What Happens to Goodbye(7)

“And where is that?”
“About six miles away. But there’s a city bus stop about a block over from us.”
“Cool,” he said. “What about supplies?”
“I found a Park Mart and stocked up this morning. The toaster in the kitchen is busted, so I got a new one. Oh, and I got an extra key made.”
“Met any neighbors yet?”
I thought of the boy I’d found on the porch as I picked up my Coke, taking a sip. It wasn’t exactly a meeting, though, so I shook my head. “But I’m guessing on the right is a family, professors. On the left, students. I could hear bass thumping all last night.”
“Me, too,” he said, rubbing his face again. “Not that I was sleeping anyway.”
I glanced at the marked-up menu, which was on his other side. “So. Pickles, huh?”
“You had them yesterday,” he said. “They were good, right?”
“Better than these tacos. They all fell apart the minute I picked them up.”
He reached over, taking my fork and helping himself to a bite from my plate. He chewed, his face impassive, before replacing it and saying, “Meat isn’t drained enough. That’s half the battle on a good taco. Plus, there’s too much cilantro in that salsa.”

“But they still have a loyal following,” I reminded him.
He shook his head. “Well, I guess they’ll be joining up with the bread people.”
“Vive la révolution,” I said, just to make him laugh. It worked, kind of.
There was another bang from the kitchen, this one followed by a long series of clattering. He sighed, pung back from the bar. “Time to meet my kitchen staff,” he said, sounding less than enthusiastic. “You going to be okay on your own tonight?”
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “I’ve got a ton of unpacking to do.”
“Well, call or come back if you get lonely. I’ll try to get out of here at a decent hour.”
I nodded, closing my eyes as he kissed my cheek then ruffled my hair as he passed behind me. Watching him go, noting his slow gait and how stiff he seemed in his shoulders, I felt that same pang of protectiveness that had become like second nature since the divorce. There was probably a term for it, some brand of codependence, a daughter acting too much like a wife, once said wife takes off. But what was I supposed to do? We had each other. That was all.
My dad could take care of himself. I knew that, the same way I knew there were so many things about his life I couldn’t fix, no matter how hard I tried. It was probably why I worked so hard to handle the things I did. Getting us settled, taking care of details, keeping the chaos we’d chosen as neat as possible. I couldn’t mend his broken heart or give him back the love of his team. But getting a new toaster, making sure we had enough soap and paper towels, and agreeing about the pickles? That, I could handle.
This was especially true now that I didn’t know if I’d have a chance to do it again. I was in the second semester of my senior year, my college applications—which had been a challenge, to say the least, with my patchwork transcript—already submitted. In the fall, like the last two, I knew I’d probably be somewhere else, and again, I didn’t know where. What I was sure of, though, was that I would be going it alone. The thought made me sad enough to want to do everything I could now for my dad, as if I could bank it away for my eventual absence.
I paid my check—that was another one of my dad’s rules, no freebies—then got up and headed outside for the short walk back to the house. It was a crisp day, early January, with that kind of quickly waning afternoon light that always makes it feel like the dark snuck up on you. I’d cut down the alley just to the left of Luna Blu, which I was pretty sure was a shortcut to our street, when I came upon Opal. She was sitting on a milk crate by the side door of the restaurant, her back to me, talking to a guy in jeans and an apron, who was smoking a cigarette.
“I mean, it takes serious nerve to just come in here and call yourself an expert on any and all things,” she was saying. “Oh, and you can just tell he’s used to women falling all over him and agreeing to everything he says, even when it’s stupid bordering on offensive. The man is clearly in love with himself. I mean, did you see that hair? What kind of grown adult can’t get a simple age-appropriate haircut?”
The guy with the cigarette, who was tall and skinny with a seriously protruding Adam’s apple, let out a guffaw, nodding at me as I approached. Opal turned, laughing, too. Then her eyes widened, and she jumped to her feet. “Hi,” she said too quickly. “Um, I didn’t realize . . . How was your meal? Good?”
I nodded, silent, then slid my hands farther into my pockets as I walked between them. About two beats later, I heard footsteps behind me, running to catch up.
“Wait,” Opal called out. Then, “Please?”
I stopped, turning to face her. Up close, I realized she was older than Icd first realized, probably in her early thirties rather than twenties. Her cheeks were flushed, either from the cold or being embarrassed, as she said, “Look. I was just blowing off steam, okay? It’s not personal.”
“It’s fine,” I told her. “It has nothing to do with me.”
She looked at me for a moment, then folded her arms over her chest. “It’s just . . .” she said, then stopped, taking a breath. “It’s kind of jarring, to suddenly be under scrutiny like this. I know it’s not an excuse. But I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t ... you know . . .”