“Give me just a minute. Okay?”
“Put on some sweats and let’s go. You look fine. I’m going like this.” He waves a hand at his sweatshirt and jeans. “And your mother isn’t dressing up. It’s just the diner.”
“I know. Okay, hold on.” I find it odd he doesn’t leave my room when I change, but I do it in my walk-in closet so I have privacy. I kick off my pajama bottoms, slip on a pair of black sweats, put on my favorite Nikes and I’m out of the closet in less than two minutes. “I’m ready.”
He strides toward me, grabbing my arm and steering me out of my room. “Let’s go. Like I said, I’m hungry. Can’t wait to dig into my favorite chicken fried steak.”
We pause in the foyer, waiting for my mother.
“The one dish that Mom says will give you a heart attack?” I’m teasing. Mom used to say that to him all the time when we were on a kick one summer and went there almost every Sunday morning for breakfast. She forced us to break the habit, and I remember thinking she was such a buzzkill.
“That’s the one.” He smiles and taps his index finger against my nose. “You like your present?”
“I love it so much.” I wrap him up in another hug, holding him tight. “I know we haven’t really gotten along lately, and I’m sorry. It means so much, that you got me this. It’s all I could ever want.”
“You’re welcome. You know I love you more than anything, right?” He runs his hand over my hair, clutching my head against his chest for a brief moment. The way he does it, just like he used to when I was little and he was my true everything, makes my throat tighten up. And I don’t want to cry.
I’m too happy to cry.
“I love you too,” I whisper, slowly pulling away so I can smile up at him. When I extract myself from his arms, I turn to find my mother watching us, her gaze flashing with irritation.
What, is she jealous of our relationship again? After we just had that talk? All over a piece she probably didn’t want me to have? I don’t get it.
I don’t think I’ll ever understand my mother and her mood swings.
* * *
The French toastis to die for, just as I remember, and the diner is packed with people, every table full and a line of customers waiting to be seated. Christmas music plays over the speakers so loudly, everyone is trying to talk over it, which makes the restaurant beyond noisy, but I am relishing every moment.
Despite my mother’s bad mood.
And my father’s seemingly cagey nervousness.
I’m too happy to let them bother me for long, still giddy over my early Christmas gift. Or birthday gift. I devour my bacon and French toast, drenching it with maple syrup. Tiny pockets of powdered sugar explode in my mouth with the occasional bite, and I have to hold back the rapturous food moans that want to leave me.
Maybe everything tastes better because I’m so happy. This is like…the best day ever. And it’s not even my actual birthday yet.
The only thing missing is Crew. I wish he were here with us to share in this. To celebrate with me. I know he would understand my love for the piece Daddy gave me, and he would be happy for me too. This piece is now mine, forever and always.
It belongs to me.
Like an idiot I forgot to grab my phone when my father rushed me out of my bedroom, eager to get to the diner, and I left it on my nightstand. He wanted to get here quickly since he figured the restaurant would be packed. Who knew so many people went out to breakfast on Christmas Eve?
“Are you happy, Pumpkin?” Daddy asks at one point, when I’m almost finished eating my breakfast. He’s sitting across from me, smiling in that nostalgic way he gets, like he can’t believe I’m not his little girl anymore.
“You don’t even know how happy I am right now,” I tell him with a beaming smile. “I still can’t believe you got it for me.”
Mom has totally checked out, too busy scrolling on her phone.
Unease slips over me and I can’t ignore it, even though I want to. This all feels so familiar, like it used to be between the three of us. What hurts is that I thought we’d fixed this. At least, fixed what was broken between me and Mom. My relationship with my father needed some repair, but I wasn’t too worried about it. I knew he’d come around.
Look at him, making me come around first with his present—like a peace offering. He knew I couldn’t stay mad at him if he gave me the one piece of art I wanted more than anything else in the world.
I’m still having a hard time believing that it’s mine.
My father gets a phone call right when the server drops off our bill at the table and he answers it, rising from the booth seat and covering his phone to whisper to us, “I’ll be right back,” before he exits the restaurant.
The moment he’s gone, I glance over at Mom, who’s sitting directly across from me, her concerned gaze meeting mine. “What’s wrong? Tell me you’re not mad at him for getting that piece for me. I know it must’ve cost a lot, but I love it so, so much and I swear I’ll—”