Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
CHLOE
My heart roars in my ears as I reach for Rick’s arm so Ethan doesn’t haul him out the door. For some stupid reason, when Rick didn’t show up for dinner the other day, I thought that meant he wasn’t coming to town.
Looks like I was wrong.
“Hey, Rick,” I say through a tight smile. “Why don’t you come outside so we can talk?” That way, the barnacles can’t start a brawl.
Tomorrow, all three of them are getting free coffee.
I twist my head toward the back of the coffee shop.
“Mrs. Nelson?” I call out. Our cook pops her head out of the kitchen door, her eyes narrowing when she sees Rick.
“Do you mind taking the register for a bit?” I ask, untying my apron and stuffing it under the counter.
There’s no telling how long this is going to take.
“Sssorry I didn’t… make it the other night, kiddo,” Rick slurs at me between hiccups, his smile lopsided, oblivious to the fact that everyone is watching.
You’d think, by now, I’d be used to being let down. For some reason, my stubborn heart refuses to give up hope on the man who sired me. Mom washed her hands of him twenty years ago, but not me. Every time he comes to town, this hopeful heart of mine ends up bruised.
Last time we spoke, he had given up drinking.
Looks like the dry spell didn’t last.
“You could’ve at least texted me,” I say, avoiding Ethan’s piercing gaze as I loop my arm around Rick’s lower back.
I’m going to forgive my old man for not only embarrassing the heck out of me at work, but for also standing me up the other night—that’s what I do.
He screws up, and I let him off the hook.
But I’ll be damned if I bite my tongue when it comes to how much he hurt me when he didn’t show up.
“I worked all day and was starving. I ended up waiting for you for over an hour. All it would’ve taken was one text. ”
Rick shuffles along beside me, each foot catching the other.
He’s lost weight since I last saw him, but when he slings his arm across my shoulder, it feels heavier than ever. “I’m a liiittle behind on my cell phone payments, and thossse bastards cut me off,” he complains.
It’s a tired story I’ve heard before. Always someone else’s fault, never his. It doesn’t matter whether or not it’s true, I suppose. What’s done is done. “It’s fine, Rick.”
He turns his glassy blue eyes on me. “I haven’t seen my baby girl in months and I don’t even get a ‘Dad?’”
From the corner of my eye, I see Ethan stiffen.
So much for keeping my personal life under wraps.
Maybe I would call Rick “Dad” if he acted like one. If he came by to actually visit me instead of only turning up to ask for things.
When I was a kid, I thought he could do no wrong... that my mom was just being mean when she talked about him.
Then, when I turned sixteen, I got my first job at the Dairy Dip. Late one Friday afternoon, my dad broke down in tears in front of everyone, begging for my cut of the tips so he could buy himself dinner.
Twenty minutes later, I saw him coming out of the liquor store with a bottle of whiskey tucked under his arm.
I tug open the front door of Mugs, bringing him outside into yet another beautiful, sunny day with no sign of the storm Ethan is so worried about. “What brings you back?” I mutter.
Rick’s dry, cracked palm smooths over my cheek. It smells like he used whiskey for aftershave. “Just wanted to see my little girl. What do you ssssay to a re-do tonight? We can sssswing by Grandma’s for crab cakes.”
“I had Grandma’s the other night.”
“El Guaco”—hiccup—“Taco?”
“I’m not really in the mood for Mexican food.” The spices don’t agree with my stomach. “Besides, there’s a storm heading our way, and I still have a lot of stuff to do here.” It’s as good an excuse as any. If there’s work to be done, Rick is sure to head in the opposite direction.
He tugs out of my grip, blinking at me through eyes the same shade as mine. “Come on, Clo. I’m only in town for a cooouple days.”
For a second, I glimpse the man who taught me how to surf. The one who used to play soccer with me on the beach. The one who always insisted that every proper family photograph should be followed by one with silly faces. My heart twists at the few precious memories from my childhood.
Would one dinner really be so bad? I do have to eat. “Maybe we can get takeout from Burger Shack,” I say. That’s Inner Shores’ rip-off of Burger King, only instead of a crown, kids get a paper kite that no one can seem to figure out how to fly.
“Faaaantastic. What time do you finish up here?” He squints down at his watch that I’m pretty sure doesn’t even work.
“I’ll be locking up at three.” Hopefully, that’ll give him enough time to sober up.
“Three it is,” he mutters, sinking onto the bench at the front of the building.
