Page 36 of Bad Habit
“I never met my father.”
“When did he die?” The compassion in his eyes tried to melt me, and I hugged the basketball into my body the way I wanted to hug Mac instead.
I shook my head. “I don’t know. He’s probably alive. I don’t even know who my father is.” The words released without the shame I’d expected. It was easy to confess to Mac.
“That’s tough. Growing up without a dad.”
“You grew up without a mother. That’s harder.” I couldn’t even imagine. “Mother was my whole life.”
“So we’re both half-orphans.” He grinned, but there was a hint of sadness underneath his jovial expression. “Did you ever ask your mom about your dad?”
“Once.” I stepped over a small daisy that was pushing up through the concrete sidewalk. “I knew that I must have a father—I’d figured enough out from books and the Bible. I knew I was too much of a sinner to have been born from a virgin birth.”
He laughed, then went quiet when he realized I hadn’t been joking. “And most of your friends had two parents.”
“I didn’t have friends. Not real ones. Just the ones I made up in my head.” Samantha and Will had been loyal and fun, though, growing up with me, never arguing, always showing up in my mind when I’d most needed them.
“No friends?” he asked. “None at all?”
“We were very isolated.”
“I didn’t realize it wasthatisolated. No other kids around?”
“Just me and Mother for miles and miles.” I drew a long breath. “And I just found out why.”
“Really?” He stopped.
We were at the door to Duffy’s. He opened it, and I stepped into the darkness. A pungent scent hit my nose, and something crunched softly underfoot as if we were in a field of dry grass. After taking a few steps to make way for him to follow, I stopped, blinking, willing my eyes to adjust to the dim light.
Laying his hand softly on my waist, he guided me to a table with padded, high-backed benches on either side. “A booth okay?”
“It looks very nice.” I sat, and he sat on the bench opposite me.So far away. I set the basketball beside me, and he did the same with his.
“What can I get you?” A woman in her fifties, dressed in worn jeans and a t-shirt that readLed Zeppelin, asked before reaching our table.
“Beer?” Mac asked me, and I shook my head.
“Do you have any nonalcoholic drinks?” I asked the waitress, who looked bored.
“Sure.” In a monotone, she recited a dizzying list of options so quickly not one of them registered.
“Orange juice?” I asked, hoping that had been on the list.
She smiled at Mac. “The usual?”
He nodded, and the waitress walked to the bar.
“You have a usual?”
“I’ve been here a time or two.”
“It’s very…” Eyes finally adjusted, I tried to find the words to describe the space. Mismatched fixtures barely yielded light, the war-worn tables and chairs barely stood upright, but there was something… “It’s warm in here, inviting. I can see why you like it.”
Nodding, he smiled, and the waitress returned. She tossed basket of unshelled peanuts onto the table, followed by a tall glass of beer for Mac and my orange juice, then she disappeared quickly like she had places to be, although there was only one other customer in the bar, an elderly man slumped on a stool at the far end of the bar. Did he need help?If so, it would have to wait. I had pressing business first.
Mac drained a few inches off the top of his beer, then cracked open a peanut, popped the meat into his mouth, and tossed the shells to the floor.Ah,I thought.Peanut shells. That’s what we walked over.
I sipped my orange juice—fresh and sweet.
