"Hey, you," he says. "Did you get some sleep last night?"
"I did," I respond, walking toward the counter to place the muffins down. "My mom made muffins and told me to bring them over."
Brett places the tens back under the clip of the drawer and glances over at me. "Your mom was up early enough to bake all this?"
"I believe it is her way of coping. She likes to feed people, so—"
"Well, I like to eat," Brett says, reaching for the Tupperware. "Parker, would you like a muffin?"
I spot Parker on the floor beside his legs, reading the same book as yesterday. She has on a baby-blue tutu, leggings, and cowboy boots. I think her style is adorable. She moves her bookmark, marking where she stopped. "What kind are they?" she asks, graciously.
"Blueberry," I tell her. "They’re pretty delicious."
Parker stands up, presses her hands onto the countertop, and rises to her toes, peeking at the muffins. "Okay, I’ll have one."
I spot a roll of brown paper towels beneath the register and tear a sheet off for her to use as a plate.
The snaps from the Tupperware lid echo between the walls as I remove the top and retrieve a muffin. "They’re still warm too. Even better.” I place it down on the paper towel and grab the wooden stool from behind her. "Here you go."
Parker climbs up on the stool, her tutu spilling off the sides. "Thank you, Ms. Quinn," she says.
I find myself smiling at her even though she’s focused on the muffin. "You can call me Melody.”
"Daddy says it’s respectable to refer to everyone as miss or mister," she explains.
“That’s true,” Brett says, replacing the stack of twenty-dollar-bills back to its spot. "But Melody is different. It’s okay if someone tells you to call them by their first name," he explains to his daughter.
"Okay," she says, shrugging her shoulders before refocusing on the muffin.
"She’s so polite and well behaved," I tell Brett, keeping my voice low, so Parker doesn’t hear me.
"Yeah, she’s a good girl. It’s almost as if she makes this parenting thing seem too easy sometimes, which makes me wonder how badly I’m screwing up."
"Well, I don’t think you’re messing anything up. She seems perfect."
"For today," Brett responds.
His comment is odd, but I won’t press for an explanation when she’s sitting right beside him.
"Do you need me to stick around so you can take her to school?" I offer. He didn’t ask, but no one else will be watching the main shop area if Mr. Crawley is downstairs.
"Oh, thank you, but my brother is coming to pick her up. We take turns bringing the girls to school."
"Meaning, I should leave and go face the cold hard truth of my life," I mutter.
It’s not that I don’t want to be at the hospital; it’s killing me to watch Dad slowly fading away. There isn’t even a miracle to pray for—there is no positive outcome. It’s just suffering.
Brett closes the cash drawer, a blunt ding following his action, and he turns around to face me. "No one wants to watch what you have to watch. It’s not fair, and what I’m about to say ... you might not understand or like, but you’re getting time with him, and some people would give up their last breath for those moments.”
It’s a fair point, but I can argue. "When it’s quick, the person dying doesn’t suffer, only the loved ones. But, when it’s slow, everyone suffers. Right?"
Brett folds his arms over his chest. "Without closure, there are everlasting questions."
I can’t help but look into his eyes and study them as if there is a meaning behind his statement—one written within the golden hues of his beautiful eyes, but all I see is a dark flicker as he breaks our stare. "I’m taking a wild guess, but it seems like you’re speaking from experience," I say, glancing past him at Parker, who hasn’t moved an inch.
He shakes his head and slashes his hand against his throat with a blank expression, silently asking me to stop.
The bell above the front door rings and a man who looks strikingly like Brett, but with a lighter shade of brown hair, walks in like he’s walked in here a million times before.
