Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

E ighteen.

I can vote and gamble on scratchers.

It’s a pretty epic day.

“Now, don’t forget about our big date tonight,” my grandpa says.

I cross my heart with my index finger, as if there were a chance I would ever miss fire-writing with him.

The Cardinals game is on, and my Grandma Rose is heating leftovers from the massive family dinner she made last night to celebrate my birthday. She tosses the red beef in with some fresh eggs so it qualifies as breakfast. It’s one of the few times she will let my grandpa indulge in eating off of his medically curated menu. Usually, she’s a stickler. Even now, I know she whipped that dish up with egg whites.

“Who’s ready for pancakes?” My dad claps as he jogs down the stairs, then rubs his palms together when he meets me at the bottom.

“Honestly, I’m still full after last night,” I admit.

My dad snags his keys and wallet from the sofa table and turns to walk backward toward the door.

“Me, too,” he says, pointing at me and winking. “But it’s pancakes.”

I drag my feet along the wood floors toward him, only half acting reluctant. I really am full, but these birthday traditions mean the world to me. I’ve been having pancakes with my dad ever since he retired. And before sunset, I’ll go for a long horse ride with Mom. The first year we did this one-on-one thing, which was totally my mom’s idea, I spent half of my time with my parents whining about it and insisting I had nothing to say. Funny the difference a year makes, though, because last year, these dates marked some of the most meaningful conversations I’ve ever had with my parents.

“Okay, the world of pancake syrup is at your fingertips. Where are we heading?” My dad turns over the engine on the Jeep and shifts into drive but waits for my final decision.

“I know it’s weird to want to eat where I work, but?—”

“Oh, thank God! I love Jack’s,” he says, racing down our driveway and hitting the roadway with a bit of a fish-tale move that thrills me. Mom would be so pissed.

The restaurant lot is fairly full, but I don’t see anyone waiting in the entry when we park. I feel a little guilty because I normally help open on Sundays. It’s the only day I work during the school year, and mostly because I love the owner, Maggie. Her son Neil went back to college this week, so she’s probably running around like crazy this morning with the two floaters she calls in when things get busy.

I snag two menus from behind the counter when my dad and I walk in, and I wave to Maggie from across the restaurant where she’s taking a couple’s order.

“Wow, this place is hopping,” my dad says as I guide him to two open stools at the end of the counter.

“I feel bad,” I admit, glancing around the joint. Everyone seems happy at least. That’s part of the charm of Jack’s.

“Nah, it’s your birthday. Plus, this place prints money, doesn’t it Douggie?” My dad sits up tall as he peers through the kitchen window. Doug, Maggie’s husband, pops his head up from the griddle.

“Hey, what’s my favorite quarterback of all time doing here?” Doug slips around the wall and through the swinging door as he wipes his hands on the front of his apron. He and my dad went to high school together, though Doug was two years older. Looking at him now, full grizzly beard tucked into a net, long hair knotted into a bun, two full sleeves of tats, and the upper body of a bouncer, you’d never guess he was once Coolidge High’s kicker.

I let the two of them have their trip down memory lane for a few minutes while I scan the menu, which I have memorized. It wouldn’t be right to come here and not get pancakes, but I’d kinda like something lighter. I decide to get a short stack with berries and cream, and I’m about to make my request to Doug when a sudden chill takes over my dad’s face.

I follow his gaze to my right and spot Wyatt three seats down, doing his best to hide his face behind a very obvious propped-up menu. He’s pinching his brow with his other hand, probably wishing he could visualize one of those cartoon rabbit holes to dive into. I know I am.

“Speaking of great quarterbacks,” my dad says, his volume purposely lifted. Doug follows my dad’s gaze, and now half the restaurant is staring at Wyatt. He flattens the menu and forms a panicked smile on the good side of his mouth as he raises his hand.

“Coach. Good to see you,” he says, his eyes reaching mine briefly and flickering. I don’t think he really meant that.

