Page 10 of For The Weekend
A friend of my sober coach hooked me up at a garage, and I never looked back. Especially once word got out that I could restore vintage cars. One thing led to another, and I fell into contact with a film production company, restoring cars for a movie set in the ’70s. It earned me a nice little nest egg that I used for this move.
To actually help make my return journey home where I belonged.
But now that I’m here, I’ve quickly realized I don’t have much time to do everything that needs doing with Mazie constantly hovering around me. Which is why I have her buckled into my Tahoe to drive downtown to Ian’s tattoo shop on Aster Street.
I hit the dial for music, and without even taking her attention away from her window, she says, “Play ‘It’s Raining Tacos.’”
I never should have given her access to YouTube.
“No way.”
“Come on,” she whines. “Please!”
“No.”
I tune the stereo to one of my favorite bands, but my perfect angel of a daughter shout-sings over the blazingly fast drumbeat, “It’s raining tacos!”
“Fucking song,” I mutter, teeth clenched. It’s nails on a chalkboard. The stupidest shit I’ve ever heard, and she loves it.
Instead of fighting her, I shut off the stereo. “Play a game instead.”
“What game?”
“Count the stop signs.”
I won’t playI Spyor any other dumb driving games, but make her do something to win a high five? Works every time.
She counts all the stop signs we pass as I make my way through town, tree-lined streets giving way to old stone and brick buildings. We pass cafés and boutiques, a few people walking dogs or sipping coffees at outdoor tables. The spire of the county courthouse comes into view as I turn toward Aster Street, with brick-paved sidewalks and flower baskets hanging from lampposts.
A vinyl record store blasts classic rock tunes next to a petstore, a chalkboard sign out front informing customers they sell homemade dog treats inside. Even though the architecture is old, the downtown has a youthful vibe. Especially because the university isn’t too far away.
My new shop is two blocks south, which is perfect for me. I can easily drop Mazie off when I need a babysitter, but right now, I park on Aster, and she immediately pulls me toward the bakery.
I’ve had to keep Mazie on a leash anytime she’s seen it because the place is wall-to-wall pink, and she’s been begging me to go. Finally, I give in, letting her drag me to Sweet Cheeks Bakery with its striped pink-and-white awning and curlicue logo on the window. A bell above the door tinkles when I open it, and I feel like a bull in a china shop as soon as I step inside.
Mazie gasps. It’s basically her dream. Petal-pink walls with murals of cupcakes and macarons, a gleaming floor of checkered black-and-white tiles, and iron-rod tables and chairs that look so dainty I would most likely break them if I were to sit down.
Mazie beelines for the display case along the left wall, filled with pastries so perfectly arranged they appear fake. She presses her face right up to the glass, leaving smudges from her nose and palms. “Oooooh.”
A young Asian girl with a name tag that readsMio, she/herand her hair pulled back in a ponytail smiles down at Mazie. “What looks good to you?”
My daughter then turns to me, finger tapping on the case. “Can I get that? Pleeeeaaaaaaase?”
It’s a huge cinnamon bun dripping with thick white icing. The thing is massive. Easily the size of her face.
“You’ll be bouncing off the walls.”
“Pleeeeaaaaase, Daddy?” She hops up and down, alreadyoff the walls.
But she might as well write a list of what she wants when she gives me those goddamn puppy-dog eyes. I heave a sigh as I dig my wallet out of my pocket. “We’ll take one of those cinnamon rolls.”
“The buns are what we’re known for. Eloise is the queen of cinnamon rolls.” Mio grins, reaching for a sheet of bakery paper. “Anything else for you today?”
I shake my head. “I’m sure we’ll be back.”
“Would you like it for here or to go?”
“To go, please,” I murmur, tugging Mazie away from the glass. As Mio rings me up, I study the photos covering the wall behind her. Happy customers holding up half-eaten cinnamon buns and other treats. I huff in amusement, realizing every single member of my family is scattered among them. My brothers, sister, and their kids.
