3. Happy Meal Choices
HAPPY MEAL CHOICES
Instead of getting back on the interstate, he eases the truck forward into a parking space and kills the engine.
Annabelle unbuckles herself and scrambles into the front seat like it’s a well-worn ritual, settling on the center console and making grabby hands for her Happy Meal.
Her dad unwraps each item with deliberate care, setting them neatly back into the box and placing the toy on the dash, out of reach.
She lets out a tiny whine in protest, which he silences with a firm, yet loving, look and a soft, “You know the rules.”
She huffs but doesn’t push it, getting comfortable on her perch, knee bouncing as she digs into her food. Only then does he pull out his meal and pass the bag my way. The smell of grease, salt, and cheap beef wafts from the brown paper, overwhelming my senses. My stomach grumbles in appreciation.
I’ve eaten my fair share of similar meals over the past few days, but somehow this feels different.
The first bite hits my tongue, and my whole body reacts like it’s been deprived of this small delicacy all my life.
I try to pace myself, but each mouthful is an explosion of flavor until I’m licking my fingers, chasing the last trace of salt.
A grin sneaks onto my face as I fish a large packet of fries from the bottom of the bag.
“Wanna share ketchup, Finley?” Annabelle asks, voice all syrupy sweetness. “Owie doesn’t like it, so he gives me his extras.”
“Sure—”
I barely get the word out before she’s wriggling off the console and right into my lap.
I guess ketchup is best shared up close and personal.
Still, I shoot a quick glance at her dad, bracing for a get-your-hands-off-my-daughter look.
I’m not a parent, and probably never will be, but even I know most fathers don’t take kindly to strangers getting too close to their kids.
He doesn’t look upset. He just watches her with soft eyes, a tiny crinkle at the corner of his mouth when he smiles at her. The affection radiates off him like heat.
I try to tamp down the bitter twist low in my gut, that ugly, sinking feeling I don’t want to acknowledge. She’s his whole tiny world in that moment; everyone else, me included, is background static as he orbits her.
I try to think if I’ve ever caught my parents looking at me that fondly.
They care about me. At least, I think they do. They were at every school play, shuttled me around to endless activities, and celebrated all my accomplishments with obligatory Facebook posts. I never wanted for anything growing up—except maybe more affection. But I can’t exactly fault them for that.
I was a lot as a kid. A loud, excitable, constant flurry of motion.
Too much for people who preferred quiet order.
Despite their attempt at patience, I could still see the exhaustion in their eyes.
The unvoiced wish that they could have an easier kid.
One who didn’t dislocate their shoulder three times jumping from the same treehouse, after being repeatedly told not to.
Or…cut the fingertips off every pair of gloves the family owned, thanks to a random impulse.
They love me, but I don’t think they ever quite got me. Not the way he seems to get her—like her noise and constant movement aren’t things to manage, but things to marvel at.
There’s a ridiculous part of me that’s jealous. Not because I want what she has, exactly. Because for one stupid heartbeat, I wish it were me holding his attention like that. Which is crazy. I know.
Completely unaware of my inner turmoil, Annabelle launches into a detailed, play-by-play account of her day, not once stopping for air.
She spills the tea on who snubbed who at the playground, Bobby’s talent for firing milk out of his nose—somehow equally gross and impressive—and how she took out her pigtails because Alex Crenshaw kept tugging on them.
Honestly, Alex sounds like a piece of shit, and by the time she finally pauses to pull in a deep breath and another mouthful of fries, I’m ready to hike to the playground and give that delinquent child a piece of my mind. One look at her dad’s face tells me I’d at least have backup.
She drifts into silence once our fries are gone, ketchup smeared on her cheeks, crumbs clinging to her sweatshirt.
She blinks a sleepy smile at her dad as he hands her the little toy—a tiny figurine from a show I don’t recognize.
I wonder if the toys are getting smaller, or if I’ve outgrown their magic.
Annabelle seems content with her prize, hugging it against her chest, and tracing the purple braid on the character’s head with one tiny, reverent finger.
“Time to get home, I think.” He guides her back into the car seat and checks the belt is clipped correctly into place.
I gather our trash and take it to the can by the entrance, letting the moment stretch just long enough to remind myself this time with them is temporary.
It’s coming to an end faster than I’m comfortable with.