The couple between us tosses down some cash and nods to Doug, complimenting the best breakfast they’ve had in ages. They must be out-of-towners because they don’t seem the least bit interested in the wild west showdown happening at the breakfast bar. I feel their absence immediately, however, and I’m sure Wyatt does too. Now there’s nothing between his lonely seat and my father and me.

“What brings you into this fine establishment on a Sunday morning? I would think you all would be watching our film. I know you had a guy there.” My dad shifts, getting comfortable in his seat. Doug’s gaze meets mine, one brow higher than the other. He’s probably trying to figure this scenario out.

“Dad, stop,” I say, not bothering to keep it under my breath.

“Doug, this is Wyatt Stone. He’s?—”

“Oh yeah, you’re the kid about to break ole Reed’s record,” Doug interjects. My dad clears his throat as Doug moves around the counter to shake Wyatt’s hand.

“I don’t really pay attention to that stuff, but I guess so,” Wyatt says, his eyeline sliding to Reed, then back to Doug.

“Sure you don’t.” Doug covers the back of Wyatt’s palm with his other hand, giving it a healthy couple of slaps as he verbally ribs my father. Doug’s grip is massive, and I catch Wyatt stretching out his fingers when he lets go.

“All right, birthday girl. What will it be?” Doug finally turns his attention to me. I place my order, and my dad orders his black coffee and a mega-stack, which is basically a week’s worth of carbs on a plate.

Maggie slides a plate of pancakes in front of Wyatt, and he drops his attention to the syrup and butter. I can literally feel the heat of my dad’s stare crossing me as he watches the poor guy try to eat, so I let out a heavy sigh and twist in my stool to face Wyatt.

“Why don’t you join us?”

“Oh, whoa—” my dad pipes in. Wyatt’s mouth is hanging open, and I’m positive he wants no part of my suggestion. But it’s not like we can sit here now with two seats between us and carry on as if we’re two separate parties. And if I ever hope to somehow find a way to see Wyatt again without feeling like I’m sneaking around, the massive block of ice between them is going to have to start melting.

“It’s my birthday,” I say to my dad. “And clearly, you have questions for him. I’d rather not spend the next half hour pretending he doesn’t exist and you aren’t obsessed with him.”

“I’m not obsessed. Pffft. ” My dad turns his attention to Maggie as she sets down a mug and fills it with coffee.

Maggie’s gaze slides to me and I roll my eyes. She laughs silently, then tightens her lips into a straight line before pulling the invisible zipper.

“Well?” I say to Wyatt. He sets his forkful of gooey pancake on his plate and slides off his stool, pushing his plate and glass of orange juice over two spaces to the open seat next to me.

“What’s with the banged-up face?” My dad taps his finger to his upper lip.

“Game injury. It’s not that bad,” Wyatt lies. My stomach tightens because I don’t want him to have to lie about what happened, but I also don’t think it’s the right time to get into a debate about what a dick Bryce is.

“Looks like you got yourself a stitch or two. That’s more than a scratch,” my dad needles. He takes a loud sip of his coffee, slurping, and eyes me.

“Watched your film yesterday, by the way,” Wyatt says, and I zip my gaze to him.

“We’re engaging in this?” I say.

Wyatt shrugs.

“He started it,” he defends.

I take a deep breath and snag a straw from the container in front of me. I peel the wrapper off and poke the straw into my water glass merely as a distraction.

“You learn anything from it?” My dad chuckles, turning his body to the side completely. At this point, I should trade him seats and let the two of them spar without having to endure being in the middle.

“Nothing new,” Wyatt quips. I give him side eyes and he smirks through his bite.

My dad grumbles, but thankfully, Maggie shows up with our plates, and for the next few minutes we’re all able to lose ourselves in good food.

I may not be getting my one-on-one time with my dad, but it’s hard to argue that this breakfast hasn’t been a standout.

“I was going to stop by today to give you your present,” Wyatt says. His plate is now cleared but I’m only halfway through my meal. My barely existent appetite vanishes with his words.

“So, he got you a present?” My dad doesn’t bother to look our direction this time, instead opting to talk while chewing, eyes set on the small TV set above the kitchen window. It’s Sunday morning news, and I know my dad—he’s waiting to see them replay highlights from Friday night.

