“Still that bad?”
“Hasn’t changed. I can’t be the kind of daughter he wants, and he’ll never be the father I need. But I feel bad for Mom.” Her voice softens. “She’s always caught in the middle, tryna keep the peace.”
I remember that. The love for her mom and the war with her father. She never talked about it much. And I didn’t push for her to open up when the door was closed on my own shit.
“That’s rough,” I settle for saying.
Lot nods, then shakes it off like a coat that doesn’t fit right, and eyes the plate. “What sauce is on the wings?”
“You really gotta ask?”
She gives me a Lot smile—small, crooked, and rare. Just the smallest curve at one corner of her mouth. A flicker. Hits harder than a full one.
“Why are you feedingme?”
“We can call it a truce.”
“A temporary one. ’Cause I’m hungry and these smell good.”
“Fair enough.” I take the crumb, and round the desk, taking the chair across from her.
We eat. We talk. About my weekend events. About New York. She dips every wing in blue cheese like always. But she’s different. Subtle shifts. Grown. The sharp edges are a little smoother. But still Lot. Strong. A fighter.
I learn that she went from sketching tourists in Times Square and slinging tees on street corners just to afford a room above a restaurant in Hell’s Kitchen… to launching an online graphic tee business, becoming a commissioned artist, and moving into a studio loft. She built that life. She’s proud of it.
And I missed it. Every goddamn milestone.
But that’s over now. Carry the past like a weight and that shit will sink you.
I’m not about that.
Brush it off. Keep it moving.
“Thanks for dinner,” she says, wiping her hands and tossing the napkins.
“No problem. Gotta get back out there.” I pick up the tray. “You sticking around till close?”
“I’m actually heading out soon.”
“Aight. See ya.”
“Yep.” She turns back to the screen.
I watch her a second longer than I should. Caught again. Tangled up in the silky threads of Charlotte Webber.
Chapter Six
Lot
Tattooed. Pierced. Fat. RBF.
Mom opens the door, her face lighting up as she pulls me into a tight, squishy hug. I squirm a little, even though her hugs are like being wrapped up in a warm blanket. She smells like the lilac perfume she saves for special occasions.
“My lovebug,” she says like I’m still five. “Let me fix you some lunch.”
“I’m good, Mom. But I’ll take some sweet tea if you’ve got any.”
“You know I always keep a pitcher for you and your daddy.”
