Page 54 of How My Fake Alien Boyfriend Learned to Cook and Saved the Family Business

“Lollipop,” Dad tried again to get my attention. “Slugger, look at me.”

Finally, I did. I was fully prepared to back down and say I was just joking. To take it all back and apologize for being a source of stress. To reassure him that he didn’t make a huge mistake by trusting me with his beloved mother’s beloved restaurant. But…Dad was smiling.

“Lola, I didn’t turn the restaurant over to you because I wanted you to keep everything the same as it was. I trusted you with the restaurant because you’re you. Our little Slugger. You can do anything when you put your mind to it.”

I sucked in a shaky breath, eyes clouded with tears.

“I’m sorry if that wasn’t clear. I know you’ve been taking on a lot lately because of…”

Dad’s sentence trailed off, and I willed him not to finish it.

I’d never wanted him to think any of this was a burden, and I regretted treating it like one for so long. How many people got the chance to do what I was doing? Go home again and rediscover their passion? Carry on a family legacy and bring it into a new era?

Why did it take me this long to realize that working at Southern Charm was an honor?

This must be why nowhere else felt right. No other job compared to those evenings I’d spent working in the kitchen with Grandma. I was always seeking a place where I could belong, and it was here in Roswell Falls.

Dad cleared his throat. “I’m sorry you’ve been struggling, and I wish you would have come to me sooner about it. I’ve only ever wanted you to be happy.”

“Your dad’s right, Lollipop,” Mom said, settling on the armrest of Dad’s chair. “We’re just thrilled you’re home with us. I know it’s been a tough transition and a big responsibility you took on, but we’re so, so proud of you.”

Her glance cut to Kal. “And, if you don’t mind me saying, you seem much happier now.”

Of course, I cried.

“I thought you would be mad,” I said through tears. “Or disappointed. That I wanted to make changes. Aren’t you worried that Grandma’s restaurant won’t feel like hers anymore?”

“Slugger,” Dad said through tears of his own, “she would be so proud of you, too. She didn’t want the place to stay the same forever. You probably don’t remember this, but she used to change it all the time.”

“Really?”

“Really. I was the one who kept it the same for all those years because I didn’t know any better. But you…you’re an incredible cook. And so creative. You have vision, like your grandma. She always hoped you’d run the place, you know.”

I didn’t know that, but I was glad to know it now.

“Anything you do will honor your grandma’s legacy. You are your grandma’s legacy,” Dad said. He reached a shaky hand out and placed it on Jacob’s shoulder. “Both of you.”

I was openly weeping, and there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. Even Jacob, who surreptitiously rubbed his face with his shirt, trying to play it off.

This is where I belong.

I felt it so deeply then, and knew it to be true. I was exactly where I was meant to be, doing what I was meant to be doing. Weeks ago, I wished for some good luck to come my way. But I didn’t realize at the time that I didn’t need luck. I needed my family, my community. I needed to believe in myself again.

Before we left, Kal, now a pro at washing dishes, offered to help Mom clean up in the kitchen. Of course, she made a big to-do of it, to the point where I wondered if she had a crush on Kal, and if I’d have to shoo her away from him. Mom cooed over Kal and his unusual background, and pointed to random objects to ask if they existed in Amish Ohio.

I really hoped this fascination with Amish Ohio wouldn’t extend past that night, as I wasn’t confident I knew enough about the Amish or Ohio to pretend the Ohio Amish were a real thing. Or maybe they were? See, that’s how little I knew about either.

By the time Dad couldn’t stop yawning (making everyone else yawn by proxy), our small group of five had fallen into an easy, companionable murmur of conversation.

“Slugger,” Dad said, getting up from his chair. “Can you come here, please?”

I followed him into the dark study where he spent most of his free time, either reading or surreptitiously watching college football when Mom was being her usual brand of overbearing.

Dad dug around in a closet for several minutes, moving slowly—slower than I could remember him ever moving—until finally he dug out a small, slightly battered shoebox.

“I wanted to give you this,” he said, handing over the box. It rattled when I peeled the lid back.

“What is all of this?” I said.