Page 45 of Because of Dylan

“No, never saw him before, why?” I can’t help the way my shoulders square out in defiance.

“You went a little pale, that’s all. But your color is returning now.”

I nod. “I get a little anxious around people sometimes.” That’s the most honest thing I have ever said to him. His eyes linger on me, but before he can say anything another man stops at our table. This time an older man, my father’s age. Shaved head and built like an armoire. My father is on his feet a second later, and then they’re doing the man-hug-slapping-backs thing.

“Becca, this is my good friend Michael. Michael, this is my daughter Becca.”

I try to get up, but he waves me off and gives me his hand to shake instead. It’s huge and callused. This guy is not sitting around collecting the profits from his restaurant.

“Nice to meet you.” I shake his hand and thank God for not slipping back into anxiety. Perhaps knowing this man is my father’s friend lends him a certain amount of trust. This surprises me. It’s an unexpected thought.

Michael puts a hand on my father’s shoulder and points at him. “This guy over here saved my life.”

My father immediately shakes his head.

“Now, he’s too modest to tell you. But he did. I got shot and knocked unconscious, but he dragged my sorry ass through a hellfire of bullets and got me to safety.”

I look at my dad, and he averts his eyes, blinks a few times. Dad. This is the first time I think of him as such.

“Did you pick what you want to eat yet?” Michael asks us both.

I look at the menu and back at him. “Not yet. Any recommendations?”

“I’m not one to brag, but everything is good.”

My father interrupts him. “Don’t believe a word he says, he brags about everything.”

Michael has a hearty laugh, and I can’t help but to laugh with him.

“Tell you what? How about I surprise you? Do you trust me?” He points at me with both index fingers and a huge smile on his face. I look at my father, and he shrugs.

“Okay … surprise me.”

“Any allergies or foods you hate?” he asks.

“None, and I like everything.”

“Awesome! Sit tight. I’ll be back.”

I watch him go for a few seconds before turning back to my father. “He’s kind of intense.”

“That he is.” He fills both our glasses with water.

The same waiter shows up with a coffeepot and a carafe of orange juice, setting both on the table. “The boss-man sent this.” He winks at me. “And said he’s taking care of your food himself. Anything else I can get you?”

I curl my fingers into my palms, the sting of my nails biting into the tender flesh grounds me. Before I can say anything, my father dismisses him. “No, thank you. You can go now. I’m sure you have other tables to tend to.” His tone is cold and dry, the opposite of the way he talks to me. The waiter walks away, but not before looking at me again.

My father picks up his phone and starts typing. It dings with a reply a few seconds later. “He won’t be coming back again.”

“Who? The waiter?”

“Yes.”

“What did you do?”

“Asked Bear to send a waitress instead. I didn’t like the way he was looking at you.”

I look at him, speechless. I’m trapped in a kaleidoscope of conflicting emotions. Each taking a turn and trying to fill my field of vision. My chest warms in gratitude—that he cared enough to do this, to protect me from my perceived threat. Then it burns with indignation. How dare he interfere with my life? And finally caves in, scared he saw how uncomfortable the waiter made me feel.

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