He sat.
She immediately asked:
“Are you in trouble?”
“No.”
He lied badly.
The Waitress brought their check ten minutes later.
She placed it on the table.
The Single Dad looked up.
Her expression had changed.
Softer.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For him.”
“You didn’t invite him.”
She hesitated.
“No.”
The daughter looked between them.
“You’re very pretty.”
The Single Dad closed his eyes.
The Waitress smiled.
“Thank you.”
His daughter pointed toward the name tag.
“Emily is my cousin’s name.”
The Waitress’s smile faltered for half a second.
Then returned.
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Are you really Emily?”
The Single Dad stared at his daughter.
“Okay.”
“What?”
“You cannot interrogate waitresses.”
The Waitress laughed softly.
“I don’t mind.”
The daughter continued:
“You don’t look like an Emily.”
“What does Emily look like?”
“I don’t know.”
The Single Dad stood.
“We are leaving before this gets worse.”
The Waitress touched the check.
“No charge.”
He frowned.
“No.”
“The owner—”
“No.”
He pulled cash from his wallet.
Enough for the meal.
Then a tip.
A large one considering the forty-three dollars currently left in his checking account.
The Waitress saw the bills.
“That’s too much.”
“No.”
“You just told me I don’t get to argue.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“I don’t remember saying that.”
“I implied it.”
She almost laughed.
The Single Dad helped his daughter into her coat.
Then looked toward the Waitress.
“Good night.”
She held his gaze.
“Good night.”
The businessman was gone.
His black sedan had disappeared from the parking lot.
The Single Dad loaded his daughter into the truck.
Rain hammered the roof.
As he started the engine, his phone rang.
Unknown number.
He answered.
“Parker Building Services.”
A familiar client spoke.
The owner of three convenience stores.
His voice sounded uncomfortable.
“I need to talk about the maintenance agreement.”
The Single Dad stared through the windshield.
“What about it?”
“We’re going in another direction.”
Silence.
“When?”
“Immediately.”
The Single Dad looked toward the diner windows.
The businessman was gone.
The Waitress stood near the register.
“Can I ask why?”
The client hesitated.
“Corporate decision.”
“You’re independently owned.”
“Franchise.”
The Single Dad understood.
“Who called you?”
“No one.”
The lie was obvious.
The Single Dad closed his eyes.
“How many stores?”
“All three.”
The contract represented almost twelve percent of his monthly revenue.
He swallowed.
“Understood.”
“I’m sorry.”
The call ended.
His daughter asked:
“What happened?”
“Work.”
“Bad?”
He started driving.
“We’ll figure it out.”
That was one contract.
The second disappeared before they reached home.
Office complex.
Quarterly maintenance agreement.
Canceled.
The property manager refused to explain.
The third call came at 7:12 the next morning.
Restaurant group.
Five locations.
Contract review.
Temporary suspension.