My father is dead. I knew it would only be a matter of time but...dead.
There’s no one else now.
I stare at the TV anchor who delivers the news with practiced matter-of-fact coldness her job requires, but the words sting all the same. Just as the TV screen switches to a reel of my father sitting with several government officials at some country club for aristocrats, I see an even more shocking image.
A younger version of myself fills the TV screen.
Oh, shit.
I clamp a hand over my mouth and hold back a groan of frustration, pain, anger. An internal Molotov cocktail of all the above ready to explode inside me.
I look back at the TV. That day I had fire in my eyes and determination spiked through my spine.
But tonight, I just feel tired and scared that someone will recognize me. My eyes dart around but no one is looking at the nobody waitress in her mustard-colored uniform.
Thank God.
The headache I hoped would wait until I clocked out thunders through my brain and bounces off the side of my head, causing tears to sting my eyes. Why? I don’t know, it’s not like he cared about me, but I can’t help the sudden rush of utter despair.
Someone changes the channel and slowly, I can feel the diner’s eyes peel from the screen to land on me, but I don’t make eye contact. I can’t. Hiding among the masses of people and blending in is my specialty.
I shove my pad and pen in my apron pocket, wondering how fast I can make a run for the door. The last thing I need is someone to recognize me and call the authorities thinking they’re ‘doing the right thing.’
Ice runs through my veins about as fast as molasses uphill, and my thoughts jumble in a tangle of knots as each one freezes. I tighten my fingers around my pen and notepad, trying to refocus my eyes, but a full body numbness takes over until I can’t feel the paper in my hands or the pain of losing my last parent, bastard or not.
And what that means for me. I’ll need to pack, leave. Maybe New York this time. I didn’t nearly put enough distance between me and them. Hide under their noses, right? Maybe I’d been wrong. No maybe about it.
“Miss, did you hear me? The house special.” The customer’s words are clipped, rugged like he gargled sand on a nightly basis.
A rough hand clamps down on mine. I jump, pulling my gaze off the TV to look at the man. My attention falls to meet a set of eyes so dark they appear black. It could have been a trick of the eye from the dim lighting or smudged windows blocking out the shine of the parking lot lamps, but the newcomer has a look about him that creeps me out. I jerk my hand back and do my best to hide the tremble in my fingers as I scribble the order down, trying my best for normal or what passes for it.
Unlike the normal customer of the everyday Joe at this hour, this one wore all black. But that wasn’t the odd detail. The way he shifted closer in his booth seat is what caught my eye.
Deep breaths. Don’t lose your shit yet. Not everyone is a mobster. Besides, no one knows where you’re at.
“Uh, yeah. Yeah. Sorry. Got it. Um…house special...coffee and apple pie. Will that be all?” I keep my head down, eyes glued to my pad. I try not to sound rushed but the crank of his bushy eyebrow screams I need more practice at the whole not giving a shit act I am trying to pull off.
He gives me the once over, stopping a little too long on my cleavage before giving me a gruff grunt of approval.
Freak.
Rain pelts the windows and I take the small interruption as my cue to step away as I scribble the order and turn toward the back, but I only make it a couple of steps when the words finally break through the fog of too many hours on my feet.
My father is dead.
Out of a million things I should do right now I stand there like a corpse, unmoving, the signals between my brain and legs severed along the way somewhere. I don’t know how long I stand there trying to breathe and not pass out.
“Sweetie, you okay?”
Sally comes out of the back room, wraps her arms around my shoulders and pulls me in for a tight hug. I block out the laughter from the teens in the back and a pair of newcomers wanting their menus. Someone else can take care of them for a change.
“C’mon, sweetie, talk to me.” Sally shakes my shoulders a little, jarring me back to reality.
“Uh, yeah, I think so. I mean the man might as well be a stranger to me.” But deep inside in a part that I shut off, for the most part, stings with a pang of regret that churns my stomach. “I thought he couldn’t make me cry anymore and here I am about to burst into tears for someone who wanted to sell me.” I recall every last detail Sylan, Drake, and Grey told me.
I lift a shoulder in a defeated shrug. “But I guess that’s not true, huh?” It takes all the effort I have left in me not to break down in the middle of Sally’s diner.
I promised myself no friend after what happened with Nikki, but I guess I suck at that too. Sally is the only one who knows my true identity and who my father is—was. And all the nasty details that led me to her doorstep begging for a job.