Page 66 of Finding Yesterday

“Who said I was joking?” His expression is unreadable.

I lift my chin. “Well, then. You said you karaoke rap. Let’s hear it.”

He walks to the middle of the kitchen and uses a spatula as a microphone. He beat boxes before he jumps in with,

“I paid bank for him, my farm-fresh swine

All ready to brine, for a nice dine

You stole him from me, swindled and lied

Now I’m gonna make pork rind from his hide.”

“What?” I cry out. I’m completely impressed and fighting off a laugh at the same time, but I feign anger as I say, “If you touch Winston, I’ll make crispy dishes out of your hide.” I grab a spatula of my own and march up to the middle of the kitchen, yapping, “Step aside.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Jack holds back laughter as he pretends to be scared, rushing to the counter.

I’m not about to let him steal the show. I have a stupid little poem I wrote when I was depressed at Emma’s house after I ran out of my wedding. It’s not great, but it’s what I’ve got, so I do a little dance before saying, “Listen up,” with my deepest voice. “Here we go.”

“A torn veil and dress

Makeup all a mess

A bottle of wine

My cold feet a sign.”

“Oh, yeah!” Jack calls out, laughing and clapping. “Nice work, Cole.”

I smile and give a silly curtsy, which earns me grand applause from Jack. My heart feels light, and I’m no longer one bit tired. What am I going to do when Jack leaves this Saturday? What will working here be like without him? My stomach clenches, and I push the thought away.

Jack gives me a sweet smile and an adoring look, which makes my heart fumble around in my chest.

I’m about to head back to my station when I realize I actually have another poem, from years ago. I hesitate for a moment before I say, “I have a serious one.” The smile falls off my face when I say,

“A defining trauma

A child losing her mama

Sentenced never to be whole

Forever a lost, drifting soul.”

I sigh as I walk back to the counter. He’s gazing at me with his warm brown eyes, and I love the feeling it gives me when he looks at me like that.

But his face turns hard when he goes back in the middle of the kitchen to perform again. This time, something shuts down in his eyes before he begins. “I have a real one too,” he says, hesitating. Finally, his face dark, he begins.

“I’ll never forget

The eternal debt

Unyielding regret

Forgiveness I’ll never get.”

The mood flips, as his words are harsh, angry. And of course, I can’t help but think about his repressed memories, unless he’s talking about something else, something that happened during his life in San Francisco—the “rough path” that Pops mentioned. I’m not sure I’ll get all the answers, and I worry this is the only flash of truth from his past he’s going to let me see.

He continues with,

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