“Morning, kiddo,” he says, taking a loud sip from his mug.
“Hey, Dad. Hungry?”
He pats his stomach. “Always.”
I chuckle. “I’ll make breakfast.”
“French toast?”
“You’re supposed to be eating more heart-conscious things, which I’m pretty sure means not drowning your breakfast in sugary syrup.”
“I’m an old man, Summer. Cut me a break, will you?”
I roll my eyes. “I’ll see what I can do.”
I move around the kitchen, frying up some turkey bacon—which my father hates but eats anyway—egg-white scramble, and a stuffed French toast that I’m hoping will help curb his sweets craving so he can forgo the syrup.
By the time it’s done, he’s already pouring another cup of coffee and setting the table.
I like this. It reminds me of old times when I was a teenager and we’d do this every Saturday morning. It was the only time of the weekhe’d block off. He wouldn’t allow anyone to bother him until at least noon, and never a second before.
“This looks great,” he says, stabbing his fork into his hot-sauce-covered eggs. “I mean, I’d prefer real bacon, but you know I’ll eat anything you make.”
“You heard your doctor, Dad. Small changes lead to big results.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, then takes a bite of the bacon. I don’t miss his wince as he chews and swallows.
I wonder briefly what it would be like if my mother were still here. Would she make him eat healthier too? Or would she fry him up “real bacon” because that’s what he wanted?
I don’t know, but I do know that I’m doing the best I can to keep my dad around as long as possible, so if that means having to hear him bitch about the turkey bacon, then that’s what I’ll do.
“So, I was driving through Port Harbor the other day, and I noticed that Mr. Looper—you remember him, right?”
I nod. “He used to give out full bars of candy on Halloween. It was the good stuff too. Of course I remember him.”
Dad chuckles. “Well, he’s moving to Arizona to be closer to his grandkids and is putting his house up for rent. Just, uh, just something I noticed. You know, if you decided to stay.”
I peek up at my father. This isn’t the first time he’s made a comment like this since I’ve been back. I know he loves me and wants me to do whatever makes me happy, even if that does include going back to Chicago.
But it is the first time I’ve truly heard his words, and that’s all thanks to Ezra putting ideas in my head.
Moving back here wouldn’t be the worst thing. I could see myself here easily. Having breakfast with my dad every Saturday morning. Walking along the harbor, hiking the nearby trails on my days off. Having my own restaurant.
I could see it all. But is that what I want? I know nothing would make my dad happier than to have me close again. He let me go thefirst time all those years ago, but I know it wasn’t easy for him to do, especially not since I’m all he has left.
My heart aches at the thought of my father here alone, navigating all this medical stuff by himself. What if something else happens? Could I live with myself if I left again and I got another—a worse—call in the middle of the night?
No. I couldn’t.
But could I live with myself if I gave up my dream of having my own kitchen entirely?
Also no.
“Ezra told me he’s going to overhaul the menu at Stick Taps and asked me to be their head chef.”
The words come out quickly, almost like I’m afraid to say them, and maybe I am.
Honestly, I don’t even knowwhyI said them. I already told Ezra no.
