I shook my head and turned to the receipt printer, glad for something to do. I handed him the piece of paper. “Do you need a bag?”
“No, thanks,” Billy Gillespie said, getting tomato cheeks when some customers walked by us. “Listen, can I talk to you outside for a minute?”
By now my curiosity had evolved into alarm.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m on the clock.” I crossed my arms. The man didn’t seem like a threat, but why was he being so weird?
Billy Gillespie looked like he wanted to say more, but instead let his shoulders sag in defeat. “Okay, I understand.” I watched him trudge toward the door. He peeked back at me once, then was gone.
I rang up another customer and racked my brain for any Billy Gillespies I should have remembered. I was positive I’d never heard of him.
After the customer left, the sliding-glass doors opened again. Billy Gillespie was marching back through them, now heading toward me.
“If I could have five minutes of your time—,” he pleaded before I could cut him off.
“Do I need to get my manager involved?” I said, trying to sound brave.
Billy Gillespie put his arms up in surrender and started rambling. “I didn’t want to do it like this, but okay. The thing is, I’m pretty sure I’m your father.”
My jaw fell open. Of all the nutjobs that had stopped me, none had gone this far.
I raised my voice. “Is this your idea of a joke?”
Billy Gillespie was mortified. “Your mother is Patty Watts, right?”
Anyone who lived within thirty miles of Deadwick and read the newspaper knew that.
“My dad died before I was born,” I said through gritted teeth.
“You’re twenty, right? Born around February nineteen ninety-four?”
I stared at Billy in alarm and tried to remember whether any of the articles had stated my birthday. I’d memorized most of them—I was pretty sure they hadn’t. Still, he could’ve found that information online.
“You should get out of here, or I’ll have to call security.” My voice sounded squeaky and pathetic.
“How do you know your dad died?” he asked.
“Please, go,” I said, not looking at him anymore.
Billy Gillespie slipped his hand into the back pocket of his khakis and pulled out a photo, folded in half. He opened it and smoothed it out. He held it up for me to see, jabbed at the people in it. “See?” he said, handing it to me.
I was about to summon Robert, the bulky security guard, who was already watching us with interest, trying to figure out whether he needed to intervene. Then I saw Mom’s face in the photo.
She was twenty years younger and smiling at a young Billy Gillespie.
“Everything okay, Rose Gold?” Robert said behind me.
“Where did you get this?” I whispered.
“I’m telling the truth,” Billy Gillespie said sadly. “Now will you talk to me?”
I scanned the store floor. Would anyone notice I was gone? I checked my watch. “I’m good, Robert,” I said to the security guard. “Five minutes,” I told Billy Gillespie. I followed him out of the store.
We stood on the curb. I hugged my arms across my chest. “What do you want?” I said.
He looked surprised. “I don’t want anything. I just thought this was the right thing to do.” He gave me a sidelong glance. “Maybe I was wrong.”
“My mom had lots of friends before she went to prison,” I said. “All this photo proves is you knew her when the two of you were young.” I realized I was still clutching the photo and tried to hand it back.
“Look closer,” Billy said.
I examined the photo. The two of them were lying in a bed, pillows under their heads. Both of them were topless. Mercifully, the photo cut off above the chest. Mom’s short hair was messy. Billy had taken the photo, arm extended.
“But my dad’s name was Grant Smith,” I protested.
“What’d he die of?” Billy asked.
“A drug overdose.” I felt sick. I longed for the feeling of my forehead against cool bathroom tile, even though that normally meant neon green drool was hanging from my mouth. My stomach lurched again.
Billy sighed. “Your mom lied to you.”
Which was more likely: that a strange man was pretending to be my father, or that my mother had lied to me—again?
Shit.
If you’re going to do something, do it well, she said.
Billy continued. “I’m not proud I left you behind, but I thought you’d be okay. I had no idea what Patty was. And then I was at the dentist’s office a few months ago and saw this old issue of Chit Chat with your interview inside,” he said, embarrassed. “I realized you thought I was dead. I tried to look you up in the phone book or find your e-mail, but I kept hitting dead ends.”
“What do you want?” I asked again, dizzy. Was I going to cry or scream? My body felt turned inside out. I pinched the skin between my thumb and forefinger hard.
“I don’t know.” Billy fidgeted. “I just feel guilty.”
I stared at him. I should have known today would be a bad day—I’d found a calculator in the middle of the street this morning.
“I wanted to make sure you’re okay,” he said. He scanned me top to bottom, as if he’d find evidence of all I’d been through on my uniform shirt. His eyes stopped at my teeth. I realized my mouth was hanging open.
“Am I okay?” I said. My brain had become a merry-go-round, which I had never been allowed on—Mom thought it’d make me sick. Same with slides and swings and basically every childhood pastime that was in any way fun.
I blinked back tears, hands throbbing. “You ditch me for twenty years and now you come slinking back here, wanting to know if I’m okay?”
Billy winced, but I was just getting started. How did this keep happening? First my mother betrayed me, then Alex, and now this man—my apparent father. Plus, Phil kept dodging me. Would I never learn? Would I never stop letting people walk all over me?
“You deserted us,” I shouted. “My whole life, all I wanted was to have a dad like every other kid. You left us to fend for ourselves. Mom was always worried about money. Of course I’m not okay. None of my screwed-up life would have happened if you’d stuck around.”
I had that ache in my throat, the one you get when you’re trying hard not to cry. But I’d said too much—I couldn’t stop the tears now. I sat on the curb and buried my face in my arms. My shirt smelled like Mom’s perfume: the Bath Shop’s Vanilla Bean. I’d sprayed it around my apartment this morning to pretend she was still here.