I’m not happy he took that tumble down the stairs, broke his leg, and had to spend time in a rehab center. God knows I can barely afford the payments on the medical bills that come every month, but getting him out of my space gave me the buffer I’ve been needing for a long time.
I pull into the parking lot of the tiny diner where we always meet. He can walk here from the senior living community where he’s living now. Another bill that the “profits” from the bar can barely cover, and my savings account is running dry from making up the difference.
I stare at the diner for a solid thirty seconds before I finally climb out of my car, giving her an extra pat for delivering me safely and not dying on the side of the road somewhere, and head inside.
Pop is already waiting at the same booth he takes every week, a cup of steaming coffee sitting in front of him on the red Formica table.
As soon as I slide onto the yellow bench seat across from him, Lisa, our regular waitress, stops by our table.
“What can I get you, hon?”
“Water, please.”
“I’ll have the tuna melt on rye,” he says to her before he even greets me.
Lisa looks to me. “Regular for you too?”
I glance up at the board where the specials are written. Chicken pot pie. “I’ll have the special instead.”
With a nod, she swirls away, calling out the order to the kitchen.
“Hey, Pop. How’s it goin’?”
His big hands, the ones that never held the seat of my bike as I learned to ride without training wheels, but did teach me how to properly build a pint of Guinness, wrap around the mug.
“It’s goin’. My next-door-neighbor’s dog won’t quit its yapping, so I ain’t been sleepin’ real well lately.”
“Did you talk to the manager about it?”
He gives me a short nod. “Yeah, she says she’ll take care of it, but I don’t know when that’ll be.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him if he’s changed his mind about AA, but when he coughs, I catch a whiff of cigarettes and malty beer.
It’s always five o’clock somewhere.
“Anything else new?”
He lifts his coffee to his lips and takes a sip before setting it down, and his bloodshot gray eyes meet mine.
“Yeah, Brandy came to see me yesterday. Said you’re running the bar into the ground and don’t want me to know about it.”
That tattletale bitch.
I keep my tone even. “Is that right?”
He nods, his eyebrows drawing together. “You hiding shit from me, Rip?”
I have to tell him something ...
I knit my fingers together in my lap and squeeze. “Sales have been slow. We haven’t had a lot of customers. But I’ve got some ideas on how to get more people through the door. I’ve been thinking that if I start an open-mic night, maybe get a few big names in to kick it off, I can really draw a crowd. Maybe even charge a cover.”
My dad’s expression goes dark and his hand clenches the mug. “Big names? You gonna offer to fuck ’em too?”
The swipe is quick and sharp. I should have expected it, but I wasn’t prepared. Especially since it sounded for a half second like he gave a shit about how the bar was doing.
He stares at me as Lisa returns with my water, setting it down on the table with a quick mention that our food will be right up.
I wait until she’s gone to bite out a reply. “No.”