Page 55 of How My Fake Alien Boyfriend Learned to Cook and Saved the Family Business

“Take a look, and you can tell me.”

At the top of the box was an apron, well-worn and faded. I pulled it out gently and let it unfurl as I held it up. I knew this apron, recognized it from my childhood. This was Grandma Gladys’s apron. On the front: her name, hand-stitched in bright yellow. I set it down reverently.

Beneath the apron, I found stacks of photos, yellowed paper notes, and a mess of recipe cards. I flipped through them, careful not to damage any of the artifacts. A black-and-white photo of Grandma standing in front of the sign at Southern Charm’s entrance. Another faded photo of her and Dad in matching aprons holding trays of golden brown biscuits. A discarded recipe for smoked catfish, marked up in red ink.

I flipped to a photo, newer than the rest. Dad and Grandma, again in matching aprons…and me. Young and small, probably no older than three, also in a matching apron and held up between them. We were in Southern Charm’s dining room, I knew that much thanks to context clues. But the place looked totally different. Dark paneled walls and bright red tablecloths, a smattering of heavy wooden tables throughout. And it was carpeted, which…yuck.

“Shag carpet in a restaurant, Dad? Really?”

He laughed. “It was your grandma’s idea. She insisted, and you know how she could get.”

I did know. Stubborn. Not unlike myself.

I stared at the photo through watery eyes. “Why are you showing me this?”

Dad blew out a breath. “You got to see the restaurant in its prime, and it was wonderful. I’m proud of that, and I know your grandma was, too. But it wasn’t always like that. Your grandma struggled for years to get the place off the ground and hit rough patches at different periods along the way.”

“I…I never knew that,” I said.

“No. Most people don’t like to talk about the hard times. It’s easier to relive the good ones. But I’m showing you this because you deserve to know that running Southern Charm hasn’t always been easy, and it definitely hasn’t always been successful.”

Dad lowered himself slowly onto a chair, breathing growing labored. “But even during the most challenging times, it was always worth it for your grandma. And for me, too. I want you to know that if you decide to give it up, I completely understand, and I’ll support you in that. But if you want to keep going, to make the restaurant your own version of successful, I believe in you, Lola.”

I dropped the box of memorabilia on the desk and wrapped him in a hug, trying not to think about how thin he felt in my arms.

“I want to keep it going,” I said into his shoulder, muffled by his shirt. “I will keep it going.”

“Then you know I’m with you, Slugger. But can you promise me something?”

“Anything.”

“Promise you won’t be too proud to ask for help. No one has ever succeeded alone—even someone as brilliant as you,” he said, rubbing my back.

I let out a sob. Of course. Of course, I needed to ask for help, and of course, I’d always had people who would have my back. For some reason, I had convinced myself I needed permission to ask, even though I never did.

“I won’t be,” I told him, holding my little finger between us. Dad hooked his own pinky with mine. “Pinky promise.”

“One more thing,” he said as I stepped back, swiping at my cheeks with the back of my hand. “That boy of yours?” My breath hitched. I didn’t realize until that moment how much I cared if my parents liked Kal. I’d told myself it didn’t matter because we weren’t actually a thing, and besides, I didn’t even know if we could be a thing.

Though I’d be lying to myself if I said I didn’t want Kal more than just a coworker or friend.

“She would have liked him,” Dad said, tapping a photo of Grandma Gladys. “And I definitely like him. I can see how he looks at you, Lola. The eyes don’t lie.”

The eyes don’t lie.

But I do.

Guilt washed over me for keeping my parents in the dark about Kal’s true nature. I knew it was the right thing to do, but still. It made me feel terrible to withhold that information from them—and for making them believe that Kal was something more to me than he actually was.

But didn’t I want that? Didn’t I want more from Kal? Didn’t I want to explore that thing between us?

No, I couldn’t think like that. It wasn’t safe to think like that. I could only handle so much at once. With the menu changes and the upcoming contest and all the work that would entail, dealing with questions of love was off the table.

Besides, Kal said his trip to Earth was only temporary. I didn’t know the exact timeline, and I’d never asked. I think I knew early on that leaving the question unanswered was the safest option. Still, I wondered, and more than once I’d caught myself right before asking.

How long will you stay here on Earth?

What would it take to make you stay?