Page 109 of The Fake Out

More weird staring between us.

As casually as I could, I strolled past Piper and headed to the door. To freedom. To forgetting whatever the heck had just happened and getting back to my normal life. You know, my normal life that involved a fake engagement to a famous football player who I kissed kissed mere seconds ago.

I almost made it before Chris called out, “Hey, Sprinkles, your shirt’s on backward.”

FORTY-EIGHT

Did you Windex your pants? Because I can see myself in them.

—CHELSEA C.

Later that evening, I received a voicemail from a number I didn’t recognize.

“Maebell, it’s your father,” he began, his voice gravelly from a lifelong smoking habit. “I got your messages and I think we should get together. Just the two of us. I feel like we have a lot to talk about. Call me at this number.”

The Bluebell Café was a hole in the wall in the small town of Brookshire. On a Thursday night, only a handful of customers were cozied up to the mismatched tables and chairs that dotted the restaurant.

I checked the time for the seven hundredth time. It was 6:45 p.m. He was fifteen minutes late.

I’d told Mama I had to run into Houston after work to pick up some donations for the auction. She had fussed about the weather—stormy gray clouds were rolling in and we were expected to have a long night of thunderstorms— but I told her I would be fine.

The truth was that I was meeting my father.

My leg jiggled with nervous energy. I pushed the menu aside and straightened the salt and pepper shakers, then moved on to the sugar packets. My phone vibrated. I snatched it up, hoping it was my father telling me he was coming. Or cancelling. I’m not sure which of those I wanted to happen more.

Instead, it was Chris.

Dreamboat: About last night…

I set the phone down. I didn’t want to talk about last night and whatever had happened in the barn. I’d dreamed about it every time I closed my eyes. Even now, I flushed thinking about it. I kept replaying the part just before Piper had interrupted. Except in my dream, she didn’t.

Dreamboat: On a scale from 1–10, you’re a 9. I’m the 1 you need.

I rolled my eyes.

Dreamboat: Nothing?

Dreamboat: I know you’re upset about the donation.

Dreamboat: I talked to Peter and took it back.

Dreamboat: I wanted to make things easier for you. You don’t let anyone help you carry the weight.

Dreamboat: You know I can tell you’re reading these, right?

Dreamboat: You can’t avoid me forever, Sprinkles.

I started to reply but it was then my father slid into the booth across from me.

“Well, look who I found,” Dale Sampson said. He smiled his charming smile. My stomach rolled.

“What do you want?” I asked.

My father ran a hand through his hair and leaned back. He’d aged in the three years since I’d seen him, but he’d been blessed with the sort of face that looked good young or old. His blond hair may have faded to gray, but it only made his blue eyes more noticeable.

“That’s not the greeting I expected from my daughter.”

I shrugged. “You’re not the father I expected, so I guess we’re even.”