He can’t be serious. I can’t have him sitting there drunk for the next two hours—or worse, passing out where everyone can see him. “How about you wait for me in the car?”
Slowly, he nods. I run back inside to grab my keys, avoiding Ethan’s gaze. He’s stepped out of the line, letting Mr. and Mrs. Beeman from the hardware store go ahead of him. I grab one of our takeaway mugs and fill it from the sink before digging my keys out of my purse.
Back outside, I nearly pull my back out helping Rick to his feet.
He shuffles across the gravel and practically falls into the front seat of my car.
I close the door for him and run around to the driver’s side to start up the engine and lower the window.
He’s already snoring, so I leave the water in the cupholder, turn off the ignition, and head back into Mugs.
Mrs. Beeman always orders the same thing—a non-fat vanilla latte with an extra shot of espresso. I get to work making it in her favorite blue-and-white pinstriped mug, while her husband decides on a green tea. The two of them take seats by the window.
Ethan steps up to the counter, his face still caught in a frown. “He’s the guy who stood you up, isn’t he?”
I really wish he’d go back to talking about the storm.
“That’s him.”
My neighbor looks like he has a bunch of questions on the tip of his tongue, but the last thing I want is to dive into my very complicated family dynamic with someone who has one foot in this place and one foot out.
Serious conversations don’t belong in summer flings—or, spring flings, I guess.
So I slip on my best smile and say, “What can I get you? A coffee?”
He drags a hand down the back of his neck. “Just a Reuben, please.”
“To go?”
He glances out the door, then back to me. “I’ll have it here, actually.”
Really? He came in here all gung-ho, and now he has time to sit around? “Don’t you have to prep for the big storm?”
“It can wait.”
Is this regimented man putting off his storm prep just to keep an eye out for me?
My stomach does a little flip as I search the shelves for the perfect mug, passing over the poop emoji one for a cream ceramic mug with the cutest little pug on the front. Perfect.
Mrs. Nelson bumps my hip when I head back to the kitchen to give her Ethan’s order. “Oh, ho,” she singsongs. “Things must be heating up between you and the boy next door.”
I clip the ticket onto the line above the grill, hating that I can feel my cheeks turning red.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” We’re barely acquaintances. I tried to flirt with him, and he thought I was actually asking to borrow his hammer.
“You gave him the pug mug. That one is your favorite.”
Not true. “I gave him the first mug I reached for.”
Do I like that one? Of course. I like all the mugs customers have brought me through the years. Does it make me extra happy to see Ethan drinking from it? Maybe a little.
What can I say? Rick is in town. I need to find joy wherever I can.
“If you say so,” she hums, a sparkle in her eye as she drags out two pieces of rye bread.
Whatever. I don’t need folks reading into the mugs I hand out to people. They usually reflect my mood—or in the case of the poop emoji, the customers’ mood—but not this time. This time, a mug is a mug. I named this place “Mugs,” for goodness’ sake.
Ethan may be crazy-hot with a body I’d love to use as my own personal jungle gym, and that clipped, pissed-off tone he gets does weird things to my insides, but I’m not stupid enough to fall for him for real.
The Burger Shack is just that: a shack.
The concrete building painted with red and white stripes has a sloped tin-roof and two windows at the front: one where you order and a second where you pick up your food.
There’s enough grease hanging in the air to clog your arteries, but as long as I don’t eat here more than once every two weeks, I figure my body can take it.
After sleeping for the last two hours, Rick hoovers food into his mouth like he hasn’t eaten in days. Given his emaciated-looking arms and gaunt cheeks, he probably hasn’t. “Looks like Mugs is doing well,” he mumbles around a huge bite of his second burger, mustard smeared across his stubbled chin.
His second burger that I paid for because he “accidentally” left his wallet in his truck. When I asked where his truck was, he said he left it at the Sand Dollar.
Heaven forbid he come straight to see his only child. No, no. His favorite bar stool was far more important.
At least he didn’t drive drunk.
Small mercies.
Lola must not be working today. Otherwise, she would have texted to give me a heads-up that Rick was here.
I swirl a fry in ketchup, not really wanting to talk to him about my business.
I want to make my dad proud of me as much as anyone else, but every time he sees me succeeding, I get the feeling that my success pisses him off.
So I downplay it as much as possible. Instead of saying we’re having our most prosperous year, and that I’m thinking of adding an outdoor seating area, I go with something more neutral. “I guess so.”
“What are you talking about?” He snorts. “The place was packed, and the season hasn’t even started.”