Page 61 of Sizzle

I’m staggering zombie-like into the bathroom when I finally check the time.

Shit! Shit shit shit. I’m so late.

I’d assumed the missed call was a telemarketer because, seriously, nobody calls me. But I pull up the missed call list and sure enough, three missed calls from Duckbill.

I tap out a text to Anna, the manager on duty this morning.

Overslept. I’ll be there in thirty minutes or less.

After the world’s fastest shower—one that brings crystal clear flashbacks of last night’s debauchery, which is absolutely not what I need right now—I dress quickly, yanking my hair into a bun and foregoing all makeup.

“Hey, Dad, I’m going to have to borrow the car this morning,” I say, passing through to the kitchen without stopping to hear his reply. I grab my travel coffee mug, a snack bar from the box on the counter, and head back to the living room.

“I didn’t hear you, sorry,” I say around a mouthful of the breakfast bar.

“You said you were staying out last night,” says Dad. He’s frowning, harder than usual.

“Yeah, I changed my mind and came back instead.” I really don’t have time for this but Dad’s clearly got something on his mind.

“Sleep well?”

“Well enough,” I say.

“I should hope so, since the day’s half gone. I had to make my own breakfast,” he gripes. That explains the smell near the microwave, I think, but my head’s really not in this conversation, so I apologize just to get my ass out the door.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” I say, pulling on my coat.

“I don’t believe you,” he says. I stop what I’m doing and turn to look at him.

He’s angry. He’s actually angry about this.

“Okay. Look, I really am sorry,” I say, pressing my fingers to my eyes. I’m insanely late, but he’s my dad so I summon patience from some corner of my brain and take a deep breath. “I’ll work out a menu and get some things prepped for you for this week, okay? That way you won’t have to worry about fixing anything.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” he gripes. “You’re hardly ever here, and when you are, you’re in your room.”

“I’m working, Dad,” I say, then stop. Raising my voice won’t get me out the door any faster.

A knock on the door covers up whatever reply he was about to make. I check the peephole and pull open the door.

“It’s colder than a witch’s tit in February out there,” says Connie, shaking rain off her coat before she steps inside.

Good. Reinforcements. Maybe she’ll distract Dad and we can sort this out when I’m not an hour late to work.

Connie looks at Dad who doesn’t say anything, then looks at me.

“Okay,” she says, hanging up her coat on the hall tree by the door. “What’s going on here?”

“What’s going on is that I’m very late and I have to get going,” I say, giving her a quick hug.

“Don’t you walk out of here yet, young lady,” says Dad from his chair. “We’re not done with this conversation.”

“Dad, I have to go to work,” I say, my voice rising again. “I have a job, remember?”

“Maybe you ought to try remembering that yourself next time you want to stay out playing all night long.”

It’s the wrong card to play, mainly because I know he’s right.

“I’m an adult, in case you’ve forgotten,” I tell him. Dad’s still sitting in that damn chair. I’m going to chop that stupid recliner to bits one of these days. He can’t even get out of it to yell at me properly.