“I’m proud of you, too,” I told him. Because it was true. And because I desperately wanted to change the subject.
He waved his hand in the air and leaned back in the recliner. “Bah,” he mumbled. “There’s nothing to be proud of me for.”
I stood up and walked over to give him a kiss on his shiny bald head. “That’s where you’re wrong.”
He grabbed my hand and looked up at me, surprising me with the tears clinging to his lashes. Hank Delane was not an emotional man. “Glad you’re home, baby girl.”
I sighed, and this time when I spoke, it was the whole truth. “Me too.” Squeezing his hand, I looked around the dimly lit living room. Book shelves were pushed into the corners and a muted TV flashed brightly along one wall.
The furniture had all been here since my mom. But the floors and paint were new. Despite cancer, my dad was still thinking about Vann and me. He’d been slowly remodeling the house so that we’d be able to sell it easily after he was gone.
It was a sweet and thoughtful gesture, but also super morbid. Vann and I had been begging him to quit, to let us take care of everything if he goes. But he wouldn’t listen.
The man was too stubborn for his own good.
But mostly I didn’t think he knew how to do anything but take care of us. At least in his own way.
“Do you want me to help you to your room?” I asked him.
He yawned and shook his head. “Nah, I’m more comfortable here. Plus, the TV’s already on.”
I handed him the remote again and told him goodnight. His snores filled the air before I could even check the front door to make sure it was locked.
Making my way through the rest of the house, I flicked off lights and picked up my things that were scattered throughout every room.
When I moved out on my own I became an obsessive neat freak. First by choice, and later by necessity. But since I moved back in with my dad, old habits had popped up out of nowhere. I couldn’t seem to remember to pick up my socks off the living room floor or put my dishes in the sink. It wasn’t that big of a deal, but I couldn’t help but feel the panicked dread every time I noticed one of my belongings out of place or dirty dishes on the counter.
It was silly. And if anything I should be grateful there were no real consequences to leaving my things strewn about the house.
I should feel better.
But I couldn’t. Not yet.
Moving back home with my dad at twenty-six was never something I planned for, but I was grateful to be here now. He needed me, and I was not afraid to admit that I needed him—for as long as I could keep him.
I showered, then changed into yoga pants and a tank top and spent a few minutes in the bathroom brushing my teeth and adding product to control my excessively thick hair. By the time I shut myself in my old room, exhaustion had settled in my weary bones.
I blinked blearily at the clock and forced myself to do another hour’s worth of work. I desperately needed to finalize the menu for Friday night. And once that was done, I needed to figure out my grocery list and where I could pick up all the ingredients around town. I still needed to wash all of my equipment and lug it over to the truck. Plus, I needed to write up the menu on my chalkboard and figure out how to hang it next to the window.
Panic swirled through my belly. What am I doing?
I can’t do this.
What makes me think I can do this?
I glanced at my knives still in their case on my desk. The clean black cloth was nicely folded, velvety in perfect softness and hiding the tools of my trade. They were a graduation gift from Vann and my dad. And the most expensive thing I owned. I had always been suspicious that my dad took out a loan to pay for them. But I’d always been too grateful for them to ask.
My knives stared back at me tonight, asking silent questions and looking sorely neglected. I hadn’t cooked since I’d been back home. I hadn’t tested recipes or flavors or even made myself a grilled cheese sandwich.
And I hated the reason why.
I was afraid.
No, it was worse than that. I was crippled by fear. I was drowning in the terror of failure and the realization that I might have bet my entire life on a false sense of self-worth.
Old insecurities slipped into my thoughts like thunderclouds on a sunny day. They covered the sun and blocked out the blue sky. They darkened every positive thing and left me feeling cold and lost, without a sense of direction.
My breathing staggered and my hands turned to ice. I felt the pressure to succeed—the pressure not to screw this up like I’d destroyed every other thing in my life—like serial killer hands around my throat.
I shook my head and threw my notebook off my lap. I’d been sitting on my bed with my legs tucked under me hoping to find inspiration, but that hadn’t worked. And I couldn’t make myself face my knives yet. I couldn’t even use my desk because I was afraid to move them.
How pathetic was that?
Pulling my laptop onto my lap, I let out a slow, steady breath. Fear and self-doubt still tugged at my confidence, trying to unravel everything I’d worked to regain over the last year. I wouldn’t let them win.
I wouldn’t.
It was sheer determination that my breaths evened out and my vision cleared. My hands still shook as my laptop came to life.
I intended to research some food for my menu, but my Facebook homepage popped up because I never closed out of it the last time I used my computer. I was instantly pulled into the newsfeed, even though it wasn’t very interesting.
When I left for Europe, I closed my personal page. Actually, I did more than that. I shut off my phone and deleted my email. I went as off the grid as possible. Well, not actually off the grid, since I did get a new cell and email account. But only so I could keep in touch with dad, Vann and Molly. I’d skipped Facebook to stay hidden.
As soon as I decided to open Foodie, I knew I couldn’t run a small business without a social media presence. It was the only reason I opened new profiles on social sites under a different name. Vera May instead of Vera Delane.
Unfortunately, there weren’t that many people left in my life to friend other than Vann and Molly. And quite frankly, I was tired of all of Vann’s healthy lifestyle, extreme sports posts. Blah, blah, blah, Vann. We get it. You like to torture your body and eat cardboard. Hooray for you.
Finding nothing interesting on my personal Facebook page, I clicked to Foodie’s business page. I’d been spending a minimal amount of money on advertising, thanks to Vann’s small business expertise. He’d been showing me how to make the most on a small advertising budget.
Because of that, Foodie had several hundred likes. Woo hoo! Okay, it wasn’t much, but I had to start somewhere. I’d been super lucky to find a graphic designer who gave me the hottest promo pics for free—thank you, Molly!