Page 25 of The Wild Card
The way he sayscriticalsounds like I’m a hospital patient who might not make it through the night.
“I thought we could go over some of the questions he might ask,” Dad says.
My irritation at the way Dad’s trying to micromanage me while I’m several states away is cut by a tiny sliver of guilt. Because he’s also trying to help. He truly thinks heishelping—setting up interviews, trying to set up dates withnice boys who are going somewhere, polishing my resume without asking me first.
Overstepping is his love language.
But it’s not mine.
And is it really love when it’s expressed through explicit control?
“This actually is not a good time. I’ve got to go—tell Mom hi. Byeloveyou.”
I say this last part all as one word, then hang up before he can object or try to convince me thisisactually a good time.
I turn my phone over in my hands. Though I know logically Daddidn’tbug my phone and doesn’t seem to know about my interview with Brightmark, the quick conversation leaves me with a sense of paranoia and unease.
Speaking of unease, I wonder how Collin’s talk with his family is going. If I had his phone number, I’d text him to ask.
But I don’t have his number.
I also don’t have answers about the job. I don’t know for certain if Collin and I are really going to continue our ruse—at least, publicly—and how it will work. I don’t even know when Chase, Harper, and I are leaving Sheet Cake to head back to Austin. We drove in late last night, and I think we’re headingback to Austin the day after tomorrow? But I don’t even know that for sure because Chase made our travel plans.
At least I’ve got a caramel latte.
Correction—hada caramel latte. I’ve been nervously chugging and now it’s down to the last sip.
Awesome, I think, just as the coffee shop door swings open.
As though to prove Kalli’s earlier point about the quirkiness of Sheet Cake, a man who looks to be in his mid-thirties strides into the building, and I have to almost immediately avert my eyes.
Because he’s wearing a tank top paired with chaps over what looks like a tiny bathing suit.
I remember seeing him earlier today in the festival parking area when I was leaving with Collin. Kind of hard to forget this kind of outfit.
“Kalli, my love,” the man says, spreading his arms wide. “I come in search of caffeine.”
“And maybe a pair of pants?” she suggests. “Unfortunately, we don’t sell clothing, Wolf. Just coffee.”
The man does a little shimmy and spin, and I didnotneed to see the chaps and speedo combo from the back. Not that he’s got terrible legs or anything, but it feels wrong to see so much pale skin in a coffee shop.
It really is a SMALL bathing suit—featuring the Texas flag across the buttocks.
Because of course it does.
“There’s plenty of yardage here. I’ll have you know that these chaps cover more of my legs than most shorts,” he says.
“It’s not about the yardage. It’s about what they’re covering up. Ornotcovering up,” Kalli says. “You can order and pay, but you’ll have to wait outside. I’ll bring you your drink. Customers need actual pants in the store.”
“It’s not on the sign,” the man says, pointing to a hand-lettered chalkboard sign by the door.
I’m not sure how I missed it on the way in. Clearly, rules have been added in stages.
It starts out with the normal things you might expect in a coffee shop or business:No shoes, no shirt, no serviceandOnly licensed service animals. But then … it takes a turn. The next handful are so specific, it’s hard to imagine they weren’t inspired by actual events.
No handguns, shotguns, rifles, or any other kind of gun including nerf, potato, water, and glue guns.
No possums (even ones pretending to be cats). Not even on a leash.
