Don't Fail Me Now(16)

“I’m sorry,” he sputters. “This was a mistake.”

“Next!” I yell, louder than necessary, and the pregnant lady pushes past a stricken-looking Tim to get her chalupa fix. My heart racing, my tongue going numb, I punch in her order and then call in a trainee to take over for me, nearly falling onto a hot stove in my rush to get to the back door before my knees buckle.

Outside, I stumble over to Hellmouth and crumple at its graffiti-covered base, taking in desperate lungsful of warm, pungent air. It’s not news that Buck has another daughter. I already knew that part, although since I didn’t know her name or where she lived, the sudden fact of her actual existence and proximity is shocking. This girl—Leah—she’s the reason he left. Or that Mom kicked him out. I was never really clear on the specifics. I just know Buck was caught, Jerry Springer–style, with a secret family and that for whatever reason, he chose them over us. What bothers me is that Mom always made it sound like they moved away. But if this girl—Leah—is from around here, does that mean Buck is here, too? That he’s been here all these years, close enough for me to pass him on the highway or stand next to him at a grocery store without even knowing? That’s the part that feels like a sucker punch. I can deal with him dying, but I can’t handle the thought that he might have been living right around the corner all these years.

I hear footsteps on the asphalt and look up to see Tim coming around the corner of the building. He’s in a flannel shirt, jeans, and some brown shoes that look like a nerdy version of Timberlands—not as preppy as I first pegged him. A little more hipster but with a conservative haircut and a clean shave. Not that this makes me loathe him any less.

“Leave me alone,” I say, jumping to my feet. “I’m still on shift. I was just getting some air.”

“Please just give me one minute,” he says, taking a hesitant step toward me. “I should never have ambushed you like that. I’m really sorry, I was just afraid that if I didn’t talk to you in there, I wouldn’t get another chance.”

“Look, I don’t care who your sister is,” I say. “Buck left a long time ago, and as far as I’m concerned he’s already dead. So, you know, go ahead and make the funeral arrangements without me.” I know it sounds cold, but it’s true. I’ve moved past the point of wanting closure with my father. He obviously never wanted it with me. What could I possibly owe him now? A bunch of stiff, ugly orchids to stick in some sad funeral home? Sorry you sucked so much as a father, but here is $80 worth of flowers that will wither and die even faster than our relationship!

“It’s not about arrangements,” Tim says, shifting uncomfortably. “It’s . . . he says he wants to see you.”

“Fuck you.” The words come out so blunt and angry that Tim takes a step back like I might try to hit him. I look down at the pavement, feeling guilty but livid at the same time.

“I don’t blame you for shooting the messenger,” Tim says. “But he says he has something for you. Some heirloom.”

I lift my eyes up to the half moon, breathing hard out my nostrils, trying to parse what’s happening into some kind of sense. What kind of sick cosmic joke is this that on the day I hit financial rock bottom, Buck reappears on his deathbed with a surprise windfall? That’s the kind of shit that happens to some perky actress in some stupid romantic comedy, not to me, in real life, next to a Taco Bell dumpster.

“What is it?” I ask, hating myself a little bit for even caring.

“I don’t know,” Tim says. “But according to Karen, he says it’s worth a lot.”

Worth a lot. Right. Unlike Buck’s word. And who the hell is Karen? I narrow my eyes at Tim.

“Is this some kind of scam?” I ask. “I thought you said her name was—” Leah. But before I can say them, the two syllables get stuck in the back of my throat, blocking my windpipe. “Different,” I cough. It’s only just now dawning on me that this guy could be crazy, some random stalker. Aren’t most serial killers nice-looking white boys? I take a step toward the kitchen door, deciding that if he comes any closer I’m going to book it.

But he stays put, frowning apologetically. “Sorry,” he says. “I should have explained. Karen is my stepmom, Leah’s mom. She married my dad three years ago.”

It’s still not adding up. “Why didn’t Leah”—her name is coppery in my mouth like a new penny—“just call me?” I ask.

Tim shoves his hands in his back pockets and stares off into the highway traffic, avoiding my eyes. “She doesn’t know I’m here,” he says. “But I know—I mean, I think—” He clears his throat, another telltale sign that he’s about to feed me a lie. “I just think if it was my mom I’d want to know in person. I wanted to do the right thing.”

“Nope, try again.” I cross my arms and stare him down.

“What?” He still won’t look at me.

“You don’t care that I won the Dying-Dad Lottery,” I say. “You could have Facebook messaged me for that. Saved yourself the trouble. So do you want to tell me why you’re really here, or can I go back to work now?”

“Okay, fine,” Tim says with a sigh. “I guess I just need your help. Leah’s been really messed up about it. She was the one who picked up the phone, and I guess . . . it didn’t really go well.”