Page 183 of Mountain Daddy
Ahead of me is a front desk, and the man sitting behind it smiles at me in welcome.
“Hello.” I stop across the counter from him. “I’m here for an interview. But I have to cancel.”
I lickat the vanilla soft serve, standing in front of a wall of mirrors.
My hair is still down. My makeup is still done. But instead of my dress and heels, I’m in jean shorts, sandals, and a cropped T-shirt that’s currently making my tits look great since I’m still in the push-up bra I put on this morning.
I don’t know if Dad has plans for tonight, but he often comes home early on Fridays, and there’s no way he’d believe I dressed all fancy just for a trip to Ikea. So I was happy when the gas station attendant didn’t bat an eye at me entering the bathroom in one outfit and exiting in another. I’m sure they’ve seen weirder things.
I close my mouth over the top point of the soft serve and let it melt on my tongue before swallowing.
After I changed, I logged in to the job finder website and closed my remaining applications.
It was the right choice.
The mirror I saw online is here and just as pretty in person. It’s bigger than I expected, but I should still be able to get it in my car without having to fold the seats down.
Reaching out with my free hand, I feel the shiny frame of the mirror.
This is the right choice too.
Ice cream cone in hand, I take another lick and wander off to find a cart.
Halfway home,my phone rings.
I accept the call, and Dad’s voice fills the car. “Kenny, how long till you get here?”
I glance at the ETA on my GPS. “Fifty-seven minutes.”
Dad hums. “Okay, that’ll work.”
“Work for what?” I ask, assuming he’s planning dinner.
“The fish fry.”
Silence.
“The what?”
“The firefighters’ fish fry. It’s tonight.”
My mouth forms anO. As in,oh, shit.
I’ve never attended one of these, but Dad’s told me about them since he goes every year.
It’s some sort of fundraiser block-party type of thing.
In theory, it could be alright. Except I’m fairly certain every person in the surrounding area will be there.
Every person. Including Luther.
“You don’t have to wait for me,” I tell him, hoping he’ll leave without me while I figure out how to bail.
“Nope, you’re driving. It’s my turn to get wasted.”
I groan, mostly because I don’t want to go, but also from hearing Dad sayget wasted.
“Is there any way I can convince you to let me sit this one out?” I try.
