Page 37 of The Cost of Forgetting You

So I hate to even ask this, but Dad is convinced someone stole his wallet. You wouldn’t happen to know where it is? (I promise I’m not accusing you, I’ve just looked everywhere for it)

Roberta

I told you to text me with any questions ;) I’m not offended, don’t worry.

Roberta

Check the flowerpot on the front porch. That’s where we found it on Wednesday.

Me

Ding, ding, ding! Flowerpot was the correct answer.

Roberta

Yay! What do I win?

Me

…the pride of knowing you were right?

Roberta

I’ll take it!

“What do you mean, you don’t have shrimp sandwiches? We always get shrimp sandwiches.”

The waitress—a girl of about sixteen with glitter eyeshadow and braided hair—shifts her weight uncomfortably. “We do normally, but we ran out.” Her gaze cuts to me, flaring wide, then back to Dad again. “I’m real sorry, sir.”

I bite my lip. Dad’s cheeks are flushed. His hands shake where they grip the menu. His gaze dances over the words but doesn’t register on any one thing. He reaches for his glass, but a particularly harsh tremor knocks it sideways. The table floods with water. Our napkins, the bread plate, and even my lap get soaked. Tears fill the wrinkles at the corners of my dad’s eyes.

“You know what, why don’t we get burgers, Dad? You love their burgers.”

I do my best to keep the panic out of my voice, but my nerves are frayed. I don’t know how to make this better, and people are starting to stare, including Kyle Miller, who sits at a booth across the aisle from us. Recognition flares in his eyes, because of course it would in this moment when I wish most to slip under the radar. The waitress grabs extra napkins from a nearby table and starts patting up the spill. Dad’s mouth parts and then closes. It’s too much. And I’m not enough.

“I want to go home,” he whimpers.

My throat seizes around a breath, lodging it in my lungs. A burning sensation fills my chest, the base of my neck, the pit of my stomach. I want to fix this, but I don’t know how.

I exchange a desperate look with the waitress. She’s so young and just as confused as I am, but I could plant a kiss on her forehead when she offers, “I can get some burgers to-go for you?”

My responding nod is only halfway done when she pivots on her heel and makes a break for the kitchen.

“It’s all right, Dad.” I stand, ignoring the whispers Kyle exchanges with the other guys at his table. People from high school that I’ve all but managed to forget. “We’re going home.”

Dad won’t look me in the eye. His gaze remains locked on the ratty gray carpet as we make our way to the hostess podium. In my peripheral, I notice his chin wobbling, and it shatters a piece of my heart.

I cup his elbow, calling his attention to me. He pauses but doesn’t look up.

“We’re gonna wait here for our food, okay?”

He glances at the podium, brow furrowing. “Shrimp sandwiches?”

“No, Dad. They’re out of shrimp. I got us burgers.”

“Out of shrimp.”

“Yes, sir.” I slide my hand up his bicep in a soothing motion. “But you like their burgers.”

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