Page 43 of Always a Bridesmaid
Sure. Whatever. Admitting hurt feelings hadn’t changed anything in the past, so Violet didn’t bother.
After a minute chock-full of awkward, Dad asked what she wanted and headed to the counter to order their flavored coffees. He wisely waited for them to be brewed, saving them another few minutes of wrenching silence.
Dad returned, two large mugs in his hands. He set her vanilla latte in front of her, and she smiled at the leaf pattern and well-loved teal mug. Under other circumstances, she’d enjoy the quaint coffee shop. Places like this and Maisy’s bakery were upsides to the tiny town where people lived at a slower pace, and she was holding on to those pros for dear life right now.
The wooden chair creaked as Dad settled into his seat. “I heard you were at the Old Firehouse with Ford McGuire.”
Violet sipped her latte, biting back a curse at the impatience that’d earned her a burned mouth. She licked at the foam on her upper lip. “I was there, yes. There was a whole group, and Ford was part of it. Why?”
Dad fiddled with his mug. “I realize it’s a bit late for me to jump into the protective father role—”
“You’re right. It is.” She probably should’ve held her tongue. After he’d breezed in twenty-three minutes late, only to make her feel like a skeleton he wanted to shove back in the closet, she needed to get in a hit. Otherwise she’d leave feeling like a punching bag that’d been worn down and broken, vulnerability seeping from the cracked leather.
Nonetheless, her ire wasn’t going to help their strained relationship.I’ll put in my time, and then I’ll go back to Maisy’s and give her a hug so I can focus on the good that came from being Dad’s dirty little not-so-secret.
His sigh carried his impatience over to her. “All’s I’m trying to say is you might want to be careful with that boy. The McGuires don’t come from good stock.”
“Good stock? Isn’t that what you say about cattle and horses?”
Another sigh, but Dad slid aside his mug and charged on. “Funny you mention horses. Back in the day, they used to be horse thieves. They’d come in the middle of the night, steal ’em away, and keep them up in the mountains.”
“Did I just step into a wild west soap opera? That had to be, what? A hundred years ago?”
“More like seventy. But the next generation made their own moonshine, and Ford’s grandpa frequented the county jail. His father graduated the same year I did. Jimmy’s got four kids with three different women.”
Anger roiled, heating her blood, and she didn’t care if her latte scorched every one of her taste buds. She downed a few gulps, needing the time to gather her thoughts and process instead of reacting in a way that’d cause permanent damage.
One more perfectly warm slug, and Violet slammed down the mug. “Seems hypocritical, coming from a man who also has kids with more than one woman.”
Okay, so she couldn’t hold it back. But did Dad sincerely not see the connection?
“At least I learn from my mista—”
Dad didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.
The leg of her chair caught in a groove on the tile floor, and Violet nearly tipped it and herself over. That would’ve been a more dramatic exit than she intended. “This mistake is done trying. Goodbye, Dad. I think it’s best if we keep our distance while I’m in town.”
A dejected expression overtook Dad’s features as he stood as well. “I get it; I always manage to say the wrong thing. And you don’t give me an inch. In fact, every time I try with you, you lash out.”
If this was his trying, she might prefer for him to quit. For both of them to accept their relationship was doomed from the start. Maybe then they’d both stop feeling like failures.
Violet’s throat tightened, oxygen harder and harder to come by.
“I saw how badly Benjamin hurt you,” Dad continued, “and I thought I’d save you from another heartbreak. Ford might be a better man than his father or his grandfather—time’ll tell. But besides one on-and-off-again relationship that was tumultuous at best, I’ve never seen him out with the same woman twice. He’s not the settling-down type, honey. Tigers don’t change their stripes.”
Somebody tell Alanis Morissette I can help her defineIronic, and it’s that statement, coming from Dad’s lips.
A wheeze fell from her lips, and her throat was only growing tighter.
And itchier.
And her tongue didn’t seem to fit in her mouth anymore.
She eyed her now-empty mug. “What was in…” Wheeze. “That latte?”
“I ordered what you said. A vanilla latte.” He, too, looked at the mug as if it’d hold the answers for why the world wouldn’t stay still, the patrons and tables blurring around her.
Then he gasped. “Cheryl and I switched to almond milk, so I told them to go ahead and make both of them with it.”
