Page 51 of Dying to Meet You
Way before she’s ready, the barista hands over her drink, and now she’s out of reasons to stand here.
Deep breaths, her mother would say. Though she’d hyperventilate if she knew where Natalie was right now.
That man against the back wall is her father. After all this time.
She turns with forced nonchalance and carries her coffee across the room. He’s spotted her and stands up as she approaches. Even though her knees feel squishy, she forces herself to look him in the eye.
That means lifting her chin. He’s taller than she’d imagined. That shouldn’t be so startling, but it is. And now she’s there at the table and doesn’t know what to do next.
She’snotgoing to hug him. And shaking hands would be weird. “Hi.” That’s all she’s got as she puts her coffee on the table and sits down.
“Hi,” he says, flashing her a quick smile before dropping back into his seat. He steeples his hands in front of his mouth and blows out a heavy breath. “I wasn’t sure you’d actually come.”
“I almost didn’t.” It comes out sounding a little mean.
All those years wondering why he couldn’t even be bothered to send her a birthday card. All those times people asked,What’s the deal with your father?Not knowing what to say. There’s no good way to tell a friend your father is in prison for beating someone almost to death.
“Yeah, okay. I can understand,” he says softly.
“Can you?” Years of anger seem to be spilling out. And that’s not what she planned.
His expression falls. “Yeah, honey, I can.”
Honey.
He looks down at the table. “You don’t owe me anything. I’m just glad to see your face. All I’ve got to say for myself—and it’s not much—is that when you were small, I didn’t have a lot to offer.”
And now?She’s too chicken to ask it aloud, and sips her coffee instead. It’s so hot that it burns the roof of her mouth.
Across the table, he picks up his drink, too. The sticker on the cup says hibiscus peach iced tea with lime and mint.
Her eyes get weirdly hot.My father. She tries those words out in her head. They’re words she never says aloud. Not if she can help it. But now they’re just sitting here together. Like any father and daughter in a coffee shop.
He nudges a plate toward her. It has four cookies on it, two different kinds. “So I need to know—are you a chocolate person?”
“Well, sure,” she says quickly. “Who isn’t?” She chooses a chocolate crinkle cookie, breaking it in half. He picks up the other half.
They bite. They chew.
I look a little like him, she realizes. It’s his nose and the shape of his face. His voice is lower than she expected it to be. But his hands are the same shape as hers, she realizes.
This is weird.
“Your mom is okay with this?” he asks suddenly.
She almost laughs and gives herself away but then manages to stick to the lie she’d rehearsed ahead of time. “She’s not happy about it.”
His face falls. “I suppose not. But please tell her that I need to speak to her. It’s about some health stuff you guys need to know about my half of the gene pool.”
Oh shit.
She must look surprised, because he frowns. “Nothing to panic over. It’s just that you’re not a little girl anymore, and my side of the family has some particular issues with substance abuse. My mother was an addict. I had my own issues. And a lot of that stuff is genetic, Natty.”
Natty. She hasn’t let her mother call her that in years. But it rolls off his tongue like he thinks of her as Natty in his head.
“You don’t have to worry about me,” she says. “I don’t do drugs.Ever.”
Drugs are, after all, for losers.
