Page 8 of Maybe We Can Fake It

“Yeah, Dad will be here in a minute,” she says.

I turn to grab them for her, not letting her see how happy I am with that answer. “Orange soda?” I call out from behind the counter.

“Yes, please!”

I fill a glass from the fountain, and by the time I return with her soda and the menus, she’s already got her backpack open and two textbooks spread out on the table. I carefully nudge one over so I can set the glass down. “Aren’t you supposed to be on vacation?”

“Keeping tabs on my kid?” Brenden asks as he strolls in, bell jingling. He wraps his fingers loosely around my forearm and urges me to step to the side so he can sit down across from his daughter. The brief touch makes my skin tingle, but I ignore that. “I swear I know when she’s supposed to go to school,” he says. “I’ve got this.”

He’s teasing me, and I glance back down at May’s table spread in case my cheeks turn pink. “I prefer to know when the schools are out so I can prepare to be invaded by a bunch of brats,” I explain.

“Hey!” May complains.

“Not you.”

“Today was the last day,” she tells me. “But I want to make sure I get my assignments done early so I can enjoy the week off.”

I shake my head because this girl is always doing schoolwork and studying. She’s way too mature for her age. I like to give Brenden shit that she’s more mature than him, which he never refutes.

“Coffee,” Brenden says, abruptly cutting off the conversation. The desperate tinge to his voice makes me roll my eyes, and I refrain from giving him a lecture on manners.

“How many of these have you had today?” I ask when I serve him a cup. It’s part of our routine, and he usually answers with something vague and absurd like, “More than one and less than ten.”

This time though, he heaves a weary sigh and says, “I’ve lost count, but believe me, I needed all of them. Do you mind if we have some time before we order?”

I try not to be disappointed at the brush off. He is here as a customer, after all, and not to see me. But he’s usually much chattier. He didn’t even ask about my dad, which he’s done every day since the stubborn idiot of a man fell off a ladder while doing his electrician work and fractured his hip.

Grabbing a rag, I begin wiping down the counter in an attempt to keep myself busy and avoid watching Brenden and May like a creeper. I can’t help taking a few quick peeks at their table, though.

Brenden looks as good as ever, with his fitted dark gray slacks and a peach button-up—one of his typical work outfits. He looks more tired than usual though. A piece of his sandy brown hair falls out of place as he ducks his head to talk to May, and he doesn’t bother swiping it back.

I refill a few customers’ drinks and serve a couple meals. But the rush has already died down, so there isn’t enough going on to keep me occupied, and my gaze keeps drifting back to Brenden. He and May are having a hushed conversation, with Brenden looking more stressed by the minute. May keeps patting his hand sympathetically.

Finally, I see him throw his arms over one of her books, thunking his head down on top of them, and I can’t stop myself from going back over there.

“What’s with you?” I ask.

“We’re in crisis mode,” May answers for him.

“We’re not in crisis mode,” Brenden disagrees, his voice muffled because he’s talking to the table.

“You look like you’re in crisis mode,” I comment.

He lifts his head from his arms to give me a dirty look. “You’re not helping.”

I hold his eye contact, waiting him out. His blue eyes are missing their usual spark, and I experience a strong desire to do something to give it back to him. After a few moments, he starts to ramble about computer errors, broken ovens, and missing kitchen staff. His tone takes on a high-pitched, frantic quality the more he goes on, but I manage to follow along and determine that his most pressing problem, the one that’s left him in this state, is the fact that his kitchen is unexpectedly short-staffed right when they have a large group due to arrive at the inn.

I frown in both concern and minor suspicion. “Did you come in here to ask me to help you out?”

He tries to glare at me again, but he comes off more like a snarky puppy, failing to make it threatening. “I came in here to drink coffee and eat a burger.”

“And to ask for my help.”

We have another short staring contest until he groans loudly and says, “Fine. I was considering asking for your help. But you don’t have to! I know you have your own business to run.”

He gestures around us, but the diner’s almost empty by now, not quite illustrating his point. It gets packed for the typical mealtime hours though. Being one of only three sit-down restaurants in town will do that.

Shrugging, I tell him, “I can make it work.” Truthfully, I’m not surehow, but I hate seeing him upset. It’s rare, but it always gets to me. And my instinct is to help him whenever he needs anything, no matter how small or large the request is.

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