Page 70 of The Bartender's Baby

She was so tired I doubted we had much more than an hour left before I would take her home. And maybe, possibly, hopefully, wear her thighs as earmuffs.

After receiving my order of ginger ale for me and sparkling water for Tabby, I turned to find my dad in line right behind me.

We’d barely spoken all night, one single short conversation with Summer and my half-siblings, Addy and Carter, abouttheir summer plans. The kids appeared suitably bored for young teenagers, and Summer tried to get my dad to say a few more words besides “Yes” and “No” and “That’s good.”

Now, we stood a mere two feet apart, him appraising me with the same gray-blue eyes as mine.

“Hey,” I murmured, stepping to the side. The same awkward tension filled my gut. The same anxiety I’d always felt, waiting for him to acknowledge me.Pickme.

I motioned to my table with our drinks. “I gotta get back.”

“Is she doing okay?”

I froze.

My father was asking me a question? About Tabitha?

Is she doing okay?

I nodded. “Yeah. She’s okay.”

“Good.” He cleared his throat, head bobbing. “That’s good.”

We stood silent again. His hands in his pockets. Mine still holding these fucking drinks.

Why couldn’t we ever have a normal goddamn conversation?

I doubted he knew how to have one. He didn’t know enough about me to say more than a few stilted words.

When I tried to move around him again, he cut me off. “I, uh, wanted?—”

“Excuse me.”

Dad and I both turned to another guest, waiting for the bar, and my father gestured for her to go ahead of him then stepped toward me, forcing me to step back so the two of us stood in a quiet corner.

With his focus on the floor, he still didn’t say anything, and I couldn’t keep my temper out of my voice. “What, Dad? What do you want?”

He opened his mouth, a cracked sort of sound releasing instead of any actual words, and I leaned back reflexively.

Was he going to puke?

Maybe that was how it felt for him. Standing here with me.

Like he could vomit.

The ridiculous yet plausible idea pulled a smile out of me, and I found myself laughing derisively up at the ceiling. “Why are you doing this?”

Then my father said the last thing I expected. “I’m sorry.”

I wrenched my gaze to his, though his eyes flitted away almost immediately. “You’re what?”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, so quietly I almost couldn’t hear him over the music.

Stunned, I had no retort.

“I guess…” He lifted one shoulder. “Everyone has times in their life they look back and…reflect. I’ve been doing a lot of that lately. I want you to know I’m sorry.”

I blinked a few times, still unsure what was happening here. I’d never heard my father apologize. Not to my mother and certainly not to me. He was not a cruel man, simply…cold. Indifferent.

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