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For now, I’m in desperate need to figure out how to present myself to Ze—Dad.
I look at the watch on my phone when my stomach starts to rumble.
Crap, I’ll be late if I don’t choose something soon.
Out of everything laid out on my bed, I go for the modest choice. A long, floral tan dress that reaches below my knees. It has short sleeves and a boat neck to hide my cleavage, and I pair it with flat sandals to complete the look.
In rushed movements, I arrange the rest of the clothes back in the closet and scurry to the bathroom. I pin my long tresses into a chignon, apply minimal makeup on my face—a little blush, mascara, and lip balm for my dry lips—grab my purse, and leave.
Dad let me decide where we’d meet, and I chose a cute, quaint café that serves the best pastries in LA, and no one can tell me otherwise.
Even though it was thirty minutes away from the bus stop, Zeke didn’t mind as long as I ordered the Uber for him.
Just like I paid for his bus ticket, and like I’m assuming I’ll have to pay for the brunch. Which isn’t a big deal. Once I paid off the last of my student debts, I haven’t struggled financially like I had as a kid who had nothing.
The last thing I want is to embarrass Zeke by suggesting we split the costs. He made time for me. He left his family at home and went on a grueling seven-hour bus ride in each direction on a Saturday.
I don’t need his money. I need a father.
My body buzzes as I walk over there to meet him. Nervous energy runs through me. The electricity pulses have me chewing the inside of my cheek and clutching my brown leather purse for dear life.
Heading over to meet Zeke has a lot to do with my rapidly speeding pulse. But it’s something else, too.
I’m not sure what it is. Something similar to what I felt in the parking lot last week.
I would’ve tried reading into it further, except my mind isn’t equipped for overthinking. I chalk it up to nerves and hurry my steps.
“Here goes,” I whisper to myself as I round the corner to the street where the café is.
The scent of hot pastries and coffee being brewed carries outside to the street, intoxicating and simultaneously relieving some of my nervous energy.
I stumbled upon Sweet Stuff on one of my jogs about a year ago. The smells and mouthwatering pastries spread out on the clients’ tables were the reason I came back after I showered. Why I’ve been visiting here so much.
I hope Dad will like it too.
The Uber app on my phone shows he’s supposed to be here. I scan for the man in the photo he sent me, eyeing the iron tables scattered around, the people sitting on the wooden chairs.
“Prue!” I hear him before I see him, the man calling me from the entrance to the inside seating area of Sweet Stuff.
Yup, that’s the man in the picture.
And there’s no denying he’s my father.
We share the same eyes and hair color. While the shape of our eyes is eerily similar, his hair isn’t the thick mane I have on my head. His is thinning and receding.
His complexion is slightly different, too. Whereas my skin is light from applying sunscreen and avoiding long exposure to the sun, my dad’s is tanned—or is it a yellowish hue?—I’m not sure.
Wrinkles form in the corners of his eyes, his mouth, all over his forehead. His beer belly protrudes beneath his white, threadbare T-shirt, and his jeans are a shade of brown.
But, honestly? I don’t care about any of that.
What matters is he’s my father. And he’s really here.
“Over here.” He beckons me to follow him inside when I freeze in place. “I have a table for us.”
Through the haze of my shock, I remember I have to dosomething. I lift my hand, wave it meekly, and move one foot after the other to the air-conditioned space inside.
As I stare at him, a whirlwind of emotions erupts in my chest. I try to make sense of them, and the best I get is: I thought it’d be different. I genuinely believed I’d cry, have a meltdown, fall to my knees, and thank God for putting Dad in my path.
