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“Someone cleaned my car.” I had no idea who would do such a thing. Not until I spotted the red and silver thermal bag sitting on the passenger seat, a note taped to it written in Dad’s chicken scratch.
“You’re not the only one who’s good at taking care of those he loves. Love, Ollie.”
Tears welled up in my eyes even as a small smile ghosted around the edges of my lips. This was such a difference from the man I’d grown up with, who couldn’t be bothered with simple tasks like grocery shopping or paying the bills, leaving me to do it all. I cleaned the house, washed our clothes and even signed my own report cards and permission slips. I’d been mother and father to myself back then, and he’d been, well he was just drunk.
This little gesture, cleaning my car and feeding me, didn’t make up for that, but I was happy to have my dad back.
The smells coming from the thermal bag taunted me on the short drive to my house, but by the time I made my way home, all I wanted was a hot shower and my bed, which I gave myself in short order. I fell into bed wearing nothing but my towel and I didn’t wake up until my alarm sounded six hours later, refreshed and ready to enjoy what was left of my impromptu day off.
The first thing I did was head for the kitchen, opting for tea instead of coffee since it was well past noon, and I pulled the thermal bag from the oven, smiling when I found the wrapped food still warm. Dad had gone above and beyond with his gesture by cleaning my car and leaving me food, but the homemade touch was sweet. I dug into the breakfast tacos and waffle fries with maple butter with more energy than a girl desperately trying to drop fifteen pounds should. But it was so good.
I reached for my phone and dialed Dad but the call went straight to voicemail. “Hey Dad, I just wanted to thank you for taking care of my car and me. Breakfast is yummy.” I ended the call with a smile, happy that I didn’t automatically start calling hospitals and police stations in search of my father. Those days were gone, and it was more likely he was off fishing or enjoying the many things on offer at Jackson’s Ridge Community Center.
Since Dad was busy, I got dressed and went to Better Baked where my friend Megan worked, performing magic with butter, sugar and flour. I found her smiling at a pair of elderly flirts from her spot behind the counter, smiling like the old timers had a chance with the happily married woman.
“The women of this town better watch out for those silver tongues.”
The old men blushed, took their coffee and pastries and took up on the patio where they could watch the world go by. Megan looked at them wistfully and I wondered what that was about.
“Thinking of trading in Casey for one of the silver foxes?”
Megan blinked and then laughed. “No way, I’ve got the face and hands of McDreamy with the body of McSteamy rolled into one. What more could a girl ask for?”
“What, indeed?” We shared a laugh and I ordered my favorite chocolate and pecan croissants. “Do you have time to catch up? It feels like ages since we’ve had a chance to chat.”
Megan nodded. “Grab a seat and I’ll bring out some goodies for us.” I barely had a chance to get settled before Megan sat down with two large coffees, croissants and some new creation she was working on. “Okay, let’s chat. How’s life at the hospital?”
I laughed. “Your husband is the neurosurgeon, and you still want to engage in more hospital talk? No wonder he’s so stupidly smitten with you after all these years.”
Megan grinned. “Look at you, sounding like you’ve lived here for your whole life.” She rolled her eyes. “Casey gets thirty minutes to bitch and moan about work before we focus on other things. Same for me.”
“How very mature of you both.”
She shrugged. “It works. What about you, are you seeing anyone?”
“You mean have I broken my six month dry spell? No and nope, I have not and I’m fine with that.” Well, fine was an oversimplification of the facts, but small town living made dating difficult. You had to be careful about burning bridges you might need later while also avoiding awkwardness at potluck dinners, festivals and all the other town-wide events that seemed to take place every week.
“You’re fine with not getting laid for six months? I’m calling bullshit, Gus.”
“I’m not getting laid in the traditional sense, but my needs are being met. Besides, it’s not like men are banging down my door to take out the plump kiddie nurse.” That’s what they all saw and I knew it. I was learning to love my curves, but it was a process. I was learning to accept who I was, and that meant accepting the truth, no matter how bitter it tasted.