“I heard about the sparklers the other night when I brought over your bonfire wood,” Wyatt notes.

“Yeah, nobody asked you to do that,” my dad says, not even masking his dislike.

Wyatt slides from his stool and whispers, “Sorry,” at my side. He pulls cash out to cover his bill and tip, then steps around me to hold out his hand for my dad.

“Sorry to interrupt your breakfast, sir,” he says. My dad lets his palm linger for a few seconds, but before I have to intervene, he wipes off his palm with a napkin and shakes Wyatt’s hand.

“Good luck with that record,” my dad says, one side of his mouth flashing a very short-lived grin.

“Which one?” Wyatt says as their hands part.

I let my eyes flutter shut. Here my dad always thought Bryce was his mini-me. Their gazes wrestle for a few awkward seconds.

“You got her present with you now?” my dad asks.

My stomach grows so tight I think my pancakes might come back up. I push my plate away.

“Oh, it’s nothing that can’t wait.” Wyatt drops his hands in the pockets of his Vista football shorts. He probably spent the morning lifting or getting in some cardio.

“Well, if it’s nothing, why not give it to her now? Save yourself a trip to my house.” My dad pulls a piece of bacon from his plate and snaps off a bite.

“It can wait, Dad,” I urge, no longer amused by this pissing match—if I ever was.

“Well, you’ve got a pretty busy day. And you know Grandpa doesn’t like to share his time, and if the kid says he’s got it with him now . . .” My dad is in rare protective father form. And he’s digging deep to pull out his old self—his 18-year-old self—whose ego can’t stand that someone he didn’t have a hand in helping might just beat his record. Correction— records.

“It’s not really much. It can wait until whenever, really,” Wyatt says, clearly squirming where he stands.

“Well, then, it won’t take long.” My dad pops the rest of his bacon in his mouth, the crunch of his chew somehow loud even when his mouth is closed.

Wyatt’s gaze drifts to me, and as much as I want to save him from this, I also meant what I said the other night. I like him. And I need my dad to respect him. On his own terms.

“I’ll wait,” I say.

His eyes widen for a beat, then he drops his gaze to the floor, his shoulders shaking with a quiet chuckle.

“Okay,” he relents.

He shakes his head as he leaves the restaurant, and I follow him with my eyes as he moves to the passenger side of his truck parked on the opposite side of us. No wonder I didn’t spot his truck when we pulled in.

“I thought he was just a guy who stopped in for pancakes?” My dad is referencing our first chat about Wyatt, when Bryce tried to sour his reputation with my dad.

“Seems he really likes pancakes,” I say, turning my attention to my water, which is draining fast as I keep taking nervous sips.

“ Hmm ,” my dad grumbles.

Wyatt comes back in with a plastic grocery bag in his hand. He grabs the back of his neck with his opposite hand as he approaches.

“I didn’t have anything to wrap it in, sorry,” he says, giving me a sheepish expression before handing over the bag.

“Wrapping paper is wasteful,” I say, throwing him a bone. My dad never wraps presents. He leaves it for Mom, so he better not offer any commentary.

“Thank you,” I offer, meeting Wyatt’s eyes.

He smiles through tight lips, but the only emotion I sense in his expression is worry. I write it off to the gauntlet my dad is putting him through, but when I pull the jersey out of the bag and the iconic silver and blue registers, I realize what had him so nervous.

It’s a fucking Cowboys jersey. Which I love. Because I know why he got it for me. He was paying attention to me, and he remembered the story I told him about taking a dig at my dad when I was mad at him. But his timing could not be worse. It is, however, hilarious.

“Thank you,” I say, unfurling it and pushing my arms through the bottom. “I love it.”

I pull it over my head, on top of my CHS cheer shirt, then twist to my side as I stretch it out to show off for my dad. He deserves this.

“Huh,” my dad reacts, his brow lifting as he chews at the inside of his mouth.

“It’s sort of an inside joke,” Wyatt utters, his voice vibrating.

