“Yes, please,” my father answers him.
I pick up the menu and use it as a shield. Put some space in between us, hide my face behind it. Close my eyes, push away the anxiety creeping up my spine like a spider. I want to recoil from both the feeling and the man standing next to me.
He walks away, but I still hide behind the menu, hoping my father didn’t notice my reaction to the waiter. I drag a slow, silent breath expanding my lungs to the count of ten. Hold until my chest hurts with the need to release the stale air and then exhale. Do it again and again. Slowly the sounds of the restaurant come back, the tinkling of glass, snippets of conversations, laughs. The anxiety attack at bay. For now.
I lower my menu without having read a single word. When my gaze meets my father’s, he's looking at me with so many questions in his eyes.
I look back at the menu, my hunger gone now.
“You okay, Becca?”
I could ignore his question. Make believe I didn’t hear it. He would let it go, I know. But I lower the menu and let him see me. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“You know that man?”
“No, never saw him before, why?” I can’t help the way my shoulders square out in defiance.
“You went a little pale, that’s all. But your color is returning now.”
I nod. “I get a little anxious around people sometimes.” That’s the most honest thing I have ever said to him. His eyes linger on me, but before he can say anything another man stops at our table. This time an older man, my father’s age. Shaved head and built like an armoire. My father is on his feet a second later, and then they’re doing the man-hug-slapping-backs thing.
“Becca, this is my good friend Michael. Michael, this is my daughter Becca.”
I try to get up, but he waves me off and gives me his hand to shake instead. It’s huge and callused. This guy is not sitting around collecting the profits from his restaurant.
“Nice to meet you.” I shake his hand and thank God for not slipping back into anxiety. Perhaps knowing this man is my father’s friend lends him a certain amount of trust. This surprises me. It’s an unexpected thought.
Michael puts a hand on my father’s shoulder and points at him. “This guy over here saved my life.”
My father immediately shakes his head.
“Now, he’s too modest to tell you. But he did. I got shot and knocked unconscious, but he dragged my sorry ass through a hellfire of bullets and got me to safety.”
I look at my dad, and he averts his eyes, blinks a few times. Dad. This is the first time I think of him as such.
“Did you pick what you want to eat yet?” Michael asks us both.
I look at the menu and back at him. “Not yet. Any recommendations?”
“I’m not one to brag, but everything is good.”
My father interrupts him. “Don’t believe a word he says, he brags about everything.”
Michael has a hearty laugh, and I can’t help but to laugh with him.
“Tell you what? How about I surprise you? Do you trust me?” He points at me with both index fingers and a huge smile on his face. I look at my father, and he shrugs.
“Okay … surprise me.”
“Any allergies or foods you hate?” he asks.
“None, and I like everything.”
“Awesome! Sit tight. I’ll be back.”
I watch him go for a few seconds before turning back to my father. “He’s kind of intense.”
“That he is.” He fills both our glasses with water.
The same waiter shows up with a coffeepot and a carafe of orange juice, setting both on the table. “The boss-man sent this.” He winks at me. “And said he’s taking care of your food himself. Anything else I can get you?”
I curl my fingers into my palms, the sting of my nails biting into the tender flesh grounds me. Before I can say anything, my father dismisses him. “No, thank you. You can go now. I’m sure you have other tables to tend to.” His tone is cold and dry, the opposite of the way he talks to me. The waiter walks away, but not before looking at me again.
My father picks up his phone and starts typing. It dings with a reply a few seconds later. “He won’t be coming back again.”
“Who? The waiter?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do?”
“Asked Bear to send a waitress instead. I didn’t like the way he was looking at you.”
I look at him, speechless. I’m trapped in a kaleidoscope of conflicting emotions. Each taking a turn and trying to fill my field of vision. My chest warms in gratitude—that he cared enough to do this, to protect me from my perceived threat. Then it burns with indignation. How dare he interfere with my life? And finally caves in, scared he saw how uncomfortable the waiter made me feel.
