4. 3

3

Serina

T he smell of coffee and the sound of soft old rock music from the Bluetooth speaker we always kept sitting on the bar stirred me awake.

I looked over to my dad’s recliner, thinking he might still be there, but he wasn’t. I rolled off the couch and stretched. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I found him jamming out in the kitchen in his robe air drumming to Eye Of The Tiger by Survivor.

I whipped out my phone from the pocket of my pajama pants. Luckily it wasn’t dead since I had forgotten to charge it last night. Then I quickly opened my camera to get him on video just as he began swaying his hips and bumping his fist in the air to the beat.

I couldn't hold back my chuckle when he spun around to me, pointing one finger at me and nodding for me to join him.

I laughed as I sent the video to Sam. We had to enjoy this moment together regardless of whether she was here or not. I wouldn’t let her miss it. I was glad she had slid the number of her burner phone into my palm before she left. Always wanting to stay in touch regardless of where we both went or ended up.

My dad and I moved around the kitchen singing the rest of the lyrics together at the top of our lungs before we both busted out laughing as the music shuffled to something else.

I pulled out my phone checking my messages from Sam.

Sam: His dancing could use some work, but those air drums were sick. *rockstar emoji* I’m sorry I couldn’t be there. I’ll have to make it up to you for missing your birthday! I love you guys. Happy birthday! Stay safe. Xx

Me: My birthday isn’t until tomorrow. And we will do our best, you know, monsters lurking about and all.

I was sure she could hear my sarcasm even through the text on the screen.

Sam: I know, but I will always carry the record of being the first one to wish you a happy birthday, so just in case I can’t message you at 12:01 tonight, I’m telling you now!

Me: Alright, I’m sure you’ll be on time just like every other year, but we love you guys too! Stay safe. Xx

I walked over to the wall where the charger cable was and plugged in my phone. Then I moved back to where my father sat at the bar in the kitchen drinking his coffee with a second piping hot mug of coffee next to him, made exactly how I liked it.

I cradled it in my hands as I took the seat beside him and sipped my morning brew. Just that one drink sent a shock of warmth to my system that instantly made me feel more awake.

“So after coffee, if we hurry,”—he glanced up at the large farmhouse clock on the wall—“we can make it to Mickeys for their lunch specials, and of course, your favorite milkshake.”

“How much time do we have?” I asked.

“About forty-five minutes.” He took a swig from his mug.

“Challenge accepted.” I downed the rest of my coffee and ran to my room to make myself look like a human and not like a bridge troll.

His chuckle followed me down the hall from where he sat and finished his drink.

We had sat at the same booth at Mickeys my entire life. It reminded me of a larger, better, more rustic version of the dive bar we had been at. The walls were littered with decorative street signs, license plates, photos of the family members who had owned this place over the years, old pop products, and so much more.

Anytime you looked over the walls you could find something new that you didn’t see before. Burgundy worn-topped stools sat in one long row in front of the wooden sleek bar.

The same deep red matched the chevron pattern on the booth seats that wrapped around the building while in the center there was more seating. Mix-matched retro tables and chairs sat evenly spaced apart that clashed with the black checkerboard floors.

We took our seats and waited for our waitress to come over. My dad pulled out a pen from his leather jacket pocket and grabbed a napkin from the little black dispenser on the table.

He started doodling on the thin brown paper. I smiled, knowing we were going to add to our montage of art at our booth.

I ran my hand over the glass top, seeing all of our little notes and doodles from over the years placed between the glass and the tabletop like one large page in a scrapbook. My fingers lingered over the polaroid photo of my mom, dad, and me from our visit during my twentieth birthday…

If only I had known she wouldn’t have made it to next year’s, I would have cherished the moments I had with her a little longer.

I cleared my throat at the painful thoughts of her and smiled up at my dad just when he held up his drawing of me and him as stick people walking a… dog? Was it a dog or a weird dragon? I wasn’t sure.

“Is that a dog?” I asked, and he nodded happily like a kid at a candy store.

“I was thinking we could get one,” he said, and although I would love a dog and adored animals, I had to think about our circumstances.

“Dad, you know we move around too much for a dog, and what would we do with a dog on a hunt? They would just get in our way.”

“Not if they were trained,” he protested. “I think a dog would look good in my passenger seat. I can picture it now, a German Shepherd pup. We could name him Bruno, and he could sit in the front with me.”

“You already have a name picked out? Listen, Dad, if you’re lonely in the Impala, you could have just said so; I could ride with you. We don’t need a dog right now,” I said, and he rolled his eyes with a chuckle.

“No, I know, you’re right. We’ll hold off… Maybe once all these hunting days are behind us and I’m a withered old man, then we can get a dog.”

“You’re already a withered old man,” I joked, and he laughed.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m still a spring chicken…” He smiled at me then. “Damn, I can’t believe you’re twenty-four, sweetheart. You’re making me old.”

Just then, the waitress walked up. She had to have been one of Mickey’s new hires because I didn’t recognize her.

“Hey guys, how are you?” she greeted.

“Good, good, and you?” me and my dad practically said in unison.

“I’m doing wonderful. What can I get started for you?” she said, and we placed our orders.

We never needed to look at the menu because we got the same thing every time regardless of whether we always told ourselves we would try something different. My dad and I both got the steak and eggs with extra hashbrowns.

While we waited for our food, we made another doodle together and placed it under the glass next to all the other years of memorabilia from our visits. We admired the photo of mom and talked about the good times we had while she was still here before we moved on to the photo of me and Sam coming here after our first hunt for celebratory milkshakes.

“I was heartbroken.” I gestured with a hand over my heart exasperatedly. “Those were my favorite boots, and all the blood ruined them.”

