Page 16 of Don't Call Me Daddy
Even dropping out of college and signing a one-year contract to work in Dracula’s Castle with barely enough money to get me through the next month. All while trying to cross off as many things on this list as I can. I’m living out of my car, and what little I have left in savings is rapidly deteriorating as my mother’s living expenses steadily accrue. I really should’ve read the fine lines before agreeing to cosign for her expenses, but attention to detail was never my strong suit.
Fern would’ve planned for this for years—hell, in a lot of ways she already did by making this list. But that’s how we were different. She was the planner, and I was the doer. It never failed that she’d have to bail me out of trouble, but we’d always walkaway with a hell of a story to tell. That was what she always told me to make me feel better anyway.
I don’t know what I’m going to do. It’s not like I have a home I can crawl back to, and I’ve already dropped out of school, lost what little scholarships I had, and used my savings to buy a nonrefundable plane ticket to Romania. It was Fern’s biggest dream, so I just need to figure out how to patch enough odd jobs together for the next thirty days, and then I’ll have the fresh start that I desperately need.
I twirl Fern’s plain silver ring as I try to think of a plan. Her fingers were thinner than mine, so I have to wear it on my ring finger. She was such a little weirdo, and I miss her so much, it hurts. As much as I want to live out all her dreams, the thought of not knowing what she’d do next eats at me more than I’d like to admit.
When I think of what I’m really here to do—find somewhere to sprinkle her ashes—it makes my throat tighten up and sends a cold chill up my spine. I’m not ready to say goodbye, but maybe finishing the list will help me to be.
There’s also the pressure of choosing the perfect resting place, and she certainly didn’t help me by asking me to do it before she died.
“You’ll know where to sprinkle me, Ivy. I trust you to find the perfect place.”
No pressure, right, sis?
I scoff a laugh at the absurdity of it all just as my timer alerts me that my worry session has come to an end.
So much for coming up with a plan. I guess I’ll just wing it, like I always do. I’ll keep my eyes open, and something will come along. It always does. It’s not like I’m afraid of getting my hands dirty with a little hard work, and I’m not above doing whatever it takes to make ends meet.
I’ve done just about any odd job you could imagine—from dog walking to food delivery to selling pictures of my feet to creepy guys online. For the right price, I’d be willing to try just about anything once. The important thing is flexibility with the freedom to pivot when I get bored, which makes short-term jobs ideal for my chaotic lifestyle.
“Okay, Ferny. You want me to check off this list for you? Then, I’m going to need you to help me find a job. Okay?”
No sooner do the words leave my mouth than I hear that deep, familiar voice that played through my dreams all night long.
I sit up in a rush, and immediately, my eyes land on his pristine white button-up shirt, stretched over his thick, broad shoulders. My stomach pirouettes, and I swallow a gulp.
I’m already walking toward him before I can even figure out what to say. Somehow,Thanks for the new tires, ’kay, bye, doesn’t feel like enough, but my mind’s drawing a big fat blank.
Since when am I, of all people, at a loss for words?
He’s talking on the phone, sitting on a park bench, eating a bowl of noodles. I pause when I get close enough to hear his conversation.
“No, Roman. I told you, you can tell Mom I will not be wearing the bow tie she crocheted for family portraits.”
Consider my interest piqued. I move a little closer.
“No, he’s not my brother. Do I seem like someone who knows where to find a last-minute Siegfried and Roy impersonator for a cat’s birthday party? Listen, I’m trying to eat my lunch in peace. Can we talk about this later? Fine. Bye.” He hangs up the phone and shakes his head.
Have my prayers been answered? So soon?
Feeling a renewed sense of hope, I step behind him, tapping him on the shoulder. “Excuse me, I don’t mean to bother you …”
His eyes widen in recognition, and he chokes on his bite of noodles.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” I give his back a little pat as he coughs into his elbow. “I don’t know if you remember me, but I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation and?—”
He wipes his mouth with a napkin, then coughs some more before nodding his head. “You nearly blinded me with a fistful of rice. That’s not exactly a first impression one easily forgets.”
It’s then I notice his left eye is red and swollen. I purse my lips, feeling awkward. “Sorry about that. If it helps, you can only tell if you’re looking at it.”
“Great. Just what I was hoping for.” He dabs his forehead with his napkin and coughs again. “Is there something you need, or did you just want to come by and insult me?” He rakes a glance up my body like he’s taking inventory of every detail.
I don’t know why, but heat pools in my belly, and I have to squeeze my legs together to distract myself from the physical effect his gaze has on me.
What the hell is with this guy?
I wipe my sticky, grass-covered hands against my shorts, suddenly feeling insecure about my dishevelment. I knew he was hot last night, but seeing his striking features in broad daylight is something else entirely.
