Page 18 of Role Play
Dad holds out his open palm. “Case in point.”
“For your information, he’s the best in the business. I was lucky to even get a meeting. He was friendly enough. He introduced me to a book marketing expert who can help me grow my readership. I just have to get a little investment money first.”
“Ah, and by marketing expert do you mean a lost Nigerian prince who is caught in the midst of a corrupt regime and needs your bank account number to restore peace to his rightful kingdom? After which, he’ll reward you richly with a magical bestselling author career, of course.”
I narrow my eyes to slits. “You know, people ask me where I get my sarcasm from. I just don’t know what to tell them.”
“Oh, Sora.” He throws his hands in the air, pairing the gesture with a sharp exhale. “You’re a smart girl. Use your common sense.”
“Common sense? What is that supposed to?—”
“I heard we’re celebrating a birthday,” our waiter-mime interrupts in a singsong as he approaches the table. He beams at me, all of his teeth on display. “How old are you turning?”
I shoot a dark look at Dad. “I’m turning pretty upset at the moment.”
The waiter opens his mouth, then clamps it back shut when he realizes he doesn’t have a viable response.
“Sorry. Twenty-seven. Tomorrow,” I continue. “This is my dad. He’s working on a long-term project in LA, but flew all the way across the country for one night, just to treat me to dinner.”
The waiter didn’t need my explicit explanation. That was more for me. I needed a reminder of what this night is—Dad, making an effort. A big one. He wasn’t around much for the majority of my adolescence. When he was around, he was constantly distracted. It’s obvious now he’s trying to make up for lost time.
“For your birthday, the chef would like to comp your dessert, whatever you like.” The waiter hands over a skinny, long dessert menu. The font is so swirly, I can barely make out the options.
“Um…” My eyes sweep up and down the menu. “I’m debating between the berry Chantilly cake and the mocha chocolate cheesecake. What would you recommend?”
“They’re both so decadent. You won’t be disappointed with either,” the waiter says, waving his mime-hands around like spirit fingers.
“Then bring her both,” Dad interjects. “Me, the praline pie. And two espressos.” He glances at me. “You still drink coffee, right?”
“Only on the days I’m breathing,” I answer with a wide grin that signals,truce.
The waiter scuttles away after topping off my water glass. He’s slipping. I’ve already had two sips since he last addressed my cup.
“You look beautiful.” Dad shows me a shy smile, very uncharacteristic of his normally more surly demeanor. I’m wearing minimal makeup and a simple black dress that barely satisfies the restaurant’s dress code.
“Thank you.”
“You look so much like your mother.”
That blindsides me.He’s bringing up Mom?
“I’ve been on this planet for fifty-four years, and I’m still convinced she’s the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
Now my jaw falls open in shock. “That’s so sweet. See? How come you can’t say stuff like that directly to Mom? Then we could have one birthday dinner with all of us.”
He’s quiet for a while, pensiveness seeping into the lines between his brows. “Is she seeing anyone these days?”
I cock my head to the side, having a hard time reading the obvious writing on the wall. Dad wants to know if Mom is single? That can’t be right. Mortal enemies aren’t usually concerned with their nemesis’s relationship status. Then again, enemies to lovers is all I tend to hear about on bookish social media. Maybe there’s something to it.
“No. She hasn’t dated anyone since Richard. They ended a year ago.”
He perks up in his chair. “Why?”
“He was nice, but boring. Too much of a couch potato. They had an amicable breakup.”
Sucking in his lips, Dad bobs his head. He waits a moment longer, maybe not wanting to seem too eager, then he asks, “Do you think I’m a couch potato?”
“Yes.” My answer slips out before I can collect it. “But like arefinedpotato. You’re a rosemary, parmesan Duchess couch potato if that helps.”
