Page 7 of From London, With Love

The heavenly aroma of coffee beans swirls in the air around me. It’s 9:00am, and I’m sitting at my father’s favourite table at Spoonful, a quaint local cafe. We never sit anywhere other than the round table in the back right-hand corner of the cafe, adjacent to the window overlooking the many activities of Hyde Park. It’s the perfect place to people-watch.

There are several marshmallow-looking children playing in the playground, dogs running off leash in their fenced-off area, and a few couples and families rugged up from head to toe enjoying their Sunday strolls. Despite the fact it offers little warmth, it seems everyone is enjoying the rare bout of winter sunshine.

Inside the cafe, the radio plays softly beneath the chatter of baristas and cafegoers alike. The ring of the bell above the door has me turning my head in its direction. I raise a hand to signal my father, although it seems unnecessary as he’s already heading my way.

“Carter,” my father says as he reaches the table. “Good to see you, son.”

I stand, embracing him in a brief hug. “Good to see you too.”

If my father were twenty-five years younger, there’s no doubt he, Teddy and I would look like triplets. With his dark, salt and peppered hair—no doubt from the efforts of helping my mother raise my siblings and me—and deep green eyes flecked with shards of gold, there’s no mistaking who we belong to.

My father pulls his chair out, the wooden legs scraping lightly on the timber floors. We both take a seat. Neither of us need the menu to know what we’d like; we’ve ordered the same thing for years—a large Americano and an eggs Benedict each.

The waitress, a pretty blonde, approaches our table with a small smile. “Hello, gentlemen; the usual?”

A chuckle escapes my father. “Do we really come here that often?”

Grinning, the waitress replies, “I think your visits and my shifts happen to coincide often.” She turns to me, and a faint blush pinkens her cheeks.

“The usual will be perfect, thank you, Kate,” I respond, reading her nametag. If she knows our orders, the least I can do is address her by name.

“Won’t be long.” The apples of Kate’s cheeks deepen in colour before she returns to the counter.

My father’s eyes bore into me. “Yes?” I ask, amused.

“Oh, nothing.” He raises his brows, a smirk on his lips.

“Spit it out.” This turns the smirk into another chuckle.

“Our lovely waitress, Kate, seemed quite taken with you,” he responds.

It’s my turn to raise my brows as I give my eyes a small roll. “This again?”

My father beams widely at me, his dimples on full display. “Don’t be like that, Son, I’m trying to look out for you. If your mother were here, she’d already have given young Kate your number.”

“In that case, thank god she’s still away at her girls’ weekend retreat,” I reply with a smirk.

My father’s smile grows smaller, his eyes now less vapid. “Carter, you’ve been single for almost four years now. Don’t you want to share your life with someone? The support would be of great benefit to your impending life changes.”

I let out a small sigh, unnoticed by my father. This isn’t the first time I’ve heard this speech in some form or another, nor is it the last I’ll hear of it. Since separating from my ex, both of my parents—and occasionally one or both siblings—often bring up my relationship status, or lack thereof. I haven’t been in a committed relationship since. Although they’re all aware of my reasons, I suspect they’d like me to find my ‘person’.

I look him in the eye, giving him a small smile. “I appreciate your concern, Dad, I do, but I promise you I’m happy.”

We were raised to address our parents as Mother and Father, but I decided to call him Dad when it’s the two of us.

His gaze roams over my face, searching for a flicker of anything other than happiness. I hold my smile while he does so. Seeming to have found what he was looking for, his eyes soften at the corners when he locks them on mine once more.

“You didn’t answer my question though, Son.”

I pause. He’s correct; I purposely evaded the ‘don’t you want to share your life with someone’ part because I simply can’t lie to him. I would love to share my life with someone, but that someone won’t be found by having my family attempt to chat them up on my behalf.?Despite my dad’s best efforts, these things can’t be rushed.

“I know.”

He gives a smallnod, and it’s the only confirmation I need to know he understands. We had many difficult conversations over my teenage years. Difficult in the sense I offered up very little, and my father was left to work the rest out on his own. The benefit of that is now he knows what I mean, even when I don’t say it.

A different waitress brings out our coffee and meals, and we eat in comfortable silence. I’m finishing the last of my eggs when my father softly clears his throat.

“Do you remember your mother and my friend, Annette? From university?” My father pauses, waiting for my affirmative response. “Her daughter Molly is a couple of years younger than you and has recently returned to the UK after studying abroad.”

---