I stared harder at Killian’s creation—I couldn’t even call it mine anymore. “Are you sure you’re up for this tonight? I hate risking your health.”
He waved me off with his meaty hand. “Vera May, there is no place I’d rather be than right here with you. If I have to go, at least let me spend my last days with the people I love most doing the things they love most.”
Hot tears pricked my eyes, but I refused to let them fall, not yet. “Dad, you’re not going anywhere, so stop talking like that. Besides, I’m going to teach you how to use a fancy phone and then you’ll realize how much you have to live for.”
He grunted and said something that sounded suspiciously like, “Jesus, take me now.” I finally lifted my face to smile at him. “You can do it, Pops. I believe in you.”
“Alright,” he finally grumbled. “Show me how to work the hoozywhatsit.”
I filled out the sauce to accommodate all the meatballs, following Killian’s additions, hating him every second of it. Then I showed Dad how to use the PayPal card swiper on my phone. He practiced with his credit card while I finished the prep work.
By the time we had our first customer, he’d deposited two hundred dollars of his own money into my account, claiming that he couldn’t resist the opportunity to invest in such an exciting business venture.
“I’m paying you back,” I told him sternly.
He didn’t bother to take me seriously. “What for? I can’t take it with me.”
I hated that he kept referring to his death as if it were going to happen tomorrow. I wanted him to fight his cancer. Fight it and win.
That said, with dad helping take orders, it was the roughest night I had so far—even worse than the first night when I had to do it all myself. He loved talking to the customers, but got most of the orders wrong or mixed up. He kept accidentally deleting apps from my phone when it sat too long, and he had to pull up the pay app on his own. And he ate more meatballs than I sold.
Or at least it seemed like it.
But we had so much fun. My dad was funny, and he kept my customers and me entertained. I didn’t remember that about him from my childhood. Or I guess I did, but it was in a distant way.
I had been so excited to flee this town and his house, that I hadn’t let myself appreciate him or his sense of humor. I should have spent the last few years getting to know that about him, getting to know him.
Instead, I’d let myself get locked away. Derrek had never wanted to visit, never wanted to let me come back here. At first, I blamed his job. He was an executive chef after all. He had to work late and be up early. He didn’t get weekends or holidays off. He couldn’t leave his kitchen.
Later, when his abusive nature made itself known, I realized he preferred the control. He didn’t care about my family and didn’t want me to care about them either. He wanted me for himself. Where he could keep an eye on me. Where he could dictate my every move and thought.
Dad had always been polite to Derrek, but just barely. I knew I hid what was really going on the few times Dad and Vann had come to visit us, but they both saw that I was unhappy.
And for those reasons I’d kept Dad at a distance. I felt like I was only just now getting to know him since I’d moved back. But now my time with him had an expiration date. Dad was dying, and I couldn’t make up for all the time lost.
I closed the truck two hours early. I was nearly out of meatballs and Dad looked tired. Besides that, I was exhausted from trying to babysit him at the window and get through all those orders.
Dad helped me clean up and carry what I needed to my car. I walked by Lilou wondering what Killian would think when he came outside and I was gone. Usually, he left before me.
Shaking my head, I realized how ridiculous that was. He wouldn’t care. Or notice. Whatever we were, we weren’t friends. We weren’t even enemies.
Enemies implied that we were on equal footing of some sort, but he had made it clear time and time again that he was the superior chef. What had he called me in that note?
Pedestrian.
Dad followed me home and went straight to bed. He barely made it through his bedroom door before I heard the deep rumble of his snores.
I couldn’t fall asleep easily after a shift. I was always too amped up.
Plus, I usually smelled like the inside of a deep fat fryer. I took a shower and washed work off me, all the different smells from the night and the shadow of failure I couldn’t shake.
I blamed Killian Quinn for that.
Or at least tonight I did.
After I’d put product in my hair and brushed my teeth, I sat on my bed and pulled my laptop out. I tried not to get too obsessive with my business page or the reviews that popped up every other day, but I couldn’t help it. Feedback was addicting. And thankfully, so far the response had been so positive that it was hard not to bask in the glow.
Besides, after putting up with Killian for two days in a row, I deserved a little glow.
There was a message waiting for me, and my heart sank when I saw that it was from James Q, the same heckler that had originally reached out to me.
James Q: How’s business? He’d asked. Like he knew me.
I thought about ignoring him completely. But this guy had assumed I would fail from the start. He needed a verbal lashing.
Or at least an I told you so.
Foodie the Food Truck: Fantastic. It’s been better than I could have ever expected. And it had been. It wasn’t a lie.
His response came quickly. James Q: I’m impressed, Foodie. I honestly didn’t think you had it in you.
I wasn’t sure how to respond. Foodie the Food Truck: Uh, thank you?
James Q: It was a compliment.
My brow furrowed. How had I gotten sucked into another conversation with this guy?
Foodie the Food Truck: I assumed.
James Q: I’ve been told I don’t give very good compliments, so I just wanted you to be sure.
This conversation echoed too closely to Killian, and I immediately clicked on his name to cyberstalk him more closely. There was no profile picture, although from his feed and small friends list it was clear this guy was involved in the food industry somehow. I scrolled through past posts and pictures of the dishes he made both at home and in an industrial kitchen. But his posts were few and far between, and there were never any face shots.
He could have been any chef.
He could have been Derrek.
He could have been Killian.
I shook my head, hating how absorbed in Killian I was. I obviously needed sleep. Anything to stop thinking about him.
Foodie the Food Truck: Well, thanks again, James. I hope you get to check out Foodie sometime soon.
He sent me back a thumbs up, releasing me from the conversation. I clicked off the message box and shut my computer down.
Putting aside the message, and Killian and Lilou, I lay back on my bed and rubbed my hand over my heart.