Page 23 of Restored Dreams

“No, Lil. I’ve missed you,” I repeat, willing her to interpret my meaning. It’s not the twelve minutes, though I appreciate her exactness. It’s the years we’ve been separated. It’s the time between then and now.

She doesn’t speak, her lip twitching at the corner as though she’s forcing the smile to remain in place. My heart drops as I realize I’ve said too much. Don’t push, I remind myself, wanting to kick myself because it’s clear she doesn’t feel the same way. Why would she have missed me? I made it impossible for that to happen.

“Anyway…are you hungry?” I ask when she still doesn’t respond, continuing to stare back at me from too far away. “I could order something for us?”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll make us something.” Her eyes drift down to her hands on the island. I sense something’s up, but I can’t put my finger on what it could be. We had a great afternoon, but her quiet unsettles me.

“Want help?” I offer, wanting her to ask me to join her. I’m practically willing her to invite me to the kitchen.

“Can you cook dinner, too?” One eyebrow lifts as she jests, the edge to her forced smile softening.

“Single father, remember?”

“Yes, but I thought breakfast was your specialty.” Another huff of air mixed with the humor, and I think we’ve returned to normal. I tell myself my concerns at her distance are nothing. “Why don’t you just sit there a minute? Watch the game.”

People don’t typically offer this suggestion. I’ve found over the years that no sooner do I sit to watch a baseball game does someone need me: Pop, my son, Hank. It’s foreign for me to just sit, but I nod and ask, “Are you sure?” before twisting back to face the television.

Even though my eyes focus on the game, I’m listening to her behind me instead. Metal clangs against metal as she removes the pans from the drawer. Cabinets open and close. The fridge does the same. I hear water pour into a pot, and something grainy follows. Next comes a sizzle in a pan. I listen with intent—is this what it would sound like if she were in my home? My gut twists at all I’ve missed and all I don’t have.

When I hear a mixer whirl to life, I spin to watch her instead of baseball. Lily is a natural in the kitchen. The look on her face says she’s in her element. It’s like me working on cars. I concentrate. I’m producing something.

The mixer wheezes to a stop, and she catches me observing her again.

“I promised I wouldn’t do it, but I checked in with Ester. She works for me.” Something in her voice causes my worry from moments ago to return.

“I know,” I admit, and Lily blinks.

“You do?” Her response seems derailed from her initial intention.

“I came into the bakery about a month ago. You weren’t there.” Obviously, I think, and suddenly, I’m nervous to admit I went to her shop in hopes to see her.

“What were you doing there?”

“Buying cupcakes, duh.”

Her responding snort along with a tilt of her head wordlessly questions me.

“Hank told me all about your place. When Chopper admitted he’d been there, too, I guess I was curious. Ester introduced herself, and when I told her to tell you Brut said hello, she looked like she wanted to stab me with a cake knife.”

Lily laughs. “That sounds like Ester.”

“Seems she’s heard of me, perhaps?”

Lily’s face pinks, and she swipes her hair back, tucking it behind one ear. “Maybe.”

I stand, circle the couch, and stop opposite her at the island. “What did you tell her?”

Lily shrugs, noncommittal, as she chews the corner of her lip. My shoulders fall. It hasn’t been good.

“So what did Ester say? How’s business?”

Something in the way Lily’s lips twist tells me business might not be what they discussed. I was the topic of their conversation, and it wasn’t good again.

“It’s fine,” she snaps, and her tone solidifies my fear. Nope. Not good. At. All.

“Whatcha making?” I decide to switch subjects. I don’t want anything to spoil how great this day has been for me, so I’ll play the ignorant card and let things slide for the moment. The combination of grains and vegetables in the pan reminds me of the dish she enjoyed two nights ago when I came in from the bar.

“You’re a pretty healthy eater,” I comment, not scoffing at the food, but I typically need a bit more than what she’s making. Not to mention there’s no meat. “Are you a vegetarian?”