Page 53 of Retribution

I’ve found it interesting how well Willow has taken the death of her mother, the grief is barely evident. She cried for the first few weeks, struggling to sleep at night and forgetting that she is no longer around. I’ve tried my best to step in and pick up the pieces that Allie left behind, but her shoes are too big, even for me.

The thought of Allie plays in my subconscious more than I let myself admit. The idea of sitting and feeling every negative emotion that I could comprehend, screams idiocy. I’ve instead, reconnected with my old roots, good old bourbon.

It’s been a confusing process. Becoming an alcoholic in the first place was entirely unintentional, I was unaware and unconcerned. Being sober for almost 10 years and returning to the bad habit is like reuniting with an old friend, the nostalgia, the memories, and the pleasure.

I’m not foolish enough to drink around Willow, with everything going on, limiting it to the times when Bridget comes over to help. It usually begins with me retreating to my home office, excusing that I’m working and until late.

My main issue is once I start, it’s like I’m chasing the high, never quite getting there, but enjoying the hunt.

I rarely stop before I’ve finished nearly an entire bottle, it helps wash away any existing memories I have of her, the blonde of her hair haunting me until the early hours. The smell of her perfume is imprinted on my brain, the silhouette of her body is engraved in my eyesight, her shadow seeming to taunt me, watching me.

The diner is busy, with only a few booths left vacant. I glance around at the restaurant, the cherry red chairs and the contrasting turquoise blue booths are utterly, an eyesore. I swear it’s the pop colors that draw children in, I can’t understand the obsession because the food is utter junk and flavorless.

Willow juts up and down, pointing at the menu above the counter displaying an array of deathly foods. I slip a smile to her as we’re escorted to an empty booth, the plump waitress carrying two menus with her.

“Daddy, please, please, please, can I order anything I want? Mommy never let me order both waffles and pancakes, she always said they were practically the same thing. But, daddy, they’re really not. I tried to tell her but she didn’t listen, please daddy, please.” She rambles.

I squint slightly, her voice raising in pitch towards the end, striking my head in numerous places.

“Of course, honey. Anything you want.”

I offer a large grin as her eyes widen and light up. She licks her lips and grabs the menu, muttering about how she wants every single topping they have to offer.

I give the menu a once-over and decide on a simple black coffee with a side of fries. I’ve not been going to the gym as much as I usually do, the downside of not being in the office building. I’ve always loved the perk of having access to the gym twenty-four hours of the day, it kept me, mostly, sane.

When a waitress with red hair comes over to take our order, Willow begins listing off pancakes and waffles, with all toppings, one with whipped cream and the other with ice cream.

And syrup.

And an Oreo milkshake, with more whipped cream.

The waitress, or ‘Penny’ as her name tag reads, looks at me in astonishment, clearly expecting me to refute any of what Willow said. She hasn’t began writing it down yet and Willow is staring at me with hope in her crystal blue eyes.

“We’ll take two orders of that, and a black coffee.” I face Willow as she squeals in delight.

What’s a few thousand calories at the expense of that kind of reaction? My heart warms as I begin to ask about school, now that she is happy to return.

“Miss Mendoza asked us to do a project on our idol next week, our hero.”

I raise an eyebrow, waiting for her to ask me some questions relating to her project.

Willow sits with her hands under her legs, looking nervous.

“Don’t worry, I can answer any questions you have, honey. You don’t have to look so nervous!” I offer a curt smile as Penny brings over our order of milkshakes and my black coffee.

Willow looks up at me and shakes her head, pulling her milkshake closer.

“It’s not that… I just really want to center my project around Miss Indie. I want to be just as good at ballet as her.” She slurps her milkshake.

I still, my mug of coffee almost touching my lips. Eyeing her carefully, I try to gauge how I should respond to her.

“That’s great, honey. Really great.” I tighten my lips in an attempt to smile, then wash it away with the, now bittersweet, coffee.

“I was hoping you could invite her over next week, so I can ask her all of the questions. Well, I don’t have anything prepared yet but I will. I want to know her favorite color, her favorite ballerina and her favorite award she has won!” She beams, the sugar from the milkshake clearly impairing her ability to speak slowly.

“Sure, I’m sure she’d like that.” The thought of Indie having to spend more time with me thaws at my soul.

Willow barely finishes a singular plate of waffles, let alone two. She passes out the entire ride home, allowing me to finally turn off the Encanto soundtrack. I’m almost certain I will never talk about Bruno again.

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