Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 70570 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70570 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
“It’s a long story.”
“You got drunk, ditched Cole, stumbled out of the church in the pouring rain, and ended up at Samuel’s?”
“It’s a short story.”
“Am I doing something wrong here, Malcolm? Am I—” He lets out a funny noise I’ll pretend isn’t my big proud dad choking back tears. “Am I failing you as a father? I know I’ve not been the same since Mom left, but I’m trying my best here despite circumstances, despite my own demons, and—”
“I know you are.”
He puts his fingers to his lips like an imaginary cigarette sits there. He gave up the habit twenty-four years ago—the day I was born. “Damn shame. I had a vision for this week. I had a vision for us spending Christmas here. It’s all wrong now. All bad.”
“And all my fault,” I mumble tiredly after taking another sip. The bitter taste is growing on me, oddly.
“Don’t go doing and saying that,” he gripes. “I don’t want you to feel worse. I just want to understand.”
I clutch the coffee with both hands, appreciating its warmth. I feel really chilly, as if I’m not even wearing pants, or a shirt, or a—
My eyes go wide. I put a hand to my neck.
It’s bare.
Mom’s scarf …
“Can you just give me the rundown?” he asks as he makes a turn. It’s all farmlands and nothing around us, now. “This car ride won’t be as long as you think, and before you know it, we’ll be back at the Strongs, and they woke up bright and early at five. I’ve been running on empty since five, Malcolm. Fucking five.” He clears his throat. “Sorry for the language. You don’t have to tell me yet. You can just sit there and enjoy the coffee. I’m hounding you, I know. I’m just glad you’re alive and all that.”
The storm must have taken the scarf straight off my neck, the greedy winds last night. It’s probably in the grass somewhere between Samuel’s and the church. Mom’s scarf, the only thing she left me other than a sinking feeling that I’d done something wrong to deserve her abandoning us.
Maybe that family of birds made a nest of it by now.
From one mama bird to another.
We carry on down the road in silence. The radio is off, so all I hear for a long while is the soft rumble of the tires on uneven dirt and gravel. It’s not unlike an echo of last night’s storm, a special kind of cruel thunder reserved for this excruciating car ride.
I peer down at my coffee. “I left a note.”
“You what? A note? What note?”
“For Samuel. I thanked him and said sorry.” I take a sip, then frown. “Maybe it should have been the other way around. Sorry. Then thank you.”
“That’s all you said?”
I peer out the window.
Honestly, I wrote a lot more. I found some weird brochure in a drawer in his kitchen—the only thing I could find that resembled paper—turned it over onto its blank side, and wrote him a letter on the coffee table next to the blanket he gave me, which I folded up just as nicely and neatly as he’d done my clothes. In that letter, I told Samuel that it’s obvious I’m not right for him. Despite all his efforts to win my heart, assuming that’s what he was doing at all, I’m clearly not in a place mentally or emotionally to start anything with anyone. I have to get right with myself first.
And I thanked him. Then apologized.
Sincerely, Malckie.
“So is that what’s going on?” my dad presses me when I don’t answer. “You like this Samuel guy? But our ever-nagging Nadine keeps pushing you at Cole?”
“Truth is, I deserve neither, Dad.”
“Not what I asked, son.”
“I owe many apologies to many people. Starting with you.” I face him, clutching my warm cup of coffee like a torch. “I’m sorry, Dad. I think I came to this town with a bad agenda. All memories and undeserved grudges. But I should have let go of them and just stood by your side like you wanted. I should have told Nadine no. I should have been there in the kitchen with you last night. I didn’t even see you, not once. I don’t even know how it went.”
My dad listens. Then he shrugs. “We handled it just fine.”
“I still should’ve been there. I love helping you. I love feeling your pride in the restaurant, in your work, in your delicious food. I love being a Tucci, Dad, regardless of how I act sometimes.”
He nods, then tilts his head toward me while keeping his eyes on the road. “I hear you, son, but do you really love the business?”
My eyebrows pull together. “What do you mean?”
“My dream doesn’t have to be yours. It wasn’t Aurora’s. It was not your mother’s, either. If I’m the only one in this family whose dream it is to hold the Tucci kitchen knife, then that’s my destiny, and I’m not going to blame anyone for it.” He slows as he makes a turn, then eyes me. “You can have your own dream, Malcolm.”