“I told you not to wear them, but you just wouldn’t listen to me.” Dad chuckled.

“I know, I know…” I trailed off as our waitress showed up with our food, and we ate it with little small talk between us. I had been starving, and it seemed Dad had been, too.

When we were finished, I was stuffed and wasn’t sure I’d be able to finish a whole milkshake myself, so we ordered the date night milkshake. Which was just one curvy, extra-large, retro-style glass cup filled to the rim, and it came with multiple straws for whoever you were sharing it with. It held a ridiculous amount of whipped cream, and they put two cherries on top. One for both of us.

I went for mine, and he did the same. Then a familiar voice called to the both of us.

“Hey, strangers,” Mickey said, walking over with a dirty towel draped over one shoulder. Her dark hair was clipped back with a claw clip, her longer bangs framing her face.

She had warm brown eyes framed by sharp brows with a scar through one of them from a hunt she had actually gotten while with us. Golden, honey skin. She was so naturally beautiful.

She had been a family friend since before I was born. She had even been my mother’s maid of honor. She decided to get out of the hunter lifestyle after my mother passed, settle down, and bought this diner for herself when it went up for sale. She had said she didn’t want someone else to buy it and tear it down after all the years we had been coming here.

Mentioned it had been a dream of hers for a long time, but I suspected—no, I knew deep down—when my mom passed, it shifted something in my dad and Mickey. It was a pain they could both relate to, lean on each other through. They both lost their best friend that day.

The life of a hunter is a lonely one. You keep the ones you love close, and by the looks of it, Mickey was one of the only people we had left other than Uncle Theo, Sam, and our best friend Brielle.

Sure, there were other hunters we knew and crossed paths with, ones we respected. But that was all it was. There was no real love there.

“Hey, Mick,” my dad said with a long sigh. I glanced between them before offering Mickey a smile.

“You keeping him out of trouble?” she asked.

I smirked. “Now, you should know better than anybody that trouble usually finds us.”

She chuckled. “That I do know. I’ve gotta get back to work, but don’t forget to say bye before you go.”

Her and my dad held eye contact a moment too long before she walked away. I cleared my throat, and my dad was instantly back in the moment. Shoving down whatever feelings he had just let crawl to the surface.

We pushed a straw in on either side of the cup and began taking down the cold deliciousness.

Too fast. I was drinking it too fast.

But it was too late; a paralyzing brain freeze caused my whole body to stop working as I pulled away from the shake to hold my head. My dad chuckled at me as we continued slurping down the shake before we paid our waitress and left a nice tip.

“Don’t want to say bye to Mick?” I said as we headed for the door.

Dad opened it, and the bell chimed above us. He turned, looking over his shoulder to the woman on the other side of the bar.

“See you around, Mick.” At his farewell, she offered a small smile and a wave.

We walked out to the Impala waiting for us in the parking lot.

The two of us snapped a selfie together just like we did every year, and I instantly updated my screen saver on my phone to the new photo of us.

Then we jumped in the car and the only sounds were the rumble of the engine and the oldies rock playing as he kicked up dirt getting back on the road to return us to the cabin.

The best conversations were the ones that happened on the kitchen floor. The ones that lasted for hours of talking about nothing and everything all at once.

And it wouldn't be a complete experience if you didn’t shed a few tears, happy or sad. It didn’t matter; just sitting there wearing your heart on your sleeve with someone else willing and wanting to do the same.

It was a moment that was few and far between, and when you found yourself in them you never wanted them to end, so you intentionally stayed up way past your bedtime. Hell, maybe even until the sun rose again, just to feel the interconnectedness with another person who didn’t want the conversation to end either.

My dad sat on the cold tile with me, his back against the island while my back sat against the cold metal of the stainless-steel refrigerator.

I lost count of how many drinks he had poured for both of us, but somewhere between sitting at the bar we had stood and ended up on the floor when he busted out his good bourbon. I had sent Sam a picture of the bottle, and she texted me back saying the only reason she’d forgive me for drinking it without her was because it was my day.

Happy birthday . She had sent it at 12:01. She never missed it.

The thought made my chest ache at her absence. I wished she could’ve been here to enjoy the week with us, but at least we still had our phones.

Time passed and my dad and I were most certainly drunk. Okay, maybe not drunk, but too intoxicated because I couldn’t remember the last time I saw my dad cry. Pretty sure it was at my mom’s funeral, and if he had cried since then he didn’t do it in front of me.

“You look so much like your mother. If only she could see you now,” he said, wiping that one tear from his face.

If I hadn’t been paying attention, I probably wouldn’t have seen it in the low lighting with only the stove’s overhead bulb illuminating the room. The one light in the kitchen that never went off no matter the time of day.

Half of his face was cast in its soft orange glow, showing the raw emotions breaking through his normally stoic features.

I nodded. “I hope I make her proud.”

“You already have. Don’t ever doubt that. She’d be so proud of you, sweetheart, I’m proud of you,” he said, meeting my eyes.

I gave him a sleepy smile as he looked up to the stove, I assumed to check the time. I didn’t know how long we had been here, but I knew when we started the sun was just going down. Now we were in the dark, and I was sure it was past midnight.

“We should get to bed. We have our hike and fishing trip tomorrow. Well, today.” Dad glanced back over to me. He lifted his glass. “Happy birthday, sweetheart,” His glass clinked to mine as he took down that final swig, and I followed suit.

“Goodnight, Dad,” I said as he made it to his feet with a tired groan.

He placed his cup in the sink before stumbling his way to his bedroom. I stayed there for just a moment longer, leaning my head back against the fridge and reveling in the moment—the memory—before it was completely over.

With a sigh, I climbed to my feet and headed to my room. No matter how long we had been on that kitchen floor, it would have never been enough time.