Page 68 of A Love Like Christmas Time
“It means you call me after like 45 minutes so if I want to leave, I can pretend some kind of emergency came up and get the fuck out of there.”
“Oh yeah. Of course,” she assures me, giving my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “While you’re gone, I’ll pack up the rest of your wardrobe, if that’s okay.”
“Yes, yes.” I wave my hand through the air. “Honestly, put all of it in donation bins. All the clothes I left here are way too fancy to wear at home. Unless we’re planning on sashaying through the streets of Wayward Hollow in Chanel, I don’t have a use for them anymore.”
“I still have some too.” She taps her lips. “You know what? Let me get in touch with Joel, my old manager, and have him organize a charity auction or donate them to one. They’ll find new, hopefully appreciative owners, and we can up our karma points.”
“As if we need to.” I roll my eyes, reaching for another blanket to fold. Damn, I never realized my ‘I’m getting cold on the plane and forgot to bring a blanket, I’ll just buy a new one’ collection got this big.
“I mean, I did put my ex and my sister in jail,” Nic reminds me, a grin tugging at her lips. “I’ll take them.”
“Please.” I scoff and flick her shoulder. “They managed to get there all by themselves.”
My phone rings. Before I realize it’s happening, my face is already twisted into a grimace.
“I guess that’s my dad letting me know he’s fifteen minutes early.” I let out a deep sigh. I should have known he’d pull this move. “Wish me luck.”
“Good luck.” She gives me a quick hug. “I’ll call you in an hour from now.”
“Thank you, Nic.” I take a deep breath. “Thank you for tagging along. It’s good to have you with me.”
“Of all the things not to thank me for, this is top of the list. This is bestie minimum. Now go. Get it over with.” She punches my shoulder playfully, then puts her hands on my shoulders to turn me around and walk me to my front door.
“So, what’s the occasion?” I ask my dad as soon as my butt touches the restaurant chair.
The drive here was awkward, overshadowed by silence. Like always, when I asked him how he’s doing, I got a one-word answer, and I can count the number of times he’s ever asked me something back on one fist.
“That is main-course conversation.”
“Of course it is,” I sigh and reach for the cloth napkin, unfold it and lay it across my lap.
I’m not sure why he wanted us to come to a fancy three-course restaurant. I would have been fine with the small Chinese spot around the corner from my home. Though I can’t imagine my crisp ironed shirt meets pressed trousers dad in a fast-food joint.
Only thirty-seven minutes to go until Nic’s call and I’m already annoyed. Time to break the topic I know he can talk forever about, right as the server sets down the preordered first course in front of me. Yay. Salad. “How are things at work?”
“Oh, you know…” Thankfully, my question prompts him into a rant about the incompetent people he works with, a new hire they have who dares leave as soon as their eight hours are up, and the incompetence of their clients.
“Uh-huh.” I nod along while chomping on the salad he orders for the first course. “Totally.”
I’m still not sure why he wanted to meet up with me. If I had wanted to witness a boomer rant about the work ethic of today’s youth, I could have spent 30 minutes on Facebook instead of wasting time I could be spending packing.
I just want to go home again to Caleb and my cats, and all of my friends, knowing I’ll never have to come back here.
“Thank you.” I smile at the waiter as he takes away my empty plate, immediately replacing it with the main course. Because that’s the kind of fancy place this is. Where people watch you eat, ready to swoop in the second both guests set down their forks.
“So, we’re at the main course,” I point out and subtly check my wrist. Twenty-eight more minutes. “Talk.”
“Your mother and I are getting a divorce,” he drops nonchalantly, not missing a beat as he picks up his fork and knife to cut open the fish.
“Wait, what?”
Also, fish? I stare at my plate and slowly let out my breath. I haven’t eaten fish in almost twenty years, ever since I ate one that still had a bunch of tiny bones in it. It wasn’t even the flavor that was the issue, but I hate chewing and encountering unknown textures with a passion.
“A divorce?” I ask him, crossing my arms in front of my chest. “Okay, that’s quite the bombshell.” I rub my palm over my face and let out a deep breath. “Congratulations or I’m sorry, I guess. Thank you for telling me. Is that what was so important you had tomeet up with me?”
“I think important changes such as these are best discussed face to face.” He clears his throat. “But let me cut to the chase.” And there it is. I knew there had to be a deeper agenda. “She is contesting our prenup, and I would appreciate your help.”
What? I look up from my plate, where I was pushing potatoes around with my fork. Is he serious?
