Chapter Eight: White Lies

The Carver Cafe, lovingly referred to as 'the Diner' by locals, was a small restaurant with five or fewer tables, not including the breakfast bar that separated the dining area from the kitchen and coffee makers. It was a snug, cozy place with a quiet atmosphere – during the day.

At dinnertime, the crowd could get a little rowdier. Partly because the place served beer after six pm, and this attracted the folks who had just got off work. My father had never been someone who drank to excess, but he did enjoy a brand of beer he nicknamed: Vitamin R.

In no small part because I'd taken a 'vitamin R' or 'Ritalin' for most of my life, and he thought the comparison was funny. He may also have been trying to bond. Using humor to build camaraderie or make Ritalin seem less dreadful.

'See, Beau? I can take my medicine. Here's my vitamin R, now you take yours'.

Doubtlessly, he'd order one, and a few sips would make my request go over better…

When we walked in, our table was waiting for us. Arguably, it was the best seat in the house. A corner seat surrounded by large, curtained windows that let in as much light as Forks could offer.

If the clouds ever let up to allow the sunset to shine through the pale beige curtains, I imagined the view would be beautiful. It was a charming place to eat, and the prices weren't unreasonable.

Still, I cringed when I saw them.

What entrees were the cheapest here? Most meals ranged from twelve to twenty dollars a plate, including soup or salad and a beverage, which wasn't horrible for most people going out for a weeknight dinner. However, if this was what Charlie expected us to pay every night for sustenance, it would add up quickly.

All the more reason to ask Charlie if I could handle the cooking. Not only because it was stress relieving to do so, most days, but also because I'd spent so many years managing my mother's finances that the idea of needlessly burning money left me sick to my stomach.

To the point where I was seriously considering whether my father would allow me to order a cup of soup for dinner. Could I get away with that?

Seeing as my father kept talking up how good the steaks were at this place, I doubted it.

However, just as I opened my mouth to ask him something, the waitress arrived with two glasses of water and smiled at us.

My face paled instantly.

"Charlie! You didn't tell me you were bringing Beau tonight!"

My father guffawed. "Why else would I need a table, Cora?"

Cora put her hand on her hip and raised a playful eyebrow in response to my father's sass.

"Oh, I don't know, a date?" She looked at me and snickered like she was bringing me in on the joke. "Stranger things have happened."

"Oh, haw haw," Charlie retorted with a sigh as he handed her his plastic menu. "I'll have my usual."

"I'll have the same," I mumbled back.

Not wanting to think about prices or say anything from being so embarrassed, I just handed her my menu, too. Muttering my drink choice of 'coke' before she cheerfully scampered off into the kitchen. Where, no doubt, her husband Earl was already grilling up our New York steaks.

Once upon a time, when I was four years old, my mom flew up here for two weeks to spend Christmas with my father. They'd hoped to get back together, and that trip was meant to be a 'trial run.' The trip was successful, but the resulting affection wasn't enough to soften my mother's heart to this place.

During this trip, when my parents ate here almost every night with me, I developed an 'adorable crush' on the owner's wife: Cora Crowley.

Not only because she was the lovely lady who brought us hot cocoa with extra sprinkles but because her smile had a sparkle that was more dazzling than anyone else my naive little eyes had seen before. I don't know if it was her kind voice, the contrast of her chocolate-ebony skin and perfect teeth that brought out the sparkle in her lovely eyes, or because of all these things and reasons I no longer remembered.

But, to my great shame, as a four-year-old, I got up from my chair and followed her around the Cafe. Asking her, repeatedly, if she'd marry me.

It was a story my mom would tell people and giggle over. My one-sided amour for Cora Crowley, who made the county's best blackberry cobbler.

I'd blessedly forgotten all about those embarrassing two weeks of her charming smiles, exuberant laughter, and hugs for being such a sweet little boy.

At the time, I didn't take her refusals as rejection (since I knew, on some level, it would never happen), but the fact remained: She would always know me as the cute little boy who proposed incessantly for two weeks.

It was no wonder that her son, Tyler, was handsome and popular.

