Page 30 of Reaching Ryan

Words she’s never said to me echo in my head, the ring of them blurring what until only a few seconds ago was a very clearly-defined line that I had no intention of crossing.

Have, dickhead.

Not had.

Have.

A clearly-defined line that I have no intention of crossing.

Clearing my throat, I reach out to swipe a couple of menus from the rack next to the jukebox. “Like I said,” I say, passing her a menu. “I’m hungry. I slept through breakfast.”

“Uncle Patrick and me made pancakes for breakfast,” Molly chimes in, proving that even though most kids look clueless, they hear and see everything. “They were good, huh?”

“Patrick and I,” Grace says, tearing her gaze away from mine to focus on her daughter. “Patrick and I made pancakes—and yes.” She smiles at Molly, reaching up to smooth a hand over her pale blonde hair. “They were very good.”

Molly beams at me, half smug, half proud. “We’re doing French toast next.” She nods before looking up at Grace. “Can he come have breakfast with us?”

“He lives really far away,” Grace tells her, shooting me a nervous look before looking at her again to shake her head. “And I don’t think he has a car.”

Molly’s mouth drops open and she bounces in her seat a little, like the most exciting thing just occurred to her. “We could have a sleep-over.” She looks at me like it’s the perfect idea and not at all weird that she’s inviting a twenty-eight-year-old man with brain damage and a bum leg to a slumber party. “He’s Uncle Patrick’s friend so that’d be okay, right Mom?”

Grace flushes again, something very close to panic flashing in her sky-blue eyes. “Molly,” she says, her tone low and stern. “I don’t think it’s a good—”

“What can I get you folks?”

All three of us turn and look up to find a middle-aged waitress standing over us, pad and pen poised to take our order.

“Banana split!” Molly pipes up. “While sprinkles.”

The waitress looks at me for confirmation. Before I can tell her she’s looking in the wrong direction, Grace sighs. “Molly, you can’t eat a banana split for lunch.”

“Yes, I can.” Molly frowns, her little jaw set at a stubborn angle that makes her look just like her mother. “Grandpa let me eat chocolate cake for breakfast at the hotel.”

I watch Grace turn an unhealthy shade of purple as the realization that the chocolate cake coupe she pulled on her dad Sunday night at the Gilroy’s is now coming back to bite her in the ass. “Moll—”

“This isn’t up for discussion, Molly,” I say, not letting Grace finish whatever she was about to say. “Your mom’s right. Real food first.” I look right at Molly when I say it because I have a feeling Grace is about to come across the table and choke me and I don’t want to provoke her any more than I already have.

Molly stares back at me for a few seconds, her jaw still set, eyes slightly narrowed like she’s trying to decide if she wants to push it and then just like that, it’s over. Her face relaxes and she looks up at the waitress. “Do you have cheeseburgers?”

---