Page 51 of On the Ropes
Tabitha
“Order up.”
A hot plate slid across the counter. Two fried eggs with scrapple.
I looked up at the chef. “How’d you know exactly what I wanted for breakfast?”
My dad leaned his elbows on the table. “I know when my daughter needs the healing power of greasy food.” He topped off my coffee. “I’m surprised to see you here for the breakfast rush. Last time you were in the diner this early you were probably prepping for a school final.”
I picked up my fork and took a giant bite. “Perfect, as usual. I was out of groceries and raiding Linda’s pantry was unsuccessful. And maybe I just missed my dad. Though don’t go gettin’ a big head about it.”
“Your stepmother will be heartbroken to know I’m your favorite.”
I narrowed my eyes at him over my coffee as I slurped extra loudly. He chuckled and tossed a towel over his shoulder. “Let me check in with Tony but I’m sure he can cover me for a few so I can sit with you.”
“Oh, Dad, you don’t have to do that,” I said. “I can sit here and annoy you while you’re working just fine.”
He waved that statement away like it was a pesky fly before heading to the kitchen. I tapped my fingers against my cup with an ache in my chest. Unconditional love was stopping in the middle of the busiest two hours of your day to sit with your daughter who’d shown up at the most inconvenient time possible. If I wanted to make a movie about all the things he’d done like this for me and my sister over the years, it’d be a thousand hours long.
He returned a few seconds later, rounded the counter, and perched on one of the stools, wearing the same black pants and black rubber work shoes he’d worn my entire childhood. The rest of his wardrobe consisted of Phillies hats, Eagles jerseys, swag from the colleges Alexis and I went to, and a faded shirt he loved that said Proud Dad of a Bi Daughter.
I didn’t even buy it for him. He bought it himself.
I lifted off the stool and wrapped my dad in a fierce hug.
He lightly patted my back. “Either you really missed me or the scrapple is that good.”
“Scrapple’s real good,” I said through a lump in my throat.
When I sat back down, he had a sheepish look on his face.
“You’re the coolest dad I know. All the kids are saying it.”
“Kathleen says the same thing.” He bobbed his head. “I missed you too, Tab. Feels like you just got here and you’re already about to leave. How many days till you fly off to Texas?”
“Ten,” I said. “Not that I’m counting or anything.”
“Still plenty of time for Kathleen to get you to that boozy book club of hers.”
I snorted, popped another bite of scrapple in my mouth. My dad’s attention landed on the open notebook page I had propped in front of me, full of ideas I’d jotted down.
He tapped the center. “What’s this?”
“Story ideas I’m playing around with.”
“For that hotel?”
I shook my head. “For Tenth Street, actually.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Are you making a movie about South Philly?”
I scoffed into my coffee and took another big sip. It had not been a particularly restful night, between my vague unease when I thought about moving to Texas and then my constant thinking about Dean while pretending I wasn’t thinking about him. “I don’t know what I’m doing yet, exactly. I’m supposed to be getting prepped for the Austin contract, but I can’t stop thinking about that abandoned lot. The folks who live there and love there. The way they’ve so eagerly taken up this task and supported Dean in the process.”
My dad didn’t even have to tease me about the fluttery way I said Dean. They could probably hear it all the way at City Hall. So I shoved eggs into my mouth and avoided looking at him.
He was paging through my notes with a curious expression. I’d spent the night looking at the emails Eric and Alexis had sent me with the specs of their school community garden. And I’d read about other neighborhoods in Philly turning their own abandoned lots into tiny parks.
I truly wanted to help Dean. But it wasn’t like I needed to get this involved. Filming was intimate work, especially when I was following some sparkling idea that didn’t come from a contract but came from pure inspiration. When I walked past the lot this morning, I spotted bits of scraggly grass and dandelions peeking through the remaining clumps of debris. The miracle of green things, forcing their way to the sun, activated every single storytelling instinct I had.
