Page 80 of Not in the Plan

Her shoulders straightened, and her chin raised. She marched behind the counter and dug her purse from under the till. Her fingers trembled as she tugged out every dollar she had in her wallet and repeated the same steps with the tip jar.

She had no idea how much it was. At this point, it didn’t matter. Had she not already counted down the till she would’ve given him her entire daily earnings. Her breath was choppy, but her pounding heart eased.

Determined footsteps padded across the floor as she gripped the wad of cash in her hands and bit her quivering lips. As his eyes dashed between her face and money, a mix of desperation, excitement, and regret seemed to cross his face.

He knew it was wrong. And so did she.

They spoke no words. She laid the cash in his open palm, and his fingers curled around the bills. He nodded with his eyes cast down and shoved it in his pocket.

“Dad.” Clearing her throat didn’t clear the sickness in her stomach, and she stumbled a few steps back. “I love you, and I want you to be safe and healthy. But the cash stops.” She wanted to turn around, run away, or apologize and suck back the words. But she forced herself to stay firm.

Various emotions reflected in her father’s eyes. Pain. Remorse. Regret. Maybe a touch of defiance. He opened his mouth and closed it, and then dropped his head. “This is who I am.”

And just like that, it hit her. He’d never change. Nothing she did could make him change. But the beauty was that she could take or leave him, but it washer choice. Not his. His issues had nothing to do with her not being a good enough daughter. His problems were his own.

She was a double, extra-large cup of cappuccino, and he was a short shot of espresso. He probably gave her everything he had… gave her his entire shot of espresso. But it wasn’t enough, and it would never be enough. Her cup needed more.

She took a lifetime of deep breaths and looked at him.Reallylooked at him. Saw him for who he was—an addicted single father who struggled to raise his daughter. A man who lost his sister, Rosie. A man abandoned by his wife. She saw the missed teacher conferences and the broken park-date promises. She saw her coloring book drawings taped over the entire kitchen wall and leading to the hall because he said the colors made him happy. She saw her new sparkly dress shoes he had saved up for when she was eight. She saw vomit in the bathroom, empty bottles, regretful smiles, and pancakes.

She. Saw. Him.

But also… she saw herself. Her desperation to be needed. Her compromising her morals and her need to fix him and support him to make her feel complete.

Something about this day, this moment, this second, crashed down.

She was enough on her own.

The chair squeaked when he stood, and he pushed it under the table. His head hung a little lower as he walked to the door. When he reached the exit, his hands hovered on the door handle.

He barely glanced at her, and his mouth parted. “Ya did good, kid. Real proud of ya.”

Her heart both shattered and filled at the words. Years she waited to hear these words, and her younger self collapsed. But her adult self knew it was too late.

“Hey, Dad?

His spine straightened. “Yeah?”

“I forgive you.”

He expelled a breath as his chin fell to his chest. And then walked out the door.

And she broke down.

TWENTY-SIX

MACK’S DRINK SPECIAL: LAVA-HOT LATTE

Mack frowned. Charlie had been Quick Draw McGraw these last few weeks with text messages, and now the time tipped on five hours since she sent her text. Should she message again? The shop would’ve closed almost an hour ago. Was Charlie okay?

A few rings, and Mack’s call went to voicemail. She nibbled on her bottom lip and checked the time again. Not knowing if Charlie was okay made her legs jumpy and hands sweaty. She paced the room and bit the cuticle on her pinkie. Maybe Charlie was in the shower? Or went out with friends? All were likely scenarios. But… what if someone broke into Charlie’s home, and used razor-sharp zip ties to bind her wrists to the pantry shelf?

Okay, okay. Maybe Mack should take a break from her manuscript.

Still… something felt off. Jesus, was this what Mack’s mom felt like when Mack ignored her messages? Starting now, Mack would stop being a jerk, and when her mom called her, she’d respond immediately.

A full glass of water consumed, another billion pacing steps, and ironing her shirt eased nothing. Her belly turned sour, and she opened her laptop.

The stillness unsettles me. I strip off my coat and toss it on the dusty, pale pink, Victorian sitting chair near the fireplace. The only sound I hear is a faint clanking of the radiator upstairs and the muffled hum of old house wiring.

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