Chapter 4 When I Grow Up
WHEN I GROW UP
My bedroom door opens, pulling me from sleep as Mom pokes her head into my room. “Happy birthday, baby girl!” she whisper-shouts, and from behind her, I hear Dad, “Is it awake?”
There’s a scuffle at the door before it’s swung wide and Dad steps inside, boasting the geekiest of outdoorsmen gear.
His shorts are pulled up to there, belted in place over the shirt he’s tucked into his shorts, and his socks stretch for his knees.
He’s wearing the tackle hat I made for him when I was eight, adorned with fishing hooks sans hook, making the top of his head look like something the Lucky Charms box vomited.
“Up and at ‘em, kiddo.”
Dropping my head back into my pillow, I bury my face as I groan loudly. “Dad, you can’t wear that.”
“I can and do. Every year.” It gets more and more embarrassing every year. “Chop, chop. I hear Cherry’s has fresh cinnamon buns, long as a man gets there before nine.”
“It’s my birthday.” I grump, but I’m already throwing back the covers, resigned to a day of fishing. It is, after all, tradition. “Shouldn’t I be allowed to sleep in on my birthday?”
“Nope.” Dad’s already marching from my room. I watch, amused, as Mom’s eyes follow. The man looks ridiculous, but she looks hopelessly in love with him. It makes me smile.
I want that someday. I want to look at a man like Mom looks at Dad.
I want to look at Holt like that.
Dad hollers, “The fish wait for no one!”
I holler back, “They aren’t jumping ponds.”
“Wilder things have happened.”
Wilder. Like Holt Wilder. I wonder what Holt’s doing this morning.
Argh. I’m obsessed.
Mom’s eyes drift back to me. “Chop, chop, baby girl. Your father has been dying to try Cherry’s cinnamon buns. He’s been three times and they’ve been sold out every time.”
“Tell him to fix his pants, and I’ll hurry,” I barter.
She makes a point of considering, then says, “Deal.”
Cherry’s is sold out of cinnamon buns, and I did hurry.
“It’s eight in the morning. Who has been here to buy you out already?” Dad demands, exasperated. At least his pants aren’t up to there, anymore.
“Herman Wilder was here first thing.” Cherry, the diner’s namesake, is a wildcard of a woman with a sharply pointed nose, and big cartoon eyes.
Her thick hair is cut in a bob she’s died a bright cherry red to match the paint on her lips and polish on her nails.
The red and black polka-dot nametag pinned to the matching, nineteen-fifties-in-style, apron, reads, ‘Cherry’ in thick, bright red bubbly retro font.
It matches the front sign that’s been tacked to the bright blue painted wood siding out front.
Cherry’s Diner is kind of a mess, but I figure that’s where it gets its charm.
If I didn’t want to be like Mom when I grew up, I think I’d want to be like her. There’s something about her that just feels carefree and right. She’s her own person, through-and-through, and that’s attractive.
Dad’s foot slides from a white checker square tile to a black. His hip pops to one side, and he plants a big hand on it. “What time is first thing?”
“Six AM,” Cherry says, an amused smile slanting red lips. “He’s got his guys working overtime this weekend to finish up a big reno for Mrs. Crawley up on Mount-U Road.
The mention of Mount-U Road has a flush tinting my skin that Mom doesn’t miss. I ignore a raised brow, giving my undivided attention to the treat shelf advertising all the other goodies Cherry’s has to offer that aren’t her famous sticky cinnamon buns.
Dad sighs, resigned. “Well, what do you recommend to replace the rolls, Cherry?” Cherry leans into the register, like she’s going to tell Dad a secret worth the weight of gold in sugar. “The cinnamon buns are good. Stellar, even, but…”
Dad’s leaning in too, now, and I swear, he’s holding his breath as he holds out for whatever tidbit of sugary info, she’s about to deal him.
Mom snorts, and Cherry’s eyes flick up to her. She winks, and yep—I want to be Cherry when I grow up.
“But what?” Dad has missed the whole exchange. He’s chasing a sugar high Cherry is dangling on a string he can’t quite catch.
