With a Little Luck: A Novel by Caprice Crane Read Free Book Online Page B

fruit. Just, you know, the normal fruit charge.”
    Ashley assumes that expression of profoundest concern and sympathy that waitresses and waiters get when they’re about to go back to the kitchen and tell everyone on the shift what a dumbass you are.
    “I can’t because of the way they have the system programmed. IfI don’t actually request something from the kitchen, I can’t charge for it.”
    I look up at her, pleading.
    “So the only way I could charge you would be … if you actually ordered another fruit side.”
    “No,” Natalie says. “You’re not going to buy something you’re not going to eat. I’m not going to watch you do that.”
    I stare at Natalie, and she stares back. Ashley stands before us awkwardly.
    “I’ll just give you two a minute to figure it out,” she finally says, and escapes back into the kitchen.
    “I’ll eat the fruit later,” I say.
    “It’s got to stop,” Nat says.
    “Natalie, did my potential next boyfriend not die the day after he opened an umbrella indoors?”
    “It was a coincidence, Berry,” she says, and sighs. “A total coincidence. And I wrestled with myself about telling you. Do I tell you to make you feel better about him not calling? Or do I not tell you because I know you’ll make yourself even more crazy with this stuff. I opted for the ego boost. Don’t punish me for that.”
    My cellphone interrupts us. I look at the caller ID and see my dad’s number.
    Now, if
your
father called you after midnight, you might automatically go into panic mode. Old men aren’t supposed to be up making phone calls in the middle of the night. They’re supposed to be half asleep in a big fluffy bed, watching Craig Ferguson make an ass out of himself. At this point in my life, I would pay for a little adrenaline rush when I see my dad’s number come up on the caller ID. Unfortunately, these calls became part of near-daily life so long ago that I know just what he’s after.
    “Hey, Dad,” I say, trying hard to keep the resignation out of my voice. “What are you doing up so late?”
    “How’s my lucky charm?” he says.
    “Not feeling so lucky at the moment,” I tell him.
    “Me neither. So let’s change it for both of us. I’m losing, baby. I’m losing big. Can you come by and just sit with me for a little bit? I know my luck will turn around.”
    “Dad, it’s almost one a.m. I just got off work, and I’m tired.”
    “Just stop by, then, on your way home? Give me a hug for good luck?”
    How could anyone—anyone who loves her father, anyway; anyone who once idolized her father—say no to that?
    “See you in a few,” I say, as I hang up and wave Ashley back over. “Could you please add a side of fruit to this tab and pack it to go? I’m going to bring it to my dad.”
    “Sure thing,” she says, and I look back at Natalie, who rolls her eyes.
    “Unnecessary.”
    “Which, the extra fruit or the fact that I’m going to now drive half an hour so I can give my father a lucky hug?”
    “Both.”
    “Says you,” I say, as I take my to-go fruit, kiss Nat on the cheek, and walk to my car. She might be right about my dad, but she is dead wrong about the fruit.

     
    To know and understand my relationship with my dad is, well, something I’ve strived to do myself for the majority of my life. I can’t explain why I jump when he calls, why I want to please him so badly, why I need his approval. I guess at its most base level, it’s your typical daddy issues. But that’s a term you usually hear whensomeone has a strained relationship with her father, or when her relationship with her father and the issues that stem from it make her unable to have emotional connections. Unable to have successful romantic relationships. And I refuse to cop to that this early in my adult dating life. I’m no lost cause, so I don’t need to put a label on my problem. I think.
    I walk into my dad’s apartment and am as immediately saddened by the décor as I always am