the other half.

They bite. They chew.

I look a little like him , she realizes. It’s his nose and the shape of his face. His voice is lower than she expected it to be. But his hands are the same shape as hers, she realizes.

This is weird.

“Your mom is okay with this?” he asks suddenly.

She almost laughs and gives herself away but then manages to stick to the lie she’d rehearsed ahead of time. “She’s not happy about it.”

His face falls. “I suppose not. But please tell her that I need to speak to her. It’s about some health stuff you guys need to know about my half of the gene pool.”

Oh shit.

She must look surprised, because he frowns. “Nothing to panic over. It’s just that you’re not a little girl anymore, and my side of the family has some particular issues with substance abuse. My mother was an addict. I had my own issues. And a lot of that stuff is genetic, Natty.”

Natty . She hasn’t let her mother call her that in years. But it rolls off his tongue like he thinks of her as Natty in his head.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” she says. “I don’t do drugs. Ever .”

Drugs are, after all, for losers.

“That helps,” he says quietly. “My singular wish is that you can avoid some of the things I went through. It’s why I’d like to talk to your mom.”

Her stomach gives a nervous lurch, because it hadn’t occurred to her that he’d ask that. And she’s not about to relay the message. “I’ll ask her.”

“All right.” Another super-quick smile. “I’m sure you hear this all the time, but you look so much like her. Maybe you got more of her genes than mine.”

“Does it work that way?”

He shrugs. “Didn’t do that well in science class. Ask your mom. She was the smart one in our relationship.”

“She’s still smart,” Natalie says, and it comes out sounding defensive.

He smiles down at the cookie plate. “I don’t doubt it. How’s she doing?”

She hesitates. “I don’t think I should talk about her. She wouldn’t like it.”

“Yeah, fair. And I don’t want you to think I’m pumping you for information. I don’t want either of you to feel uncomfortable that I’m back in town.”

“Then why are you?”

“Opportunities. There are more jobs here, not that mine is special.”

This is a safe line of conversation. “Where do you work?”

“In the kitchen of a touristy restaurant on the waterfront. The same place I met your mom. She was the waitress...”

“And you played in the band on Thursday nights.”

He blinks. “She told you that story?”

“Sure,” she says with a shrug that’s as casual as she can manage. “That’s about all, though. She never talks about you.”

He flinches, but it’s true. Her mother avoids the topic the way you avoid something that hurts. It was such a long time ago, too. He must have put a real dent into her.

But Natalie overhears things. She’s heard her mother tell friends that he’d signed away his parental rights. Just wrote us off like a bad check .

“What do you do at the restaurant?” she asks just to fill the awkward silence.

“Most nights I work the grill. It’s a sweaty job, but the owner is a good guy. Willing to hire someone with a record. Some nights I fill in as the manager, because people keep quitting on him. And you know my other hobby. My band plays here and there around the coast. Mostly in Portland.”

That’s how she’d found him. One day she searched his name and there he was, named on the band’s Instagram account. “Is it the same band you used to play with?”

“Heck no.” He puts down his tea. “Those guys were heavy into drugs, and they pretty much self-destructed. But the new guys don’t do anything harder than light beer, so they’re good company for me. I need to make new friends.”

“Sure,” she chirps. “Like that’s so easy.”

His grin is surprised. “You’re snarky. The last time I saw you, all you could say was Dada and Mama and book .”

“Book?” she asks, studying her coffee cup. But the more interesting word is Dada . She can’t remember what it was like to have someone in her life called Dada .

“You loved books. We carried them with us anywhere we went. You had these little books made out of cardboard—the kind that babies can’t tear. But you chewed on them sometimes.”

It’s like hearing a story about someone else’s life.

“Every night we’d read you a few stories before we put you down to sleep. Then your mom and I would tiptoe around, because it was a small apartment, and we were afraid to wake you up.”

“What kind of stories?” she hears herself ask.

“You liked that monkey—he got into a lot of trouble.”

There’s suddenly a lump in her throat. “Curious George?”

“That’s the guy.” He gives her a sad smile. “Still a big fan, I bet? A little Curious George—a little Post Malone?”

She startles herself by laughing.

“No? What are the cool kids into these days?” He puts a hand over his heart. “If you say Taylor Swift, I can handle it. I swear.”

She laughs again . “Don’t throw shade on TayTay. Mom got us concert tickets last summer. It was a really good time. But we had to drive all the way to Foxboro, and we didn’t get home until five a.m.”

“Aw, you went to a concert with your mom?” His smile is pure delight. It’s a little shocking how happy he looks right now. She had no idea what to expect.

“You think I had a choice? She was paying for those tickets.”

They both smile, but then his expression grows serious. “I hope she calls me. It’s not on you if she doesn’t, but I’d like a chance to apologize to her.”

Oh boy . “She’s got a lot on her plate right now. There’s a lot happening at work.”

“You mean that dead guy?” He rubs his jaw.

“You heard about that?”

“It was on the news.” His gray eyes lift to hers. “They said the mansion’s architect found the body in front of the building. That was her, wasn’t it?”

“Well, yeah.” The back of her neck tingles, because her mother would hate this conversation. Also, she doesn’t remember that detail on the news. Didn’t they say “an employee” found him?

“Is she okay?” he asks quietly. “That’s pretty dark. I’ve been thinking about her.”

“She’ll be okay. She’s tough.” She’s one of the strongest people Natalie knows. Not that she’s ever paid her mother that kind of compliment.

His jaw flexes, and it makes him seem harder. Less familiar. “I know I wasn’t there for your mother when she needed me. But I’m here now, and I’m in a better place.” He raises those gray eyes to hers, and they’re steely. “I’d do anything for you two. You probably don’t believe me, but it’s true.”

That just sounds like an excuse—too little, too late—and she hates herself a little for not calling him on it.

“When can I hear your band?” she asks instead.