Page 52 of Dying to Meet You
“That helps,” he says quietly. “My singular wish is that you can avoid some of the things I went through. It’s why I’d like to talk to your mom.”
Her stomach gives a nervous lurch, because it hadn’t occurred to her that he’d ask that. And she’s not about to relay the message. “I’ll ask her.”
“All right.” Another super-quick smile. “I’m sure you hear this all the time, but you look so much like her. Maybe you got more of her genes than mine.”
“Does it work that way?”
He shrugs. “Didn’t do that well in science class. Ask your mom. She was the smart one in our relationship.”
“She’s still smart,” Natalie says, and it comes out sounding defensive.
He smiles down at the cookie plate. “I don’t doubt it. How’s she doing?”
She hesitates. “I don’t think I should talk about her. She wouldn’t like it.”
“Yeah, fair. And I don’t want you to think I’m pumping you for information. I don’t want either of you to feel uncomfortable that I’m back in town.”
“Then why are you?”
“Opportunities. There are more jobs here, not that mine is special.”
This is a safe line of conversation. “Where do you work?”
“In the kitchen of a touristy restaurant on the waterfront. The same place I met your mom. She was the waitress...”
“And you played in the band on Thursday nights.”
He blinks. “She told you that story?”
“Sure,” she says with a shrug that’s as casual as she can manage. “That’s about all, though. She never talks about you.”
He flinches, but it’s true. Her mother avoids the topic the way you avoid something that hurts. It was such a long time ago, too. He must have put a real dent into her.
But Natalie overhears things. She’s heard her mother tell friends that he’d signed away his parental rights.Just wrote us off like a bad check.
“What do you do at the restaurant?” she asks just to fill the awkward silence.
“Most nights I work the grill. It’s a sweaty job, but the owner is a good guy. Willing to hire someone with a record. Some nights I fill in as the manager, because people keep quitting on him. And you know my other hobby. My band plays here and there around the coast. Mostly in Portland.”
That’s how she’d found him. One day she searched his name and there he was, named on the band’s Instagram account. “Is it the same band you used to play with?”
“Heck no.” He puts down his tea. “Those guys were heavy into drugs, and they pretty much self-destructed. But the new guys don’t do anything harder than light beer, so they’re good company for me. I need to make new friends.”
“Sure,” she chirps. “Like that’s so easy.”
His grin is surprised. “You’re snarky. The last time I saw you, all you could say wasDadaandMamaandbook.”
“Book?” she asks, studying her coffee cup. But the more interesting word isDada. She can’t remember what it was like to have someone in her life calledDada.
“You loved books. We carried them with us anywhere we went. You had these little books made out of cardboard—the kind that babies can’t tear. But you chewed on them sometimes.”
It’s like hearing a story about someone else’s life.
“Every night we’d read you a few stories before we put you down to sleep. Then your mom and I would tiptoe around, because it was a small apartment, and we were afraid to wake you up.”
“What kind of stories?” she hears herself ask.
“You liked that monkey—he got into a lot of trouble.”
