Trey and I exchange a glance and Trey calls out, “Hey, Pops.” Dad looks up and smiles. “How’s my boy?” His voice booms. It always has. He’s been startling innocent children for as long as I can remember. Luckily, Trey did not inherit that trait. “Did you have a good day? Where’d you end up? Any other trucks out in this weather?” He can never just ask one question when he’s feeling good. I let Trey handle him and keep walking, grabbing a fresh apron and tying it around my waist on my way to the hostess stand. “Hey, Aunt Mary,” I say. She’s my dad’s sister. She reaches for me and air-kisses my cheek, then squeezes my upper arm and shakes me like she’s been doing since I was a little girl. “So beautiful!” she declares loudly. “You have your father’s face.” Yeah . . . uh . . . thanks. That’s not, like, a weird thing to say to a girl or anything. I smile and ask, “Is it busy? Where’s Rowan?” “Tables seven and eight—a ten-topper. Rowdy bunch of hooligans.
What do You think about Crash (Visions (Simon Pulse))?
