almost seems like you miss me or something today. Or maybe you’re bored. Is that it?
His reply is immediate.
Jake: I just got everything done so quickly without having to wait for you to climb into the truck that I’ve run out of stuff to do. And so now, yeah, I’m bored.
Me: Sure. Blame it all on me.
Jake: What else am I supposed to do? I can’t LIE to you, Holley.
I shake my head. For some reason, when he picks on me, it always makes me feel good. I guess it’s something about the way he does it.
Me: I have to go. I’m supposed to meet my dad for lunch in fifteen minutes.
Jake: YOUR DAD? And you didn’t invite me? How is this possible?
I smile as I type.
Me: Because you’re BA, not me. I don’t have to open the trapdoor to my life. lol
Jake: Yeah, but…it’s your dad. He seems so fun.
Me: Maybe you can meet him one day. When this is all over.
Jake: You promise?
Me: Sure.
Jake: I’m holding you to that.
I’m not sure why, but it kind of feels like I just signed an oath in blood.
I drop my phone into the cupholder and start the engine. It’s like an oven in here, and I’m sweating profusely, but when I was texting with Jake, I was too preoccupied to notice.
I back out of the spot and take off. Lord knows, I have to get to the restaurant quick, or I’ll have to risk eating penalty pickles.
Trust me, it’s a long story.
The clock on my dash reads three minutes past twelve, so I’m barely even in the spot before I slam on the brakes, engage the emergency brake, shut off the engine, and jump out like my ass is on fire.
My dad is already inside, of that much I’m sure, but I can only hope he has his watch set a few minutes behind the clock in my car.
I bob and weave through the crowd of people at the front entrance, trying to make my way into the restaurant and scan the tables quickly for his big, freckled, bald head. It sticks out in a crowd and I find it fairly quickly, and I’m not all that ashamed to admit, I actually elbow a couple people out of my way to clear a path to the table.
On quick feet, I book it double time and slide into the booth like I’m diving onto the top end of a slip ’n slide.
My dad watches it all, waiting for me to sit up and look him in his faded-gray eyes.
“You’re late.” He turns his wrist and clicks his watch to stop the timer, and my shoulders sag in defeat. Dang it.
“Looks like you owe me four pickles, Holl.”
“Maybe your watch is fast, Dad. I mean, it could be—”
“This is a Casio G-Shock Tactical watch, Holley Marie,” he cuts off my excuses. “It’s a military watch, and the military doesn’t make mistakes.”
I narrow my eyes at him, but I don’t argue. There’s no arguing with Phil Fields about time. I know better.
“Four minutes late equals four picks.”
“Will I ever outgrow the pickle penalty?” I whine. “I’m thirty-three, Dad.”
“I don’t care how old you are, doll. You don’t outgrow the penalty. There is a way to beat it, though. You stop—”
“Being late. Yeah, I know,” I grumble, and a hearty chuckle escapes his throat and vibrates his rounded belly.
And right on cue, as if he freaking timed it, a waitress drops off a plate of pickles, and it only encourages more damn chuckles from Phil Fields.
Oh yeah, just yuk it up at my expense, old man.
“I don’t understand why you hate the penalty so much,” he says once he gets control of his hilarity. “You like pickles. It’s why I picked ’em in the first place.”
“I like pickles when I want to eat pickles,” I counter. “They taste different when they’re punishment.”
He shakes his head in amusement. “Girl, there are some parts of you I’ll never understand. Like a four-thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle, I swear.”
“You like my complication,” I challenge, and his responding grin is affectionate.
“I do. You and your mother, both complex women. Never loved two of ya’s more, though, that’s for sure.”
I smile as he mentions my mom and force myself to start munching on the stupid pickles. They’re good here, I’ll at least give them that. Garlicky without being too much.
“Am I really like her?” I ask, only a hint of sadness tingeing my words. Sometimes I miss the fact that I didn’t