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“Yeah. Let’s do that.”
He kisses my forehead before lacing an arm around my waist. We walk like this toward the bar, which is at the edge of the French Quarter. A large Open sign blinks above the door when we arrive, and it does nothing to calm my nerves.
***
“I want to go inside by myself,” I tell Max. His expression instantly tightens, his jaw ticking.
“Not a good idea. What if—”
“This is something I need to do alone.”
“Emilia—”
“I’m not going to change my mind.”
A loaded silence follows, but I don’t back off. Eventually, he points to the coffee shop across from the bar, saying, “I’ll sit there and wait for you.”
As he enters the coffee shop, I turn and inspect the old building that houses the bar. It has a charm of its own even among the other beautiful buildings surrounding it. I looked up the bar online as soon as Max told me the name. It has a long history, and it changed ownership about fifteen years ago. That’s when it entered my father’s possession. Only a mere four years after he left Grams and me. Over the years, I imagined many scenarios why my father didn’t make contact. Most often, I feared he was a drunk, or homeless, and was too ashamed to show his face. Never in a million years did it cross my mind he was the owner of a successful bar in the heart of New Orleans.
Squaring my shoulders and taking a deep breath, I push the door open. There are a few patrons inside already, sitting at the tables scattered around the dimly lit room. I fix my eyes on the counter, where two men are working. One is in his twenties, the other one is unmistakably my father. Now that I have him in front of my eyes, memories of him as a younger man flood my mind. High cheekbones, tiny black eyes, and a small stature.
All the air leaves my lungs and my throat constricts. I grasp the counter for support in a small gesture, afraid my legs might give way.
“Can I get you anything, miss?” the twentysomething asks. I shake my head, moving along until I reach the part of the bar where my father is.
He snaps his head up, opens his mouth, and then blinks without saying anything. His features contort, his eyes growing cold and wary.
“Emilia?”
My throat seems incapable of forming any words, so I just nod.
“I have an office in the back, let’s go in there and talk.” His voice is just as cold as his eyes, with just the tiniest hint of unease. My legs seem to have the consistency of lumber as I follow him, and nausea settles at the back of my throat.
Once we enter his office, I try to fix my eyes on something that will calm me. No such luck. I can’t find anything to latch on in this tiny, strange place.
“What are you doing here?” he asks. “How did you find me?” Going straight for the punch. So this is how this will be. Okay, then.
“Why did you leave us?” I toss back.
Running his hand through his black hair peppered with white strands, he gestures for me to sit in the chair in front of his desk, which I do. He sits behind it.
“Why did you never call or write?” I continue. He joins his hands over the table, looking at me like a stranger, which I suppose is what I am.
“Emilia, your mother and I were very young when she became pregnant with you.”
“That’s not an excuse,” I say dryly.
“I didn’t ask for you to be born. I loved your mother very much, but I begged her not to have you.”
Bile rises up my throat, but I keep my composure, determined not to show this asshole that his words hurt. Damn it, I don’t want them to hurt.
“I couldn’t change her mind. Hell, I practically had no say in her choice. When you were born, I tried to do the right thing. But you know what it’s like for a high school drop out to find work?”
“Hard, I imagine.”
“I loved your mother. But things got very hard, very fast. She changed from the sweet girl I fell in love with to a woman who was constantly nagging and whining. There was always some drama going on, something she needed for herself or for you. Look, I’m not proud of my past, but I did what I had to do.”
“Leaving your nine-year-old daughter after her mother had just died?”
