Page 41 of The Sweet Spot

I glance around the diner, nervously fingering my necklace. “Actually, I’m meeting someone. I don’t know if he’s here yet.”

“No worries, I can check! What’s the last name?”

“Um, Janvier?”

Pursing her lips, she scans the small screen attached to the podium. “Yes, he’s here. I’ll bring you right over.”

“Thanks,” I say, nodding like a bobblehead. “I love your eyeliner, by the way.”

“Thank you!” A delighted smile sparkles across her face. “It took me foreverto learn, but I love playing with makeup.”

“Well, you’re good at it. I’m clueless.”

She laughs, waving her hand. “It just takes practice. All right, here we are. Your server will be right with you!”

She disappears, leaving me alone with a strange man who is apparently my father. He’s blonde and green-eyed, like I knew, but much more handsome than I’d anticipated. Younger looking, too, although I know he’s actually forty-two.

“Arlo?” I say at the exact same time he stands, saying, “Wren!”

We share a dorky, uncomfortable laugh. I lurch forward, not sure if I should hug him or not, but he meets me halfway. “Wren,” he says again, smiling warmly. “May I hug you?”

“Oh, yes, of course!” I’m still nodding as he wraps his arms around me. He’s lanky, yet solid. I hug him back, my heart racing. He smells like Altoids and cologne.

We sit on either side of the booth, staring at each other and smiling. I chose Loni’s diner because it was familiar and cozy, but the food’s great, too. I figured if things went to shit, at least we’d have had a good meal—and on my turf.

“Thanks for meeting me today,” he says, bowing his head slightly. He definitely sounds like a New Yorker. I think. “And for taking time out of your spring break—you probably had plans, didn’t you? I always had plans at your age.”

He’s nervous, I realize. Endeared by his rambling and slightly pinkcheeks—that must be where I get my proclivity for blushing—I shake my head. “No, I knew you were going to try and come down. I think the timing is perfect, actually.”

“Oh, okay. Good,” he says, smoothing his napkin. He’s got nice hands, clean nails.

Our server, a brawny, short guy in the Loni’s trademark ‘50’s hipster dress shirt and bowtie, walks over. He smiles, using his pencil to push his Buddy Holly glasses up. “Heya, folks. I’m Carlos, and I’ll be serving you today. What can I get you to drink?”

“Hi, Carlos, how ya doing?” Arlo says, tossing him a friendly smile before ducking his head to scan the menu. I let out a silent, relieved breath. Mom always taught me that the way people treat those in customer service is a good indicator of who they are. “I’ll have a cherry coke, please.”

“And I’ll have a Shirley Temple, please.” I peek up at Carlos. “Extra cherries, if you can.”

“Of course—what’s a Shirley Temple without extra cherries?” he says with a wink. “Coming right up!”

“You’re in for a treat,” I tell Arlo. “All the sodas here are top notch—they make them by hand. My mom and I have been coming here since I was little.”

“Been getting Shirley Temples since you were little too, I bet.”

“Yeah.” I laugh. Mom even has a picture of me slurping one down. It’s on her desk at the studio, in a frame the same color as the drink.

He nods, sitting back. “My mother and I had a place like that when I was alittle kid, a pâtisserie in the city. We’d get macarons…croissants. She said it reminded her of home.”

I lean closer, imagining this younger version of Arlo. He told me once that his parents emigrated from Paris to Brooklyn a couple of years before he was born in the 1970’s.

“What kind of croissants?” I ask tentatively.

His eyes crinkle as he smiles. “She liked plain, but I liked chocolate.”

My heart skips. “Me, too. In fact, there’s a French bakery in town that has thebestchocolate croissants. They’ve got macarons, too—my mom splurges once a year and orders a bunch for her birthday.”

“Not cake?”

“Nope.” I shake my head. “Macarons. She loves ‘em.”

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