“Forget the scissors
, Dad. I promised you burgers and burgers only,” I said sweetly.
“You’re stubborn, just like—”
“My old man.”
He grinned at me. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Okay. Stay here,” I said. “I’ll run in and get us some burgers and fries.”
“Get me a—”
“I know, I know. A Whopper with the works,” I said, knowing him all too well.
“Right, and get Ed one too.”
“Ed?”
“Me,” the taxi driver said.
“Oh. Sorry,” I said, blushing a bit.
“Don’t you remember, dear? He said he’s famished from pulling a double-shift. The least we can do is feed our getaway driver.”
“You’re right. What do you want, Ed?”
“I take Whopper, two, with extra lettuce, no pickle. I like hot fries, big Coke with no ice. Ice cream shake, the pink kind. Extra napkins too. Don’t like to get my wheel sticky.”
“A pink shake?” I smiled. “Okay.”
My dad insisted on paying, even though I argued about it. I took the wad of cash from him and went inside to wait in a huge line. A short while later, I hopped in the back seat with bags full of food.
“I’m so thirsty,” Ed said, grabbing the Coke and guzzling it.
“Glad we could help you out,” I said, smiling at him.
Dad asked him to drive us to Central Park, and we found the perfect place to sit, where we could enjoy a wonderful, spontaneous meal. We ate, talked, and laughed. In the back of my mind, the article deadline was screaming at me, but spending time with my father was far more important.
“I’m gonna learn how to cook,” I said. “When I do, you’ll have to come over for a wonderful home-cooked meal.”
“You make wonderful…eggs,” he teased.
“Yeah, but that’s about it. I always wanted to be in the kitchen with Mom, but I didn’t learn much.”
“Well, she put that big, ruffled apron on you and sat you up on the counter to stir the eggs. At least you learned that, and you looked pretty stylish in the process.”
“Yeah, I’d stir and stir and stir. I felt so important, like I was really helping.”
He smiled at the memory. “Sometimes, just being with someone is the best help you can give, honey.”
Suddenly, the smile left his face, and he grew quiet, just twirling a fry around in his puddle of ketchup. I couldn’t help but feel something was wrong, so I cocked a brow and asked, “Dad, what’s wrong?”
He looked away.
I softly nudged him. “What is it, Dad? Aren’t you still on an adrenaline high from breaking out?”
He didn’t answer or even crack a smile and just continued mindlessly twirling the fry into a tomatoey mess.