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I pushed away the thought and called April. She answered with a quick, “Yo.”
“Did you make it home okay?”
“Hell no.” April laughed. “I found a sexy bartender who took me back to his place. He’s no Dean Hart, but he’ll do.”
I heard a man’s sleepy voice in the background.
“What do you mean I’m no Dean Hart?”
“You’re more like a Duane Collinger.”
“Who?”
The taxi pulled up in front of the car hire place. I paid the driver and climbed out while half-listening to April and her new friend argue over whether he looked like a C-list celebrity I’d barely heard of. When they finally paused to take a breath, I cut in.
“I’ve decided to go to Hollywood.”
The noise that April made was so high-pitched I wouldn’t have been surprised if it made dogs all over the bartender’s neighborhood bark.
“Youmusthave a farewell party.”
“I’m leaving tomorrow!”
“It doesn’t matter.”
I could imagine that April was already creating a guest list in her head. “You’re going to fly to Hollywood and be a massive movie star, and we’ll never see you again. There’s no way you can leave without saying goodbye. I won’t let you.”
Aftera few more debates to lower April’s expectations on the drive home, we finally agreed that I would have a small farewell at the cafe after my shift. Of course, her definition ofsmallwas different to mine, and half the town turned up in their best party clothes.
Bob turned down the lights, cracked open several bottles of champagne and served free pizzas that April and her brother kept carting out of the kitchen. As soon as one tray was empty,they’d disappear out the back and return with another steaming pie.
I couldn’t see the door with the number of people milling about, so I didn’t see the late newcomer until April steered me towards him.
“Dad!”
Paul Wright looked uncomfortable as he looked at the crowd with his hands in his pockets, but he was showered, dressed in a plain white t-shirt and jeans, and clean-shaven. His face lit up when he saw me.
“Kyla!”
I gave him a hug.
“Thanks for coming. You didn’t have to…”
“Yes, I did.”
Bob Gallo came over and when I thought they were about to shake hands, my dad passed him something small and black.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing,” Dad said and sniffed the air. “Is that pizza?”
“All the flavors on our menu,” Bob said, as he tucked whatever my dad had passed him in his pocket. “But you’ve gotta be quick — they’re popular.”
Dad tracked down a tray of pepperoni, took two slices, and passed one to me.
“I can see why you like this place,” he mused, as he examined the wall that was floor-to-ceiling shelves that were packed with books.
“I’ll miss it,” I agreed. “Everyone’s been so nice — and Bob always turned a blind eye when I read behind the counter when we were quiet.”
