Even still, I watch my father carefully, gauging his reaction.
His next bite hovers in the air as he raises his brows at me. “Oh? And?”
“And that’s it. I told him no.”
His eyes—the same brown as my own—fall to slits for only a moment before he says, “Okay.”
Okay.
That’s it, but it sounds like so much more than just that.
It sounds likeWhat the hell were you thinking?andYou should have told him yes.
I hate that he doesn’t say the words out loud. It would be better if he did. It’s worse just being stared at like this.
He takes another bite, chews, then swallows.
“Do you have anything else to add?” I finally ask.
“Sure don’t, kiddo.”
“Oh, come on. You clearly have an opinion about this. You ate that piece of turkey bacon without making a face, so this must be bothering you more than that. If you have something to say, then say it, old man.”
He sets his fork down, then rests back against his chair. He folds his hands over his belly, which he got from eating way too many sweets. “Well, I guess I’m just trying to figure out why you told him no.”
“Because I don’t want to.”
“Bullshit.”
My head whips back at the word. It’s the same one that Ezra used. Repeatedly, actually.
What is it with the men I know and that word?
“It’s really not. I used to run a five-star restaurant. Running a kitchen in a cidery is a bit of a step down, isn’t it?”
“If it’s something you love, then no. Nothing is a step down if you’re happy.”
“I . . .”
But nothing else comes out, because he has a point.
Still, I shake my head. “No, it’s not what I want.”
I don’t want to be under anyone’s thumb when it comes to being in the kitchen. That was my biggest problem at Lore. I could never truly do what I wanted, and if I helped build the kitchen at Stick Taps, it would be the same thing. Perhaps not immediately, but eventually it would. I would itch to spread my wings and do something else. I’d be in the same limbo I’m in now, and I’d hate it.
Just like I hate how I don’t know what I want, and I hate how I’m afraid to make a decision. If I go back to Chicago, I’m risking having the same breakdown I did before. And if I stay and work at Stick Taps, would I just be sidelining myself and working for someone else forever?
I don’t know, but what I do know is that I’m not happy. And I really, really want to be. I’m just not sure what the right call is here.
“Listen, Summer,” Dad says, leaning closer, “all I want is for you to do something that makes you feel good. I don’t give a flying hoot what that is. You could move back to Chicago and be a damn street musician for all I care. I just want whatever you want. So if you want to run the kitchen at Stick Taps, then do it. But do it for you. Don’t do it for me or for Ezra Rawlings or for anyone else.You. And rememberthat whatever you decide to do, I’ll be proud of you and I’ll be cheering you on every step of the way. But ...” He pauses, then sighs. “But for what it’s worth, I think youdowant this. Or some version of it. Sure, it might not be your greatest dream right now, but it’s your chance to try again. It’s your chance to get it right. So why not seize it?”
He gives me one last meaningful look before picking up his plate and walking into the kitchen to do the dishes.
That’s how it works—I cook, he cleans. Those are the rules.
And right now I’m thankful for it, because I don’t want to be here right now with his words hanging between us. His very, very poignant words.
I grab my own plate with the half-eaten breakfast on it, then scrape the food into the trash before setting it on the counter beside him.
