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She batted her eyes and smiled as if shy. “You know, maybe you could help me. My dad, you might know him, he’s an MMA fighter. His last name is Santos.”
That ought to shrivel his dad-dingles.
Despite being ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure her bio-dad wasn’t a past UFC heavyweight champion, creepy-dude dad didn’t know that.
“See, I jumped off the bus that’s taking us to my aunt’s house because I had to pee and I promised him I’d be right back. He’s in a reeeaaally bad mood because I’m afraid of flying and too scared to make the trip on his private jet. Can you help me find him?”
Clearly, the thought of being anywhere near Junior Dos Santos, unless, say, the fighter was heavily sedated, sporting a wide grin, and picking daisies, wasn’t on this guy’s to-do list anytime soon.
“Yeah, you’re on your own kid.”
He bolted as if a pack of dogs was nipping at his heels.
Mia smiled.
Sometimes it was just too easy.
After another couple minutes, she found the bus and sauntered near the open luggage cavity where stacks of suitcases and boxes covered in duct tape were piled onto each other.
She pulled her phone out of her back pocket. The one she was one-hundred-percent sure her dad used to track her whereabouts since handing it over to her with an innocent smile on her twelfth birthday.
Waiting until the person next to her pitched their luggage inside the cavity and made their way toward the bus steps, she chucked the phone/homing device next to a leopard-print suitcase with a bright red ribbon tied to the handle.
One thing she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, was her mother was going to lose her ever-loving shit when she found out where she was going and would do everything in her power to circumvent her efforts. Which included soliciting Angus’s help to hunt her down.
Another thing she knew; the probability of her dadnotadvising Angus how to track her on her mobile phone before he died was less than zero percent.
Out of nowhere, the memory of her dad blindsided her. She paused to catch her breath and to get a hold of herself, lowering her head and placing the heels of her palms on her knees as she took a couple deep breaths. Her black hair created a curtain around her face, hiding her from the nosy people milling around her.
That’s what she hated most about grief. You couldn’t schedule it or plan when to feel it. It just hit you from behind the eyes when you least expected it and made your chest feel as if it were being wrenched in two.
Wiping her tears with the cuffs of her sleeves and wrapping her arms around her small chest, she made her way back to the entrance of the bus station.
It was only a matter of time before her mom and Angus caught up with her. Before then, she wanted, no needed, some alone time with her bio-dad before that happened. Time to meet him and get fourteen years of pent-up anger off her chest. Without her mother intervening.
She could just see her mom wringing her hands and trying to negotiate a truce or throwing an unexpected haymaker at him and earning her a night in jail.
Either was a distinct possibility.
Granted, her mom never said an unkind word about her bio-dad or implied he was a total unrepentant asswipe. But she could read between the lines.
It was clear he had rejected them. Whereby Marshall, her real dad, the most awesome dad in the entire world of dads, recognized what entirely amazing people they were and fell in love with them, married her mom, and adopted Mia.
While bio-dad slid into a depression, lost his job at the local Tractor Supply, and married a girl working at the nearby 7-Eleven. You know, because he needed somebody to support him.
At least that’s the story she came up with until she unraveled the truth.
Besides, if you kept your expectations low, you were never disappointed.
Minutes later she was surprised to see the Lyft driver was still parked where she’d left him. She slid into the back seat of the rusted-out Honda. “Take me to the train station.”
* * *
Lucas was being objectifiedby a woman who had failed to sow any wild oats in her youth and was making up for it in her golden years.
“Feel free to take your shirt off, if it’ll make you feel more comfortable.” Ms. Pinkie batted her rheumy eyes, which served only to highlight her lack of eyelashes.
Lucas squeezed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “For the third time, Ms. Pinkie, I’m perfectly comfortable with my shirt on.”
