Page 3 of Haunted Hearts
Slinging my purse strap over my shoulder, I stride off down the sidewalk. Aside from the crunch of leaves beneath my heels, there’s only the faint twittering of birds and the occasional rev of an engine. I pray I won’t run into anyone I know because I’mgoing to need a few more minutes—and a giant ass cup of coffee—before I can get a handle on myself.
My sole coffee shop in Hawthorne Bay, Brewed Awakening, is buzzing when I get there. It’s nine a.m., and half the town must have come for their morning cup of Joe because almost every single table is taken. I order my latte and go to stand at the far side of the counter, hoping the line won’t take as long to get through as I fear. The stakeholder meeting starts in, like, five minutes, and I’ll need to show up on time if I want to make a good impression.
My brain is a mess of racing thoughts, and the chipper conversations from the people around me aren’t helping to calm me down. I’m not sure caffeine is going to help much either, but at least the act of sipping a warm, silky latte will be of comfort.
A buzz comes from my purse. Digging through it to find my phone, I check the screen and my heart sinks. There’s still an unread text from Dylan—one I’ve been trying to ignore—but the incoming call that’s flashing on my screen isnotwhat I need this morning.
A quick scan behind the counter tells me the barista’s not done with my latte yet, so I move away from the counter and answer my call. This had better be quick.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Hey, hon. Just wanted to check in. How’s it going?”
There’s the faint blare of a TV in the background, and the clatter of glasses. I hope to god he’s not at a bar this early in the morning.
“Oh, you know…” I pinch the bridge of my nose. Do I really want to go there with him this early in the day? Ah, what the hell. “It’s not great, actually.”
“That’s good, that’s good. Listen, I wanted to tell you… I’m seeing somebody, and I thought maybe we could grab dinner.”
“Are you kidding me right now?”
My voice is harsh, and the women a few steps away from me, also waiting for their coffee, shoot me some looks. I must be talking louder than I realized.
“What? I thought you’d be happy to hear?—”
“No, Dad,” I hiss, heading toward the wall, from which I can still keep an eye on the espresso bar. “You asked me how things were going, and I told you ‘not great’. So you take that as your cue to launch into telling me about some new chick you’re dating? I can see youreallycare.”
I lean my head against the exposed brick wall. My face is getting hot, my insides twisting. Ofcoursethis is how this conversation would go. When has my dad ever called to listen to me?
Answer: never. I’m the stupid one here.
“Aw, honey, I’m sorry. I didn’t catch that. What’s got you down?”
“It doesn’t matter. Work stuff.”
“The library?”
“Yes, the library. They’re renovating, and I’m afraid it’ll make getting historical landmark status a challenge. You know Mom always wanted?—”
“Oh, Lydia.” Dad’s voice is as pitying as Mrs. Corey’s face was. “That was a long time ago.”
“Twenty years and two months, actually.”
Dad clears his throat. “Honey, I know you miss your mom, and I know you love that library, but you’ve got to move on.”
“Oh, right. Sinceyouhave done such agreatjob of doing that. You’ve moved on so well—right from one bar to the next!”
When Dad doesn’t answer, my stomach sinks. I don’t know where the fuck that just came from, but I’m too riled up to take it back. And anyway, it’s not a lie. We’ve been through this before.
“Anyway,” Dad says finally. His voice sounds tired over the blare of the far-off television. “I’d like you to meet Shelley sometime. She’s wonderful. She teaches at the university, and she’s?—”
“I’m late for a meeting,” I say, cutting him off. “Have a good day.”
I jab at the phone screen to end the call, then stand with my eyes closed, head still resting against the wall. I know I should cut my dad some slack, be grateful that he’s making at leastsomeeffort, after so many years of just… not caring. Or at least, not trying. But I can’t. Not today.
When my phone buzzes again, I inhale sharply. Is he for real? You’d think a person would get the idea that their daughter doesn’t want to talk to them when they?—
Oh.