I could only hope that Cora would let those embarrassing memories stay in the past where they belonged. If she did, I could pretend that I didn't remember.

Assuming my face didn't turn red and give me away like it usually did.

The curse of being pale: people knew when you were bluffing more easily.

The sound of paper distracted me from my thoughts. Charlie had found a copy of the Forks Forum newspaper and chosen this moment to read it.

Sheesh, why didn't I think to bring a book? We both could have made use of this time.

Not quite ready to ask my father about cooking at home, I glanced at the article he was reading. Tilting my head to try and read it at an angle was difficult, but I got the jist:

There had been an animal attack near Grisham Mill. I couldn't tell if someone had just been hurt or died, but usually, if someone were dead, that would be in the headline. Unfortunately, the angle was too off with how Charlie was sitting for me to read anymore, so I cleared my throat with an unintended nasally gurgle.

Charlie looked up from the paper with an arched, expectant, brow.

"What happened at Grisham Mill?" I asked as I pointed at the newspaper.

His expression lit up; befuddled and concerned. Perhaps even struggling with how honest he should be before he answered.

"A bear attacked a worker last Sunday night on the way to their car. Scared 'em off with pepper spray, but not before being injured," Charlie explained, scowling worriedly as he folded the newspaper and tucked it into his inside coat pocket.

Was he hiding the article from me?

"Oh," I answered lamely. "Does that happen a lot?"

He frowned in such a way that his mustache shuffled like a curtain above his lip. "Not this time of year."

Oh right, it was winter. The bears should all be hibernating.

"Why are the bears awake now?"

His fingers clicked against the table in thought. "I can't say for sure, but there might be a predator in the area. The Jefferson County sheriff is sending a team to help us search the woods this weekend."

My eyes widened. "Won't that be dangerous?"

He laughed. "You're not in Phoenix anymore, Beau. It's nothing we can't handle."

It wasn't like I'd forgotten that, especially when it was a well-articulated fact that keeping this town safe was more important than being with my mom and me. Still, I frowned at the reminder. It was a sore spot you didn't poke with a stick for both of us.

For a while, neither of us said anything. Charlie took out his newspaper again and I sipped at my coke when Cora brought our beverages.

"How far away is the Mill?" I finally asked to break the uncomfortable silence.

Charlie studied me warily from over the rim of his paper. "Couple of miles out of town. Along the one o' one."

Almost everything in Forks could be found on the one o' one highway: Including my high school. The thought of being in that quiet place behind the little buildings and running into a bear or mountain lion sent strange little chills down my spine.

I'd always been fond of cats – even, if not especially, the dangerous ones.

My father knew it. Uncomfortably clearing his throat as he folded up his paper again.

"Beau. Promise me you'll stay out of the woods," he insisted with the knowing voice of someone who knew the taste of coming home to an empty house when your son was supposed to be home.

A dark part of me wanted to lie to him. To defy my father by sneaking down that little trail near the house and exploring the sea of green ferns for the sight of any wild cat. Just because the idea of seeing that fresh proof of worry and concern light in those brown eyes was one of the only ways he had ever expressed how much he cared about me.

It was stupid and childish to want to cause him distress for a selfish need for attention. Thankfully, this rebellious fire in me burned out relatively quickly.

So, gazing up into those same brown eyes, I nodded.

It wasn't enough.

"Promise me."

I wouldn't say I liked that he needed to hear it. But, on the contrary, I hated that he didn't trust me when I hadn't snuck into the woods since I was seven.

"I'll stay out of the woods. Promise."

And though I meant it at the time, deep down in my heart, I knew it was a lie.

"Good," Charlie acknowledged, his stern face turning slack. "There's pepper spray on the shelf of the front closet."

He didn't need to tell me to put one in my bag; his eyes were loud enough to convey the meaning. So I'd tuck one in my book-bag when we got home from dinner.

We lived close to the woods. So it wouldn't be wise to leave the house without one, especially if mountain lions were moving closer to town.

Toward the end of dinner, I finally brought up the subject of making meals at home.