“Is it?” My dad knows exactly what makes this funny. And he knows that means Wyatt and I have talked more than a little. We’ve shared stories.

“I don’t really like the Cowboys, though. I mean, I would play for them. Of course. But they aren’t really my team. I like the home team. And I grew up watching Seattle with my dad. And?—”

“It’s a nice jersey.” My dad’s words are abrupt, and he’s reaching into his wallet to pay the bill, clearly done with this ego-match.

“I meant it to be fun. Just as a nice gesture. Shit. ” Wyatt mumbles that last part.

“Yeah. Fun.” My dad holds the bill and his credit card out for Maggie to run. Thankfully, she does it quickly.

“Anyhow, I have a thing I have to get to. I hope you have a happy birthday, Peyton. And good luck Friday, Coach.” Wyatt steps toward me but stops short of stretching out his arms to hug me. He glances in my dad’s direction for permission, which he won’t get—ever. So I take things into my own hands and step up on my toes to wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him on the cheek.

“Thank you, Wyatt. It was really thoughtful,” I say. I am pretty sure he’s trembling.

“Uh, yeah. I mean, glad you like it. Anyhow, I have to?—”

“Where you headed?” My dad was done with this a second ago. I’m not sure why he’s now pulling Wyatt back into his web.

“It’s sort of a team thing I started. I mean, I hope a team thing. I might be the only one to show up. Well, Whiskey will because I’m picking him up.” Wyatt’s gaze shifts between me and my dad.

“Like a tradition, huh?” my dad pries. He signs the bill and tucks his card back into his wallet.

“Something like that,” Wyatt says, stepping back to make room for my dad to exit first.

Surprisingly, my father holds the door open for Wyatt, though maybe it’s simply because I’m trailing behind. I’m just glad our vehicles are parked far away from each other so we don’t have to continue making small talk in the parking lot. I can’t wait to fill my mom in on everything when we go out for our ride.

“Well, good luck with your tradition thing. Whiskey’s a good teammate. Take good care of him,” my dad offers. It’s the nicest he’s been, and of course it’s about one of his old players.

“I will, Coach. Thank you,” Wyatt says, his gaze passing over me before he spins around and heads toward his truck.

I twist my lips and shoot my dad a glare. He laughs out hard, not even hiding his feelings about all of this.

“I’m sorry, Peyton, but that? You are ditching Bryce for that guy?” He chuckles as he adjusts his keys in his palm and presses the unlock button.

I shake my head and bite my tongue, but when I get into the Jeep, all of the words I’ve been eating for months bubble to the top.

“You know why Bryce and I broke up every summer?”

My dad shrugs, almost indifferently.

“You’re young. It’s what young people do,” he says. He’s not so na?ve that he assumes every relationship is like his and my mom’s, but he’s not exactly savvy on teenagers, either.

“Because Bryce wanted to sleep around while he was at camp. We broke up because he knew he wouldn’t be faithful. I knew he wouldn’t. It was this understood contract, and we’d break up so he could go have guiltless fun in California, or up north, or wherever y’all sent him for camp that year. And then every fall, I’d take him back.”

My dad hasn’t moved his hands from the wheel since I started talking, and his eyes study the leather wrap between his palms. A pathetic laugh slips from my lips.

“I guess I liked the hype as much as everyone else did. I liked being Bryce’s girlfriend. At least, I thought I did. The last time we got back together, it just made me sad. And then I realized that I was sad a lot. He might be a great quarterback for you, Dad. But to me? He’s just a shitty boyfriend.”

I breathe out a soft cry, mostly out of relief for finally getting things off my chest.

My dad’s lashes bat, his gaze working overtime as he burns a hole through his steering wheel. He breathes in long and slow through his nose before shifting his attention to the gear shift on the center console.

“That thing on his lip. He didn’t get that during a game.” It doesn’t come out as a question because my dad doesn’t need to ask. He simply wants to confirm.

“You know how he got it,” I say, giving him just enough.

My dad nods once, then shifts into reverse to take us home. He doesn’t mention the jersey I’m wearing or our special guest for breakfast for the entire trip.