Page 81 of Sizzle

24

Joelle

The phone chirps again from its perch on the charging deck in Connie’s kitchen and it makes me want to scream. I don’t dare turn it off. Despite the fact that Dad won’t talk to me right now, I’d never forgive myself if there was an emergency and I missed the call.

He’s got his own ringtone, so I know it’s not him this time. No, that particular chime got programmed in for the two men whose names I refuse to say.

I don’t check the text, which I expect will be about the tenth one today asking me whether I’m okay.

I’m not, and they both know it, so I don’t bother to answer.

Instead, I’m working. It’s not the kind of work I really get paid for, unfortunately, but it’s the work I love. At least, I loved it when I started, but this damn pastry dough keeps bricking up on me.

You’d think with as cold as it is right now, I’d have no trouble keeping my fingers cool enough to work the butter in properly, but I still keep mucking it up somehow. I mull the time it’ll take to switch recipes for this week’s post. I could just give it up and go watch TV like a normal human, but I won’t. I can’t.

If I stop moving, I’ll break.

The blog’s been coasting by on pre-scheduled posts and reruns of old favorites, but now that I’m once again unemployed, there’s no excuse not to get back to posting regularly. There’s still a lot of engagement in the comments and plenty of traffic, which is reassuring. Maybe only most of my life has gone to shit, not all of it like I thought.

I really hate the pitying voice in my own head, but makes for a nice change from the all the crying.

The doorbell rings and I pitch the lump of useless flour in the trash on my way to answer it. Connie didn’t tell me she was expecting a delivery or anything, but I better at least look. Force of habit compels me to check the peephole before opening the door, and thank God.

It’s not the post office. It’s my dad.

I blink a few times, unconvinced. Nope, he’s still there. I yank open the door.

“Dad,” I say. He gives me a small smile.

“Hey Jo,” he says. “How are you?”

Jesus. Small talk? But I guess it’s a step. I pull the door all the way open and gesture him in.

“Come on in,” I say. “Before we both freeze.”

I close the door behind him as he shucks off his coat. He looks good. More… robust than the last time I saw him. Somebody’s been feeding him well.

“How are you doing?” I ask him, after we both sit down in the living room.

“I’m… good,” he says, so thoughtfully that I believe him.

“That’s good to hear.”

“How are you, Jo?” he asks again. “You didn’t answer me before.”

“I’m…” The question almost makes me laugh. I don’t even know how to begin to answer him. “I’m okay.”

“Staying busy, I guess. With the job and everything.”

“Do you want something to drink?” I say by way of answering. I stand up, ready for any excuse to leave the room and avoid that question.

“I’m okay, thanks. You don’t have to wait on me,” he says, his eyebrows coming down.

“If you’re looking for Connie—”

“Damn it, Joelle,” he says, startling me. He grabs my hand and tugs me to sit on the couch. “I’m not here to be waited on and I’m not here to see Connie. I came here to apologize.”

I swallow but don’t respond.

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