3. Emily

Ipark outside of my dad's place and kill the engine. The block's shade-covered and crowded by local cars, and the houses are all well-kept. I remember running up and down this block as a kid, getting into trouble, learning to navigate the city on my bike and nearly getting run down by cars at least a half-dozen times. But my dad was always a hands-off sort of parent, so long as I was home for dinner and always remembered to call, and I have very fond memories of growing up here.

The house itself is one of the nicest on the block. Dad takes serious pride in it. Gray stone front, a big oak door, and huge windows. It extends back toward a small postage-stamp yard that's mostly a concrete slab where I learned how to catch a ball, jump rope, and roller skate.

As I get out, I pause on the block and notice a man sitting in a black town car nearby. He's wearing sunglasses and looking down at something, but he's just sitting there on the other side of the block. It's probably no big deal, but ever since I ran into Mr. Bianco last night, I've been completely on edge.

The owner of Cucina Amore is freaking gorgeous. I'm talking beyond obscenely gorgeous. The sort of man I'd throw myself at under different circumstances. But unfortunately, the guy walked in as I was trying to steal from him, and he got a really good view of my panties and my full moon ass just staring at him from under the desk.

And the bastard knew. He freaking knew what I was doing, but he didn't punish me, and I don't understand why. Maybe he was embarrassed about the sex bag, but I'm not sure. There didn't seem to be any shame or hesitation in his expression—more like he was extremely amused by the whole situation.

Then there was that nickname. Topolina. I had to look it up later and it means little mouse. Which I guess is pretty accurate since I was scurrying around his floor, but still, the way he said it sent shivers down my spine.

There was something about him. Something animalistic and terrifying. It felt like I was trapped in a cage with a hungry wolf, and I don't understand how he didn't devour me, because he was staring at my mouth like he wanted a taste.

The whole situation was bizarre, but I learned something important.

Don't try to steal from my employer.

But unfortunately, I'm still in a really bad spot financially, and I might have to steal from someone else before this week's over.

"You didn't have to bring all that," Dad grunts as I heft a grocery bag in the front door. "I'm fine, Em. Seriously."

"Yeah, uh-huh, I know you are." I carry it into the kitchen. Original hardwood floors, original molding around the ceiling and on the banister. Everything's been lovingly restored and maintained by my father for the last fifty years, ever since he inherited the place from his parents in his twenties.

I remember my father as a big, strapping, loud man stomping around the house and throwing me so high that I swear I scraped the ceiling.

Now he moves with a shuffle and his back is slightly stooped. His hair, which was once thick and black like coal, is gray and wispy. He grunts as he sits down at his table, and I make sure he doesn't see my reaction when I open his refrigerator and find it completely empty.

There's not even a bottle of ketchup.

"I saw the new neighbors painted their front door," I say, making small talk as I put away the groceries. That'll get him through the next few days, maybe longer since he doesn't have much of an appetite these days.

"I liked the way it was before," he grumbles and looks toward the back window. "But I guess things change."

"Come on, Dad. That place was a total dump before they moved in, remember? You used to say all our mice come from there."

"Good point." He tries not to smile. "Haven't seen any rodents in a while. Maybe they're not so bad."

"That's the spirit." I put on a kettle for tea and face him. He's trying very hard not to look in my direction, and I should let it go. We don't have to talk about money every time I come over. He hates what happened to him, hates himself for letting it happen, and despises that his daughter has to take care of him now. The shame is going to kill my father before anything else does.

Even though he's old. He was old when I was born—my mother was thirty and he was fifty. It was a huge scandal, apparently, and I heard my grandparents on her side wanted to take me away when she died. I was barely three years old and she got pancreatic cancer, and what the hell was a fifty-three-year-old man going to do with a toddler?

Except my dad was the best father in the world. He was attentive, caring, outgoing. He gave me everything and worked his ass off to make sure I never missed a single experience. No, I didn't have a mother, but I had a father that did the work of ten parents, and I had the best childhood imaginable.

All that came crashing down one year earlier when I got a call in the middle of the night, my father sobbing on the other line as he confessed to what he did.

"We have to talk about it," I say and his expression hardens.

"Nothing more to say." He glances over. "I'll be fine."

"Dad—"

"You know I don't wanna hear it. Bad enough you have to bring me groceries. I die inside a little bit every time I open the damn refrigerator. But the rest is for me to figure out." He leans back and crosses his arms, glaring at me, daring me to keep going.

I could push him. I should push him. He's seventy-six, he's been retired for over a decade, and the bank's been sending him some very aggressively worded letters for a couple of months now. We're way beyond not talking about it.

Except he's stubborn, and it hurts him, and I love him too much to make him suffer.

I let it drop and make tea instead. I add milk, the way we both like it, and join him at the table. He seems wary as he holds the mug in both hands, blowing against the steam. His white whiskers are long, and I wonder if he has to throw away his last razor. I add that to my mental shopping list, which is always too long, and there's never enough money to cover it all.

"I have a lead on another job," I say, which is about as close to talking about it as I can get right now. "It's at a bagel place, so I'll be able to open there then go work at Cucina afterwards. Should be pretty good."

He grunts and sips his tea. "I don't want you working two jobs. Why not try to find an office gig?"

"I wouldn't need two jobs if you'd let me move back home. And I've tried to get an office gig, but nothing's hiring right now." And they're sure as hell not hiring a girl like me with too many low-wage jobs to list on a resume.

"I am not going to have my adult daughter come live with me like a babysitter. I love you, Em, but I'm fine."

I plaster on a smile and nod along, another concession to hide pride. I hear those words all the time, and the more he says them, the more they come out hollow: I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine.

"How about grilled cheese for dinner?" I get up and head into the kitchen. "I got some tomato soup too."

"Perfect. I'm spoiled. Don't you have other plans though? You know, friends, a social life?"

I try not to laugh. I haven't had a social life in a long time—and now I have a negative social life, since all I do is work. "I like hanging with you."

"I'm an old man. And your dad. What about boyfriends?"

"Boyfriends are a waste of time and energy. Didn't I tell you I'm swearing off all romance indefinitely?"

"That's not the Emily I remember. You were boy crazy. You had all those pop stars hung up on your walls with hearts over their faces?—"

"Dad, I was not boy crazy, please, god, never say that again." I laugh as I start making dinner, and he launches into one of his patented stories about my childhood, and for a little while he's the man I remember, larger than life and so damn alive.

It's a good visit. We don't talk about it but we don't fight too much either. When I leave a few hours later, Dad's parked in front of the TV watching Gunsmoke, and I'm reasonably certain he'll have something to eat tomorrow morning.

As I get into my car, I pause and stare across the street.

There's a man sitting in a black town car. He's wearing sunglasses, and this time, he's staring straight at me.

I swear it's the same guy from before.

But I shake my head and pull out because, no, that's paranoid. Now I'm thinking about Mr. Bianco again and that handsome mouth of his, those big hands, the way he stroked my hair like he wanted to pull it tight and bury his tongue down my throat, and I feel a thrill run between my legs. I'm an emotional wreck and a little thief, and yet I want my boss's boss to tie my hands to the headboard of his aggressively expensive bed and rail me until I forget all about my problems.

When I pull out, I check the rearview mirror, and I swear that black car pulls out too.

But then I lose it in traffic, and my little efficiency apartment across town remains empty and pathetic, and all I have are fantasies about some overly handsome stranger to keep me company as I kill time before I have to work again.