“But my personal fav are these little guys right here.” Cherry taps the display with her glossy red nail. “These babies are the hidden gem of Rubble Ridge. Everyone who knows a good treat knows these are the thing to scoop up.”
My eyes fall to the treat as Cherry continues, “A fresh baked croissant smothered in my signature glaze—which is the best glaze ever, by the way—drizzled in warm chocolate icing. It’s an ooey-gooey, melt-in-your-mouth sweet treat that is sure to please.”
She missed a career in car sales.
Dad is sold. Hands down, salivating over the ooey-gooey description of a fresh-baked sugar bomb. “I’ll take six of those.” He pauses, and with a tap of one finger to his chin, considers. “You know what, make it nine.”
Cherry grins like the black cat that got the cream. “I’ll throw in an extra, because I think you’re going to be one of my best customers.”
Mom cackles. Cherry shoots her another wink.
Yeah, I want to be Cherry. She’s awesome.
“You really like the boy, the Wilder boy,” Mom says around a big bite of the treat that, Cherry was right, is way better than a cinnamon bun.
I shrug, licking the icing off my thumb.
“Oh, come on.” She bumps my shoulder with hers. “Tell me.”
“I like him.”
“You’ve been spending a lot of time together,” she prompts, and I blush as I swing my legs over the side of the tailgate. “Has he asked you to be his girlfriend?”
“He asked.”
“And you said…”
“I said yes.” I’ve never lied to my mom. We’ve always been close, and I want it to stay that way. But talking to her about Holt is—it’s different. I don’t know how I feel about it just yet.
She sucks in a breath. “Your first boyfriend. You’re growing up.”
I shoot her a side grin. “I’m fifteen now. Besides, there was Ethan.”
“We both know that’s not the same.” Throwing her arm over my shoulders, she tugs me in for a quick kiss to my hair.
“Hey,” Dad shouts from the water. “Am I fishing alone, now?”
“Of course not,” Mom calls. For my ears only, she says quieter, “He’s so needy.”
“We better go catch a fish.” I slide off the tailgate with my rod in hand. “If we don’t, we’ll be here all day.”
“You’re just trying to get out of boy talk with your mom,” Mom accuses.
She’s not entirely wrong.
Line already cast, Dad twists at the waist. “Now you’re talking about boys without me? What is this, ditch Dad on his special day, day?”
Standing close, I can’t help the smile as I look up at Dad in his hat that I made for him for Father’s Day when I was eight. He wears the sloppy craft with such pride. Even though he looks ridiculous in it, my heart can’t help but burst with pride.
Dad is the best.
“Sorry to break it to you, Dad, but I think it’s my special day.”
He drops a thick arm around my shoulders, giving me a gentle squeeze. He sighs, melodramatic. “I think you’re old enough now—fifteen and all—to know that I put a lot of work into creating you. A lot. Sweat, tears, other bod—”
I shove from his hold. “Eww, Dad, no.”
Mom laughs, a high, full sound as she joins us. If there’s something they’ve never shied away from talking to me about as I got older, it was sex, and the risks of it. Mom and Dad are nothing if not honest to a fault.
Dad frowns. “Not eww. Reality.”
“Doug.” Mom rolls her eyes. “She gets the logistics.” I think I’m in the clear, saved by Mom before she adds, “She knows what goes in to making a baby. So, she knows it’s really my special day, considering I’m the one who did all the work.”
I should have known better to think, for once, that Mom wasn’t right there, redlining the crazy barometer with Dad.
“You guys have issues,” I mutter.
Dad reels in his line and lets it fly again. But there’s a happy smile on his face, the kind of smile that can be dimmed by nothing, and no one. He’s with his girls, wearing his hat, in nature. This is his element, his happiest place, and it makes me happy to see it.
“Happy Birthday Mom and Dad,” I say, smiling just as wide.
“Happiest day of my life,” Dad says.
Mom comes closer. Dropping a kiss to my temple, she blinks misty eyes and says, “Mine too.”
I have really great parents.