Page 57 of Always Be an Us

"I don't know if I'll last that long."

"Do you want me to talk to your mother?"

Amelia considers it for a few seconds and then sighs. "No. I don't want to stress her out even more. Plus, at least this is more fun than being locked in a hotel room all day."

"I’m sure it is." Guilt pricks my conscience, as I consider life from my daughter’s perspective.

I've been thinking about what she said during our argument, that she hated that I had custody of her.

Although I gave her some freedom, I can see now why she can feel so stifled. I took it for granted because I bought her everything she wanted and gave her access to endless luxuries. I kept her safe. That was what I thought being a good parent was about.

But at the same time, my protectiveness kept her cooped up. The problem was exacerbated by her hybrid school program, which made it hard for her to make friends her age.

All because of me.

"I’m sorry, Amelia," I say. "For everything."

I know the exact second my daughter registers the statement. There’s silence for a few beats on the other end of the phone. The shock is loud when she says, "Did you just apologize?"

"Is that surprising?"

"Uh, yeah. You never apologize. What’s going on? Are you okay? You’re not sick are you?"

"No I’m not sick," I say, smiling at the genuine concern in her voice. "I just miss you."

"And now you’re being sappy too? Dad, I’m getting seriously worried now."

"I swear I’m not sick."

"If you say so. I miss you too." There’s a crash in the background and she says. "Dad, I have to go. Mom may or may not be having a panic attack."

"Alright. Call me if you need anything."

"Will do." I hang up and feel a little lighter. I love talking to my daughter, and I know that despite her histrionics, Rachel will take care of her. So I’m not too worried.

But I do hate how I've been treating Amelia so far.

An apology is one thing, but I want to get her something to make up for it. Suddenly, I get an idea.

My first stop is Emma’s house, but after two rounds of knocking with no answer, I finally relent. She’s not home. Then I head to the Tiki Bar. I figure she's probably either at work, or in the hospital at her grandfather's side. The Tiki Bar is closer, so I head there first.

When I get there, a handful of customers sit at the bar. I frown. Typically, a time like this would be a rush hour for any restaurant. Do things work differently in Laketown, or is this the typical number of patrons they have during rush hour? How on earth do they sustain this business model with such few customers?

A glance around shows that Emma is nowhere to be found. There is a larger, older man behind the counter staring pointedly at me, with an expression I can only describe as unfriendly.

As I approach, he raises an eyebrow, "Can I help you?"

"I’m looking for Emma."

"Who's looking?"

"Declan." I eye the man, wondering at the clear animosity emanating from him.

"The five-burger guy."

Five-burger....ah. Now his hatred makes sense. The cook or Emma must have told him about me.

"Well, if you would teach your cook to make it right the first time, we wouldn’t be having that problem," I comment, unable to help myself.

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