“I can take care of myself, you know. I have been doing it alone my entire life.” Anger, and old habits, win.
He nods, palms turned up. “I know, Becca. I know. But maybe you don’t have to go it alone all the time anymore. We’re family. Let me take some of the burden. I want to be here for you.”
Family. I’ve longed for it, for the sense of security the word triggered in me my entire life. I blink away the sting of tears. I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry.
I reach for the orange juice and fill my glass, look at him, and he shakes his head, reaching for the coffeepot instead. I drink, filling my mouth with the sweet and tangy juice so I can buy myself some time.
“Listen, this is probably too soon and too much. I know we only met twice before. But we—I,” he corrects himself. “I wasted too much time already. And I don’t want to waste another second of not having you as a part of my life.”
I drink another huge gulp, the liquid pushing at the knot in my throat.
“I was in the army for nearly ten years. Met someone a few months after they discharged me. We’ve been married for nine years now.”
I set the glass down with shaky fingers.
“Her name is Linda.”
I find my voice. “Does she—does she know about me?”
His face relaxes, his shoulders release the tension and drop. “Yes”—he smiles—“and she wants to meet you.”
“She does?”
“Yes, she does. And there’s more.”
“More?” I’m reduced to parroting everything he says. I have no words of my own. I know what’s coming, I’m not sure I’m ready to hear it.
“We have two kids.” His voice drops to almost a whisper.
A small gasp leaves my lips. The knot returns to my throat and grows into a boulder.
“You have two siblings, Becca. A brother and a sister.” He leans into the table. “And they can’t wait to meet you.” He says this with so much love, with such a tenderness. It’s too much. I don’t know how to react or what to say.
“Becca? Stay with me, please.” My gaze finds his, and I see fear. Fear of rejection. Fear that I will walk away.
I speak around the boulder, and my voice cracks. “They want to meet me?”
“They can’t wait to meet you. They wanted to come with me today, but I want to give you the choice of how and when.”
Give me a choice? Dear God. I have a brother and a sister. Something warm spreads in my chest and melts the boulder away.
“I thought maybe you could come over to our home. Have lunch, hang out and get to know your family?”
“My family?” I repeat.
“Yes, your family. They—we are your family. We want you.”
“Here we go. I got you all my favorites.” Michael Bear is back with an enormous tray, and I’m thankful for the reprieve. An older lady follows him and sets down a tray-holder. He places the tray on it and starts placing plates of food on the table. There’s enough food to feed ten people.
“Wow. That’s too much food.” My mouth waters at the sight and heavenly scents of waffles covered in fresh fruit, pancakes drizzling with syrup, omelets bursting with cheese, bacon, sausages, home fries. There
’s French toast and whipped cream, and even breakfast burritos.
“Well, whatever you don’t eat, we pack up, and you can take back with you. I know they don’t have food this good at Riggins.” Bear winks.
“I don't even know what to eat.” I want to eat everything.
“Dig in. And this is Mariah. She’ll be taking care of you. If you need anything, she’s your woman.” And with that, he’s gone before I can even say thanks.
My father looks at me, I think he’s also grateful for the reprieve.
“Eat.” He points at all the food. And we eat.
We sit across the cleared table, the uneaten food packed in a brown paper bag on the seat next to me. I have enough leftovers to feast on for the next few days. The only things left on the table are two water glasses, condensation building on the sides.
I know my father waited until we were done with our meal to talk again. His eyes meet mine now.
“The whole family wants to meet you. Not only us, but your grandparents too.”
“My grandparents?” Vivid images of all the pictures of his parents he showed me come to mind. My grandmother's kind face, my grandfather's mischievous smile.
“Yes, them too. Linda wants you to come for Thanksgiving. I know that might be too much for you. Too many new people, too much extended family. You’re welcome to come to Thanksgiving, or we can meet the day after if you prefer, just the five of us.”
