Chapter 9: Men Do

My father came into the bakery on Tuesday at the lunch rush.

He hadn't been inside it once in four years. He'd sent a plant when I opened.

He stood in line behind two nurses and a guy with a stroller, in his good golf shirt.

He looked around at my walls.

When he got to the counter, he didn't order.

"Can we talk somewhere?" he said.

"We're talking," I said. "Do you want a roll?"

He lowered his voice, which didn't help in a shop that size.

"You embarrassed the whole family, Lainey. In front of two hundred people."

"A hundred and eighty."

"Your aunt's still crying. The Sheridans are good people. Rafferty's father and I play golf."

"Rafferty's father walked out of his son's wedding," I said. "Good for him."

The nurses had stopped pretending to read the menu.

Dad leaned in.

"Listen to me. Men do that, honey. It's nerves. It doesn't mean anything."

Behind me, Sinead put down her piping bag very carefully.

"Men do that," I repeated.

"It doesn't mean they don't love you."

I looked up at the top of his head.

I'd spent ten years not looking at it. At holidays, at my graduation, at his third wedding, I'd looked at his tie.

Now I looked.

"You cheated on Mom for years," I said. "And you're still doing it."

He blinked.

"You used to tell her it was poker on Wednesdays," I said. "What do you tell your wife now? Golf?"

His hand tightened on the edge of my counter.

"Lainey."

He looked at the nurses, at the guy with the stroller, at the line out the door.

His face went a dull, blotchy red.

"You don't know what you're talking about," he said. "Your mother filled your head..."

"Mom never told me anything," I said. "I watched."

The bakery was completely quiet. The oven timer was ticking in the back.

"So go home to your wife, Dad," I said.

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