The thought of being alone again, after feeling this small taste of normal, hits with a coldness that rivals the evening chill.
He’s waiting by the truck when I wander back, arms folded across his broad chest, gaze as undressing as ever. Everything about him—the quiet, the solidity, the way he seems unshakable—makes something inside me go soft and small.
I can’t remember the last time anyone held me for longer than it takes to give an awkward one-armed church hug.
I catch myself wondering what would happen if I stepped forward and said, Hey, can you hold me for a minute?
The need to feel someone’s arms around me isn’t remotely sexual, but the desire to feel protected leaves me fighting for my life against the impulse.
He’d leave me in this parking lot without a second thought if he knew the ideas running through my head, and I’d rather not have to walk back to the truck stop in the dark. I’d rather not have to go there at all. Perhaps there’s a gas station he can drop me off at instead on his way back into town.
“Where are you headed, Finley?” he asks once I’m back within earshot.
I shrug. “Hadn’t figured that out yet.”
“The plates on your car were from Washington State.”
“Yeah.” I shrug. “That was home.”
“Not anymore?”
“I guess not.”
I leave it at that. How can I begin to explain it could still be home—should still be—if whatever’s burning inside me hadn’t driven me out? Most people have a good reason for running: escaping abuse, persecution, heck, a warrant. Not me.
I just didn’t have a reason not to run either.
How do I explain that relentless itch to up and move?
To get behind the wheel and drive until the world blurred into nothing but the road ahead.
Destination unimportant. Just away from the guilt of failing to be enough, the constant pressure to contort myself into boxes I wasn’t made to fit.
To leave behind all the people I only ever let down.
It felt so good. The hum of the highway under my tires, the illusion of giving in to the part of myself that was tired of masking, tired of suppressing, tired of just…existing. It felt like freedom.
Until this morning, when I stepped into a small-town cafe run by a quiet man and his bright, curious daughter.
If I’m being honest with myself, that’s where the road really ended, not thirty minutes later, when my car came to a spluttering stop.
Because for the first time since leaving Vancouver, that’s when I felt something dangerously close to scared.
No, that’s not quite it. Adrift, maybe?
And the need to be anchored again came barreling in.
He’s still waiting for me to elaborate, but I don’t say any of it. How could I? All the twisting, messy pieces of who I am, what I’ve been running from, how terrified and exposed I suddenly feel. I’d sound insane, like a complete lunatic. So I keep my lips sealed tight.
“Well, how about you stay with Annabelle and me tonight? In the morning, you can reassess.”
My mouth drops open. The sane thing would be to refuse, but not a single atom in my body wants to worry about where I’ll lay my head tonight.
If I do manage to hitch a ride with a trucker, it’s not like I could fall asleep.
That would be the stupidest thing I could do.
But my car, which has been my temporary home, is too far away for my tired bones to reach.
“Your wife wouldn’t mind?” I ask.
Okay, maybe I’m fishing. The kid now fast asleep in the back didn’t appear out of nowhere.
Someone contributed the other half of her DNA, and is probably still very much in the picture.
The last thing I want is to derail some poor woman’s evening by following her husband home like a love-sick puppy.
“Maybe, if I had one.”
He flashes his left hand in proof, glorious bare finger and all.
I’d noticed the missing ring earlier, one of the few details my frantic brain hunted for when I’d careened into his cafe this morning.
However, as a baker, it wasn’t unreasonable to assume he wouldn’t wear one.
Still, it makes my foolish heart skip a beat as if someone like me could ever have a chance with a man like him.
Not married doesn’t mean not taken, Finley.
“You’re sure?”
“About not being married, or about you coming home with me?”
It’s not a come-on. Not a fucking come on. But God, it feels like one.
“‘Cause I’m sure about both. Now get in before Annabelle wakes up and we have to endure the Moana soundtrack the rest of the way home.”
I scoff. “You say like it’s a bad thing.”
That earns me a low, rumbling chuckle as he opens the passenger door and holds out a hand to help me inside.
My skin tingles where it meets his. For the briefest of moments, his fingers close around mine before releasing just as quickly.
That tiny, almost inconsequential intimacy sets my whole world ablaze.
“Wait.” I realize before he can shut the door. “You never told me your name.”
“Owen McKay.”