NATE
I’d spent so longin San Francisco I’d forgotten what it was like to walk into a small-town establishment and have everyone stop what they were doing to look up and stare at the newcomer. That was one of those things I’d wanted so desperately to get away from back in the day, and as Evan and I entered the coffee shop aptly named Drip, my skin prickling with awareness at all the eyes pinned firmly on my daughter and me, I could say without hesitation I still wasn’t a fan.
“Why are they all staring?” Evan whispered out of the corner of her mouth as we made our way up to the counter.
“Welcome to small-town living,” I answered. “It’s what they do.” Pushing the feeling of being under a microscope aside, I inhaled deeply. The scent of freshly ground coffee beans that hit me the moment I pulled the door open was an instant jolt to my system. I wasn’t sure there was a better smell on earth, at least not at that moment.
“See? This place isn’t so bad. Kind of cool, actually.”
Drip had embraced the whole beach town vibe but not in a tacky, over-the-top way. The walls were a pale mint green like sea foam, the trim and molding a soft blue that reminded me of floating in the ocean on my back and staring at the cloudless blue sky. The décor was also a subtle testament to the town with little anchor and lighthouse figurines and white macrame on the walls designed to look like old fishing nets.
The wall behind the counter was made to look like old, whitewashed shiplap with the menu written on a chalkboard in big, loopy script that was surprisingly easy to read. There were small bistro tables, two chairs to every table, lining the huge windows that looked out over the street, a long counter that looked to be handcrafted with repurposed wood to give the space even more character, and a display case at the end with pastries that looked so damn good my stomach flipped.
“If you like cheap décor that looks like they picked it up off the set of Golden Girls,” Evan mumbled as she stepped past me without so much as a thank you for holding the door for her. “I bet they don’t even serve oat milk here.”
I shot her a bewildered look. “What the hell is oat milk?”
She looked at me like I was the world’s biggest idiot. “It’s exactly what it sounds like. Milk made from oats.”
I didn’t know how something like that was possible, but let it slide. “Well, if it’s a real thing, I bet they have it here. And don’t be a brat. I personally think this place looks nice.” We moved up to the counter, and I lifted my head to read the menu above the serving window.
“Welcome to the Drip. What can I get—No way! Nate Warren? Is that you?”
At the sound of my name, I pulled my eyes from the boards to the woman standing across the counter from me. She had long, dark hair, magnolia pale skin, and big blue eyes. It was obvious she was younger than I was, but given the size of a town like Whitecap, that didn’t mean much. Whether you were in the same class or not, you tended to know everyone.
It took a few seconds for recognition to dawn, but once it did, my eyes went round. “Monica Lamb?”
“Yeah,” she said with a smile that would do toothpaste commercials proud. “Well, Monica Killborne, now,” she corrected, holding up her left hand to reveal a rock big enough to ice skate on, resting on her ring finger.
That sparked a memory of my parents telling me years back that little Monica had gone off and married herself a retired NFL player. “That’s right. My folks told me about that. I know I’m years late and all, but congratulations just the same.”
She beamed as if she were still a newlywed. “Thanks. Georgia and Dezzy said you were coming back. I didn’t realize they meant now.”
“Things happened fast. In fact, we’re on our way to the general store right after this. Just had to stop off for a caffeine boost after that drive.” I placed my arm over Evan’s shoulders, ignoring her annoyed ugh and attempt to shake me off. “Mon, this is my daughter, Evan. Evan, this is an old friend of mine, Monica.”
“Not his real daughter,” Evan said with a sneer, causing Monica’s eyes to go wide.
It was the same argument we’d been having for the better part of a year. It didn’t matter that I was the only father figure she’d has since she was two years old, or that I’d made it official and adopted her when she was five, shortly after marrying her mother. It didn’t matter that she’d had my last name for nearly a decade. The moment my divorce to her mom was finalized, I’d become nothing more than Nate to her. It was almost as if she got off on telling everyone she came across she wasn’t my real daughter, and I was getting really tired of being looked at like I was a kidnapper or pervert or something.
I tightened my arm around her shoulders so it was more of a headlock than a fatherly embrace. “Whether you like it or not, the adoption papers say otherwise.”
Monica shook off her surprise and gave my daughter a friendly smile. “Well, welcome to Whitecap. We’re excited to have you. You’re going to love it here.”
Evan crossed her arms over her chest and snorted. “I seriously doubt that.”
“Enough,” I clipped at her before dropping my arms and looking to Monica. “Sorry about that. You know how it is with teenagers.”
Monica’s smile was fading so fast it could have had its own dimmer switch, not that I could blame her. Evan had a gift for making things awkward with a capital A and didn’t hesitate to pull out that talent whenever it suited her. And it suited her all the time.
“Well, then, this round’s on the house for the newest Whitecap residents,” she offered kindly, but I got the distinct impression she was trying to move us along to get us out of here... again, not that I blamed her. “What can I get you guys?”
“Just a large coffee. Black. Thanks.”
Evan looked at her and arched a snarky brow. “Please tell me this place has oat milk.”
For the love of Christ.
* * *