Page 25 of Her Father's Best Friend

Twenty-five minutes later, I pull into the parking lot of Mary's Diner, a greasy spoon where Bill and I have shared countless meals over fifteen years of friendship. He's already inside, nursing a coffee in our usual booth by the window. His face is more lined than I remember, his shoulders slightly more stooped. Three months of silence have aged him.

He looks up as the bell above the door announces my arrival. For a moment, neither of us move. Then he nods toward the empty seat across from him.

I slide into the booth, tension twisting between us like a live wire. The waitress—a middle-aged woman who's served us both for years—approaches warily, clearly sensing the atmosphere.

"Just coffee," I tell her, not breaking eye contact with Bill.

She hurries away, leaving us in uncomfortable silence.

"You look good," Bill says finally. "Business doing well?"

Small talk. After everything, he's starting with small talk. But I'll take it.

"Can't complain," I reply, accepting the coffee the waitress sets before me. "That job for the Nelsons turned into three referrals."

He nods, staring into his mug. "Always said you were the best builder in the county."

The compliment hangs between us, a fragile bridge neither of us is ready to trust. I wait, letting him find his way to whatever brought us here.

"Saw Delilah yesterday," he says finally, his voice softening on his daughter's name. "At the grocery store."

My grip tightens on the mug, protective instinct flaring. "How'd that go?"

"She didn't see me." Regret colors his words. "I was across the store. She was... she was smiling. Looked happy." He glances up, a question in his eyes.

"She is happy," I tell him honestly. "Most of the time. Misses you something fierce, though."

He flinches, guilt flickering across his weathered face. "That's on me."

It's the closest thing to an admission I've heard from him. I take a sip of coffee, considering my next words carefully.

"We both hurt you, Bill. I don't deny that. But punishing her for loving me—that's hurting her for no reason."

His jaw works, that familiar stubbornness rising to the surface. But then his shoulders slump. "I know."

We sit in silence for a moment, those two words hanging between us, the first step toward something like forgiveness.

"I still think you're too old for her," he says finally, but the venom is gone from his voice. "Still think you should have told me sooner, before things went this far."

"Fair enough," I concede. "Can't change any of that now, though."

"No." He meets my eyes squarely. "So the question is, what happens next?"

I set down my coffee, holding his gaze. "I love her, Bill. More than I've ever loved anyone or anything. I want to marry her."

The words land between us like stones in still water, ripples of reaction moving across his face—surprise, resistance, and finally a weary acceptance.

"You asking my permission?" There's a challenge in his tone.

I shake my head. "Telling you my intentions. Out of respect for you, and because I know how much she loves you. She'd want you there, when it happens."

Bill rubs a hand across his face, the gesture so reminiscent of Delilah that my chest aches. "She always was stubborn. Once she made up her mind about something..."

"Wonder where she got that," I say, risking a small smile.

The corner of his mouth twitches upward, the barest hint of the easy rapport we once shared. "Not from her mother, that's for damn sure."

We lapse into silence again, but it's less strained now, the air between us clearing like a storm passing.

---