At first, Charlie seemed hesitant at the idea. He didn't say much more than grunt as his eyes fell to his plate. Focusing on that last piece of baked potato as he swirled it through the remnants of steak juice and A.I sauce for longer than was generally necessary.

Swirl, swirl, swirl…

"Do you not like eating here?" He finally asked, pausing the movement of his arm to peer up at me.

My stomach clenched at the touch of sadness on his face.

"It's not that, Dad," I reassured. Tapping my pointer finger against the fork in my hand as if it could grant me further clarity.

"I'm just used to doing all the cooking. It feels weird not making my own lunches and stuff."

I didn't want to state the real reason for my discomfort. That I was concerned about money.

"If I'm going to stay here" – I continued, almost stuttering to get my thoughts out before he interrupted me – "for a longer time, then it'll be…easier for me if I can look after myself."

Realizing I had forgotten something, I spat out: "Plus, It'll be cheaper if I make us dinner most nights."

Crap, I'd brought up the money. Why did I do that?! Right after, I told myself I wouldn't, too!

Charlie's brow furrowed at my obvious flailing. Stalling any answer until he'd finished chewing that drenched potato and tucked the fork on the plate with a gentle clatter.

"Son," he began. Dabbing his mustache with a paper napkin. "Are you asking because you want to or you feel like you have to?"

Before I could answer, Cora returned with two small plates.

Confusion splashed over me as I saw and smelled the crumbled beauty of the Diner's famous blackberry cobbler, covered with vanilla ice cream. It had been my favorite dessert since I was old enough to reach the table.

The trouble was, we hadn't ordered any.

"Here we are!" Cora brightly proclaimed."Two blackberry cobblers!"

My father, blessedly, looked just as confused as I was.

"Cor-" my father tried to interject, but she didn't let him get a word in edgewise.

"On the house. I insist," Cora clarified as she looked from my father to me, a motherly affection brimming in those sparkling eyes.

"W-well, if you insist. Cor," Charlie mumbled as he sought a new fork beside him.

I followed suit, mumbling a quiet 'thanks' and avoiding eye contact.

"Gosh, I can't believe how grown up you are," Cora said as I feigned more interest in harrowing a cobbler away from the whole slice of 'pie.'

"Spitting image of your father, who would've thought?" She said, as though she expected I wouldn't look like Charlie?

"You know, he still orders the cobbler because he thinks it's your favorite," Cora informed mischievously. "Every Thursday."

"Do you mind?" Charlie countered the obvious bantering. A teasing tone to his voice as if to hide the hint of embarrassment that had just begun to lush along the apples of his cheeks.

I didn't know how to take that knowledge in, much less digest it then. No doubt my face pinkened, too.

"Thanks, Mrs. Crowley," I murmured.

She laughed delightedly. "Pfft, please. You're family here. Call me Cora."

"Okay, Cora," I muttered.

Yet, despite how I was still very fond of anything with blackberries in it, I couldn't eat until she'd walked off, so amazed by the concept of free dessert and familial attention that it stole my appetite.

My father didn't bring up the subject again until after we'd finished our cobbler.

When we were in my sleepy truck.

The cab was cold when we slid inside to return to Charlie's house. Being that there were fewer people to make me nervous, I answered honestly:

"I like to cook, Dad. If it's okay with you?"

He nodded. "How much do you need for a budget?"

"Sixty dollars?!"

Charlie widened his eyes and blinked at me. Excessively. Another trait I'd sadly inherited...

"For a week of groceries?!"

"No. For a month. I don't know what the prices are here compared to Phoenix, but I can make due. I don't eat a lot," partly because of Ritalin diminishing my appetite.

"Well. How about we go shopping together tomorrow evening and see how things go."

It wasn't a question. I knew he wouldn't bend.

Great. Charlie didn't trust me to handle shopping by myself. Not that I blamed him.

"Okay. When do you want to go?"

"I'll call after work again," he promised, but it turned out to be unnecessary.

Before he left for work in the morning, Charlie gave me three twenties and said I could go without him. So long as I promised to sit if I felt 'woozy,' which I did. Albeit begrudgingly.

Someday, ideally soon, he'd stop looking at me like a baby deer about to flop…