Chapter Seven
Sammy
“There’s no food-food here.” Will, looked at the remaining groceries I had picked up the day before.
Had he been anybody but a daddy, I’d have argued that protein bars, peanut butter, and potato chips were food and would get the job done. But he was a daddy, and that wouldn’t fly with him.
“That’s fine. I’ll make a run to the store tomorrow.” I had planned on buying some coffee anyway. Running on soda wasn’t cutting it.
We’d been working all day and gotten so much done. We hadn’t had a real meal, despite being here through lunch, and I was starting to feel bad about that. Honestly, I’d forgotten to eat after the oatmeal cups for breakfast and only grabbed a protein bar when Daddy had told me to take a break.
It was nice being able to think of him as Daddy, pretend or not.
It made the day go by so much easier. When I got stuck on a decision, I left it to Daddy.
When I was overwhelmed by a memory, Daddy to the rescue.
When I got a splinter, once again it was Daddy time.
The rent-a-daddy thing was great with one exception—it didn’t feel so pretend some of the time. I needed to be careful.
“How about this? Let’s head to town and check out the diner?” he suggested.
I’d visited the diner plenty of times over the years.
It was a pretty consistent place with the same server and cook the entire time I’d been going there. They were cousins and ran the place since they took over from their parents. The only thing that varied were the dishwashers who changed yearly and were usually high school kids.
I hadn’t been there since my grandpa died, though, and that had me on edge.
I wasn’t sure I was ready for them to comment on my being back or mention Grandpa.
But it was either go, or throw a protein bar at Will and say, “Sorry you did all this work, but I’m not feeding you anything decent. ” He deserved better.
I drove us the short distance and pointed out all my favorite places along the way.
My favorite tree, the one I was sure was full of fairies as a kid because it had a shovel the trunk had grown around.
Why I thought those two things were related, was beyond me, but I’d been sure.
I pointed out the turnoff to the park I loved, which was less of a park and more of a single swing set and a field.
And of course, the center of town where they held their local farmer’s market and my grandpa always got me chocolate milk.
Will listened like I was giving him the most interesting information there was, instead of boring old small-town facts. Talking about the familiar places made pulling up to the diner easier. Unlike when we left the cabin, I was ready, ready to go inside.
“I used to come here a lot with my grandpa. He liked their pancakes best.” He used to tell me my grandmother only had one fault, and that was making bad pancakes.
I was an adult when I discovered that was because she made a version she learned from her grandmother which was much eggier than the kind I grew up with.
I suspected they were great, just not cakey enough for Grandpa.
“Is that what you’re going to have?”
“Probably.” I hadn’t planned on it, but now that it was in my head, it sounded like the perfect first meal at the diner since coming back.
We went inside and slid into a booth. Kyle was on the grill, Martha waiting tables, and some kid in the back was complaining that the dishwasher was too hot.
Nothing had changed, and I was grateful, because coming here and having it be all foo-foo with all new people would’ve been too much for me to handle today.
“Haven’t seen you in a while,” Martha said, setting two glasses of water on the table. “Sorry to hear about your grandpa.”
“Thanks.” It could have been worse. They could’ve not heard the news, then I’d be the one to have to tell them.
They could’ve asked how I was doing, and, while it was true I was holding it together, talking about that would have had me tearing up.
Once again, I suspected the great caretaker was to thank.
I owed them a huge gift basket or lots of cash. Possibly both.
We both ordered pancakes with eggs and bacon. Because bacon.
“Are you sure you’re okay with breakfast for dinner?” I asked.
“They were your grandfather’s favorite. I want to try them. I love places like this. They’re so much better than the chains with no personalities.”
“Same. When I was little, my grandfather told them how I like this cartoon with a bear, and they used to make the pancakes in the shape of bears for me, and they kept doing it till I was probably fifteen and I decided I was too cool and told them not to anymore. I kind of wish they still made them like that. Now, silly me back then, I thought growing up meant getting rid of things you loved.”
“A lot of people do.”
“I’ll be right back,” I excused myself to go to the restroom. I needed the break. Talking about the pancakes and my grandfather had me emotional. If we’d been back at the cabin, I wouldn’t have minded, but here in public, it felt too exposed.
When I came back, it was to a tall glass of chocolate milk. They made the kind with syrup, and I could see where it wasn’t quite mixed up.
“I thought you could use this.”
“I really can.” I stirred it up, scraping every last bit of syrup off the side of the glass. “This is the best kind of chocolate milk.”
“I’m glad you approve.”
He started telling me about the fishing trip, and we barely got past their arrival when our pancakes came.
Daddy’s were nice round cakes and mine…teddy bears.
“You remembered, Martha. Thank you.” My voice cracked.
“I had someone remind me.” She winked. “Enjoy them.”
“You did this?”
He nodded. “Sometimes we need to keep the things we love, even if we are too big.”