“I don't know what to say.” I can’t believe they want to meet me.
“Say yes. We are your family. It’s way overdue that I have all of my kids together.”
I want to say yes. I want to say yes so badly. But he doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know about all the terrible choices I made. I’m toxic. I’ll drag them down. I can’t do that to them. I can’t tarnish their family with my bitterness and all my dirty secrets.
I shake my head. His hands come up to stop me. “Wait.” He grabs his phone and opens the photo app. The first thing I see is the smiling faces of two kids. A girl with brown hair and the same color eyes as me. The boy has white-blond hair and aqua-blue eyes. My sister and brother. They’re beautiful and happy and innocent.
He taps the screen. “This is Mara. She’s nine going on thirty. She thinks she’s an adult and tries to boss everyone around. She’s ecstatic to have a big sister. Since the moment we told them, she’s been talking nonstop about meeting you and having girl time.” He swipes to the next picture. The face of a boy fills the screen. His hair is long, reaching his shoulders and curling at the ends. He looks angelic. “Don’t let the angel face fool you. He’s a master manipulator. He gets you with that sweet smile and huge eyes. We call him our little heartbreaker.” There’s so much love and pride in his voice. He swipes again. Another picture of the two of them together. In PJs this time, sitting on a large bed, books all around them.
My heart fills with something I have never felt before. Not like this. I’m bursting with a love so fierce I know I would do anything to protect them. To keep them innocent and clean. To leave them untouched by the ugly in the world. To keep them from being tarnished by me.
A cry bursts from me, and the need to run overwhelms me. “I can’t.” I try to get up, but the bag of food blocks my way out.
“Becca.” The quiet in his voice stops me.
I look at him. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out an envelope. My name written on it with a bright pink crayon in the sloppy handwriting of a child. “Mara wrote you a letter. I have no idea what it says. She sealed the envelope and told us we couldn’t read it.” He stretches his arm across the table. “Please?” All the joy is gone from his face, replaced with such a sadness, it wets his eyes. I did that. I turned his joy into sorrow. That’s what I do.
I take the envelope with a shaky hand, move the bag of food. Get up.
“Take the food with you. Michael made it for you.” He nods at the food with a watery smile. I take the food and leave.
Chapter Twenty
I don't even remember the drive back to my dorm room. I left the restaurant and my father behind, but I couldn’t leave all that weighs me down behind with him. Shame and regret follows me like a faithful, unwanted dog. The letter is burning a hole through my back pocket, but instead of reading it, I make space in my mini fridge by taking out water bottles and replacing them with the food. I fold laundry, dust my desk, and sweep the floor. All to buy myself another thirty minutes, but I can delay it no longer.
My hands shake when I pull the envelope out of my pocket and unfold it. I sit on my bed and smooth it against the mattress. Crayon drawings of pink flowers with yellow centers cover the envelope. My name is written in a childish calligraphy in the middle. I flip it over. On the back, a drawing of a unicorn, and her name, Mara, written inside a heart. On the corner, in a smaller writing, it says plus Hunter. My sister and brother.
I let the letter drop to my bed, grab my laptop and turn it on, going to the support website now so familiar to me, but Therapist11 is not available. I knew he wouldn't be. He’s never available during the day.
God, how did I come to rely on him so fast? I don't know if this is good or bad, but talking to him centers me. Talking to him helps me get out of my head and see things with more clarity. I close my laptop again, sit back on the bed, cross my legs, close my eyes and take a deep breath.
“It's just a letter. It's just a letter from a kid. There's nothing in this envelope that can hurt you, Becca.” Why does my heart feel so small, then?
I take a breath and hold, release it. Do it again.
My hands shake when I slide a finger under the fold and carefully open the envelope so as not to rip it. I stop. Close my eyes. Take another measured breath. Then I slide out two sheets of paper. Unfold them.
My eyes track the childish handwriting without reading the words on the lined paper. There are little doodles all around the margins—flowers, butterflies, hearts, and stars all done in different-colored pencils.
