It’s Wednesday and the clock on my phone just flipped over to eleven forty-five, which means I’ve got exactly fifteen minutes before I’m late for lunch with Pop.

My Javelin doesn’t like being pushed to her limit, so there’s still a chance I’m going to be late, which will no doubt earn some kind of snide comment from him.

Does it make me a terrible daughter that I’m glad I only see him once a week now? When he lived in the apartment above the bar, every day was soaked in bitterness and anger, and too many of them included a stinging cheek from the back of his hand.

I’m not happy he took that tumble down the stairs, broke his leg, and had to spend time in a rehab center. God knows I can barely afford the payments on the medical bills that come every month, but getting him out of my space gave me the buffer I’ve been needing for a long time.

I pull into the parking lot of the tiny diner where we always meet. He can walk here from the senior living community where he’s living now. Another bill that the “profits” from the bar can barely cover, and my savings account is running dry from making up the difference.

I stare at the diner for a solid thirty seconds before I finally climb out of my car, giving her an extra pat for delivering me safely and not dying on the side of the road somewhere, and head inside.

Pop is already waiting at the same booth he takes every week, a cup of steaming coffee sitting in front of him on the red Formica table.

As soon as I slide onto the yellow bench seat across from him, Lisa, our regular waitress, stops by our table.

“What can I get you, hon?”

“Water, please.”

“I’ll have the tuna melt on rye,” he says to her before he even greets me.

Lisa looks to me. “Regular for you too?”

I glance up at the board where the specials are written. Chicken pot pie. “I’ll have the special instead.”

With a nod, she swirls away, calling out the order to the kitchen.

“Hey, Pop. How’s it goin’?”

His big hands, the ones that never held the seat of my bike as I learned to ride without training wheels, but did teach me how to properly build a pint of Guinness, wrap around the mug.

“It’s goin’. My next-door-neighbor’s dog won’t quit its yapping, so I ain’t been sleepin’ real well lately.”

“Did you talk to the manager about it?”

He gives me a short nod. “Yeah, she says she’ll take care of it, but I don’t know when that’ll be.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him if he’s changed his mind about AA, but when he coughs, I catch a whiff of cigarettes and malty beer.

It’s always five o’clock somewhere.

“Anything else new?”

He lifts his coffee to his lips and takes a sip before setting it down, and his bloodshot gray eyes meet mine.

“Yeah, Brandy came to see me yesterday. Said you’re running the bar into the ground and don’t want me to know about it.”

That tattletale bitch.

I keep my tone even. “Is that right?”

He nods, his eyebrows drawing together. “You hiding shit from me, Rip?”

I have to tell him something . . .

I knit my fingers together in my lap and squeeze. “Sales have been slow. We haven’t had a lot of customers. But I’ve got some ideas on how to get more people through the door. I’ve been thinking that if I start an open-mic night, maybe get a few big names in to kick it off, I can really draw a crowd. Maybe even charge a cover.”

My dad’s expression goes dark and his hand clenches the mug. “Big names? You gonna offer to fuck ’em too?”

The swipe is quick and sharp. I should have expected it, but I wasn’t prepared. Especially since it sounded for a half second like he gave a shit about how the bar was doing.

He stares at me as Lisa returns with my water, setting it down on the table with a quick mention that our food will be right up.

I wait until she’s gone to bite out a reply. “No.”

“Oh yeah? So you mean female big names? You know a lot of those these days? Because Brandy said that the only ones who come sniffing around are looking to get you on your back.”

Is there a special word for killing a cousin? Because Brandy is dead.

“Brandy talks a lot of shit, Pop. I wouldn’t give a whole lot of weight to her words. She barely shows up for work even when she’s scheduled, so it’s not like she knows what’s happening. I’m the one spending damn near twenty-four hours a day in that building, making sure the take can cover all the bills, including your apartment and your twelve-pack-a-day habit.”

“And when it can’t? Huh? Where is that money coming from, Rip? Your pocket?”

“Yeah. My savings account. Which is almost drained.”

“So, what’re you gonna do next? Find some rich guy to start picking up the slack? Because we both know that’s what your ma—”

“Stop. Right there. Don’t you dare say another word because I will walk out right now and you won’t see me again.”

I start to slide out of the booth, but my dad calls my bluff.

“Oh yeah? You gonna leave the bar behind too? Because you walk out of here right now, you’re gonna kiss that place good-bye. You’d be just like your ma, abandoning the family.”

His statement is a slap to the face, momentarily stealing my breath.

I’m the one shedding blood, sweat, and tears to try to keep the bar going. Pop doesn’t lift a damned finger. All the things I want to say scramble up my throat until I nearly choke on them.

Pop knows I won’t walk away. Knows that every memory I have of Mama is tied up in that place—whether good, horrible, or otherwise—and I don’t know how to let go of the only pieces of her I have left.

I drop back into my seat just in time for Lisa to bring our lunches to the table.

“Is there anything else I can get you?”

The first thought that comes into my brain is a new life, but that’s not what she means.

“I’m all set, thanks.” My polite tone sounds forced, even to me.

“I’ll take a Bud. In a can.”

And that’s a great indicator for how the rest of our lunch is going to go.

Downhill.