I Secretly Read Every Love Letter He Wrote Me, Then He Stopped Writing Them novel · Chapter 3 of 32
Chapter 3: Two Thousand by Friday
Frank asks for money and a loan in her name, and grabs her wrist where Miles can see.
Clara served six customers before she went to the corner booth.
She wiped her hands on her apron and did not sit down.
"You can't be here, Dad."
"It's a public cafe." Frank Mercer spread his hands. "I bought a water. Look at you. You got thin."
"I'm on shift."
"Then I'll be quick." He smiled. "Sit for a minute, baby. People stare when you stand over me."
Clara sat on the very edge of the opposite seat.
Her father had always been good to look at. He had a warm voice and a crooked grin, and when she was little he could sell a stranger the shirt off his back.
Now there was gray in his sandy hair, and the leather jacket was cracked at the elbows.
"I need two thousand dollars," he said. "By Friday."
Clara closed her eyes for a moment.
"No."
"It's a short-term thing. I'm going to pay you back by the end of the month, with interest. I swear on your mother."
"You swore on Mom last time."
"And I meant it last time." His smile slipped a little. "Clara, there's a man. He's not a nice man. He gave me a loan for the garage and I fell behind."
"What garage?"
"The one I'm opening." Frank waved a hand. "You wouldn't understand the business."
She stared at him. "How much is the loan?"
"Eleven thousand."
"Eleven." Her voice cracked. "Dad, I make eleven dollars an hour."
"That's why it's in your name."
The noise of the cafe seemed to drop away.
"What did you say?"
"I used your Social. Just on the paper. It's a formality, Clara, I would never let it come back on you." He leaned in. "But you know how these guys are. They get nervous if the first payment is late."
"You put a loan in my name."
"You've got a clean credit history. It would have been a waste."
She heard a cup fall behind the counter and Beth's quick whisper.
Clara stood up.
"I have four hundred and twelve dollars in my account," she said. "That is the money for my last month's rent."
"Then give me that. Two thousand by Friday, and the four hundred is a start."
"I'm not giving you my rent."
His face did something she had seen before.
The charm went out of it, and what stayed was cold and patient.
"Clara." He said her name softly. "A man in a gray jacket is going to come find you if I don't have it. I'd hate that. I'd really hate that."
She went to the register and took out her own tip jar.
There was ninety-one dollars in it, in ones.
She put it on the table.
Frank counted it with his thumb.
"This is a start," he said, and tucked it into his jacket. "Walk me out, baby. I don't like leaving on a bad note."
She did not want to. She did it so that he would leave.
Outside the afternoon was bright, and the Union lot was full of seniors with cameras.
Frank put his hand on her shoulder, gentle and fond, and kept it there.
"You always were the sensible one," he said. "I mean it. I couldn't have a better kid."
"Please go."
"After you give me the card."
"What card?"
"The debit card. I'll take what's in the account and bring it back by the weekend. You won't even miss it."
"No."
"Clara."
"No."
He smiled for the people around them.
Then his hand slid down her arm and closed around her wrist.
It hurt.
The grip was not rough enough to leave a mark, but it was hard enough that her fingers went numb.
"You're making a scene," he said, still smiling. "Hand it over."
She tried to pull away and could not.
Across the lot, twenty feet away, a tall boy in a navy blazer had stopped walking.
He held a stack of books against his chest.
It was Miles Ferris.
He had seen all of it.
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