I am not ready to read it, but I do it anyway. I can’t delay myself any longer.
Dear big sister Becca,
I'm so happy to know I have a big sister. I've always wanted a big sister.
Daddy told us that a long time ago he had a baby, but he didn’t know about it because the mommy never told him. Why did your mommy never tell my daddy he had a baby?
Was it a secret?
But then he found out all about you, and he said you’re so beautiful, and so smart.
I’m so excited. I can't wait to meet you. I want you to come over so we can talk, and I can show you my room, and my drawings, and my books. Do you like to read? I love books, but mom won’t let me read hers. She said I need to be thirty before I can read them.
Daddy said you’re studying to be a social worker. I didn’t know what that was, but he said that’s a job where you help people who are a little lost. I think that’s a very nice job. I would hate to be lost.
I’m in fifth grade and will be going to middle school in one more year. I’m a little nervous, but my mom says it will be okay because lots of my friends will be there too. Mom and Dad try to make me feel better, but they don't understand. I mean, they’re old. They don’t know what it’s like to be a kid today. Hunter started first grade this year, but I think it’s different for boys because he wasn’t nervous at all.
Did you get nervous when you started college? Can I come and visit you? I’ve never been to a college before. I think it would be fun. Maybe it will make me less nervous about middle school. Then I can say, I went to college before I went to middle school. That would be funny.
I can't wait until we meet. There's so many things I want to do with you. We can go to the mall, and we can watch movies, and we can try different clothes on, and you can teach me how to use makeup because my mom says I'm too young and she won't let me even try.
My brother, Hunter, is also very excited to have a big sister. He says he wants you to pick on me, so I know what it's like to have an older sister. But you know
what? I’m so happy to have a big sister that I wouldn’t even mind if you picked on me.
Hunter can't write very well yet, so he made you a picture. He said to tell you he loves you very much and he can't wait to meet you too.
Dad says he's inviting you over for dinner and that maybe you can spend Thanksgiving with us too. Please say yes.
I can't wait to meet you. Lots of love from your little sister,
Mara
I can barely see the words through the streaming of tears on my face. I press a hand to my mouth, trying to hold in the sobs, but they escape through my pressed lips.
God, why are you doing this to me? I wipe the tears with the back of my hand to no avail. I grab the edge of my T-shirt and do a better job this time, but rogue tears continue to break free.
With trembling fingers, I look at the second sheet of paper. And now I’m crying even harder. My hands shake so much I have to lay the letter and drawing on my bed. I grab a box of tissues, take several sheets and mop the mess that’s become my face. I curb the tears and sobs, and look at the drawing again.
It's a regular piece of printer paper, but the drawing is everything I ever wanted and hoped for. There are five stick figures on the paper. To the left side of the page, the first stick figure is a tall man with light brown, honey-colored hair, his body done in navy blue. The word DAD next to it. Across the page, on the right side, another stick figure. A female, with a green dress and long brown hair. MOM is written to the right of the figure. Right in the middle, there’s a drawing of me. My hair is the same color as my father’s. My name above my head. A big smile on my face. He drew me wearing black pants and a gray shirt—the same colors I was wearing the first time I met my father. To the left of my stick figure, a little boy with yellow hair and dressed in blue, and HUNTER written next to him. And to my right, a little girl with brown hair and, in pink, the word MARA above her head.
Above the five stick figures, a rainbow, the colors in the right order. And written on top a single word. FAMILY.
I can’t hold it in anymore, the pain comes out like an avalanche, ripping apart everything in its path with me in the middle, tumbling, tumbling, and so, so cold. The pressure in my chest robs me of air. My mouth hangs open, but no sounds flee. The silent wail so very telling in this moment. Even as I break, Theodore’s voice whispers in my head.
Because of Dylan: A forbidden student teacher slow burn romance (Riggins U Book 3) Page 11