A thin, black-clad hostess leads Dick and Kiley to a corner booth. Dick did careful research to find this place. They are known for their extensive offering of low-carb items, and he is pleased when he opens the menu to see heart symbols peppering the page, making it easy to know what items are safe for South Beach dieters.
“How’s school?” he asks.
Kiley doesn’t answer, her eyes on the menu.
When she sets it down, he tries again. “How are things? Are you still dancing?”
“I haven’t danced for a year.”
“Oh,” Dick says, thinking he might have known that but not sure.
He can’t think of what else to say. Fortunately, the server arrives to take their order.
He nods to Kiley.
“I’ll have the fettuccine alfredo, and an extra order of garlic toast.”
Dick’s certain this wasn’t one of the heart-marked entrees but keeps the thought to himself then, afraid of offending his daughter, changes his own order.
“I’ll have the same. But no extra bread.”
He was going to order the antipasto salad with light vinaigrette. His diet’s been going well, and already he’s lost five pounds. He will consider this his cheat meal for the week.
The server leaves, and again, there’s silence.
“Have you been enjoying the Heelys?” he asks, the roller sneakers he bought her for her birthday feeling like a safe subject since she was the one who asked for them.
Shrug.
A basket of rolls arrives, and Kiley grabs one and butters it. Dick sips his Miller Lite and looks at her, overwhelmed by his feelings as he often is around his kids. Though a million sonnets, songs, and stories have been written about a parent’s devotion to their children, he never truly understood it until the first time he held Kiley in his arms. He can still remember how small she was, the smell of her newborn skin, the flutter of her tiny heartbeat, the heat of her wee body.
It’s hard to believe how much she’s grown, filling out and getting curves, which make her look a lot like Caroline. They share the same dark curly hair and broad shoulders, though Kiley has narrower hips, and her face is defined by a deep cleft chin.
His breath catches in the back of his throat like he’s almost choking on something, and his eyes narrow on the dimple Kiley’s had since she was born but which he’s never fully considered before.
“You okay?” Kiley asks, her lip curling.
His skin sizzles, and he shifts in his seat.
“Two fettuccini alfredos, one with extra garlic toast,” the server announces and sets their dinners in front of them.
Kiley digs in, while Dick’s dinner sits untouched, his eyes returning again and again to Kiley’s chin that moves up and down as she chews. How could he never have noticed? Cleft chins are like brown eyes or the ability to roll your tongue; you can only get them if one of your parents has the trait. Dick’s chin is long and square. Caroline’s is small and pointy. There are no dimples on either.
When finally Kiley finishes her last bite, he says, “We need to go.”
“Go where?”
“Home . . . I need to take you home,” he stammers.
“But I want dessert.”
In the thirteen years Dick’s been a father, he can’t recall ever telling his children no.
“No.”
Kiley blinks. “You said dinner. Dinner includes dessert.”
She doesn’t use the word Dad, and he tries to think of the last time she said it and realizes it’s been so long he can’t remember.
“Kiley, we’re leaving.”
She crosses her arms.
“Fine,” he says, standing. “Stay.” He throws three twenties on the table. “Buy whatever dessert you want, then call your mother to pick you up.”
He starts for the door, then reconsiders. When he turns back, Kiley is grabbing for the money. He pulls the straw from her Shirley Temple and continues on his way.