The Opposite of You Read online

  I let out a breath and forced myself to get over it. It was sink or swim time, and besides that, I’d already hit rock bottom.

  A nervous breath escaped me as I thought, how bad can it really be?

  Maybe I’d even learn a thing or two from my illustrious competition…

  Famous last words.

  Chapter Three

  “Dad?” It was late when I got home. Well, late for my dad. He usually went to bed by eight, and it was already past nine.

  When he didn’t answer, I set my purse down on the cluttered, Formica table and weaved my way through the small house.

  My childhood home—a cozy three bedroom, two bath with tight corners—had furniture packed in every available space. My dad bought this house for my mom when they were first married. They’d planned to upgrade when they had kids. But shortly after I was born, my mom got sick, and their plans halted.

  After my mom passed away, my dad never considered leaving. Plus, there wasn’t any reason to with only the three of us.

  Where my dad and brother were content to be cramped and close in the old, museum of a house, I had wanted to flee somewhere since I could remember. I’d moved out as soon as possible, headed for school and the big goals I’d set for myself.

  Coming back here after everything that had happened felt strange, misplaced. I was too big for this house. Too old. I had shed this skin a long time ago, but somehow had to figure out a way to wear it again.

  I had nowhere else to go.

  Plus, Dad needed me.

  I found him asleep in his favorite chair, a faded blue recliner that creaked every time the footrest popped up. The TV remote rested loosely in his hand and one of his house shoes dangled precariously from the tip of his toe.

  Quietly, I slipped the remote from his grip and grabbed the nearest throw blanket, gently tossing it over his legs. He barely fit in the recliner meant for normal-size humans. My dad was tall, bulky and built from a lifetime as a mechanic. He routinely had to duck under doorframes and squeeze into tight spaces like cars, hallways and the Grand Canyon.

  But that was my dad, oversized and larger than life even if he was more likely to shy away from conversation and people. He was absent a lot when Vann and I were younger. He had to work all the time just to make ends meet, and after my mom died, it was hard for him to come home anyway.

  There were too many reminders of mom. Every room was touched with her decorating style and framed pictures of before she got sick. In a corner of the backyard sat the remnants of her abandoned garden. The ground had never recovered, tangled with weeds thanks to our neglect, but reminiscent of her all the same. And us— Vann and me— spitting images of the woman he had loved so deeply and lost so early.

  So he stayed away, isolating himself from the aching memories and painful present. We had everything we needed, but never enough of what we wanted. And so my lonely childhood had turned into an adolescence filled with desperation to escape. But now my exodus had turned into a last-resort homecoming to take care of the man that had done everything he could to take care of me.

  These were things I accepted a long time ago. And whatever bitterness or resentment I felt during those earlier years had faded in the light of his real love for us.

  I had come to accept his distant role in our lives, even count on it. It was easier to have a father that loved me but didn’t want anything to do with me when I was doing things I shouldn’t—when I was living a life he would never approve of anyway. His love was real. I told myself that was all that mattered.

  And now, looking down at him while he slept in his favorite chair, I actually believed it.

  He stirred, probably sensing me staring at him. Heavy eyelids fluttered open, and he rubbed his face with one of his big, rough hands.

  When I was a child, I was morbidly fascinated with his huge hands. As a mechanic, his hands were constantly black, streaked with dirt and oil and whatever else he worked on. He would stumble through the kitchen door at the end of his shift smelling like the equipment he worked on and covered in grease. Those big, dirty hands of his would lift to give us all a weary hello, and then he’d turn to the sink and start scrubbing.

  They were clean now. He had to retire two years back when he first got sick. It wasn’t cancer yet, but he was too sick to keep up his manual-labor lifestyle. Thankfully, his pension could cover all his medical expenses.

  “Vera May,” he mumbled sleepily.

  “Hi, Daddy.” My voice stayed a whisper even though he was awake now.

  “Just getting home?”

  I gave him the tired smile I imagined he gave me all those years. Our roles were reversed now. I was the one wandering in after a long day’s work, exhausted and filthy. My clothes were covered in dried paint and my skin in salty sweat from working in the heat all afternoon.

  “Yeah,” I affirmed through a yawn. Sliding down on the couch nearby, I plopped my bare feet on the coffee table and tipped my head back. My eyes closed without permission.

  His warm chuckle floated through the quiet room. “You’re working yourself too hard. You haven’t even opened yet.”

  I lifted one droopy eyelid and shot him a stern frown. “Says the man that worked two jobs his entire life.”

  He chuffed a laugh. “Not because I wanted to. That was for survival.”

  I tilted my head back against the couch and closed my eyes tightly again. “Yeah, well this is for survival too.”

  I heard the creak of the recliner as my dad sat up as quickly as he was capable of. “Why do you say that now? Have you heard from him? Has he been bothering you again?”

  I shook my head, keeping my eyes closed. “No, it’s not him. I haven’t seen or heard… He hasn’t bothered me.” Banished memories flooded my mind unbidden. My heart kicked into a gallop, pounding against my chest, beating to break free from the nightmare of my past. I opened my eyes, hoping to escape the thoughts that seemed to imprison me even after a year of freedom. Meeting my dad’s worried gray gaze, I said, “This is for me. This is all for me.”

  His forehead scrunched, pulling his wrinkled skin into deep lines. “I’m proud of you, Vere. You know that, don’t you?”

  I looked at my dad, a shadow of the strength and stability he used to be. He was so sick now. He quite literally worked himself to death. But, he was still the same man I grew up trusting. He was still the same man that provided for Vann and me when all he wanted to do was crumble and give up. He was still the man that had given me his approval when I ran away to Europe, even though he was the one that had to stay to fight my battles and banish my demons.

  My dad was a survivor. A lot of my life had been spent running from this house… running from the things that I thought I didn’t want. But I wanted his strength now. I wanted to be a survivor, too—exactly like my dad.

  I cleared my throat, so he didn’t hear the emotion clogging it. “I know, Daddy.”

  He leaned forward, earnest for me to understand. “And not just about the food truck, yeah? I’m proud of you for all of it. For getting out. For knowing when to get out.”

  I swallow back more tears and the lies I felt coating my tongue. My dad only knew part of the story. He only knew the sugar-coated version I could bear to give him. But what he knew was bad enough.

  “I’m proud of you, too,” I told him. Because it was true. And because I desperately wanted to change the subject.

  He waved his hand in the air and leaned back in the recliner. “Bah,” he mumbled. “There’s nothing to be proud of me for.”

  I stood up and walked over to give him a kiss on his shiny bald head. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

  He grabbed my hand and looked up at me, surprising me with the tears clinging to his lashes. Hank Delane was not an emotional man. “Glad you’re home, baby girl.”

  I sighed, and this time when I spoke, it was the whole truth. “Me too.” Squeezing his hand, I looked around the dimly lit living room. Book shelves were pushed into the corners and a mu
ted TV flashed brightly along one wall.

  The furniture had all been here since my mom. But the floors and paint were new. Despite cancer, my dad was still thinking about Vann and me. He’d been slowly remodeling the house so that we’d be able to sell it easily after he was gone.

  It was a sweet and thoughtful gesture, but also super morbid. Vann and I had been begging him to quit, to let us take care of everything if he goes. But he wouldn’t listen.

  The man was too stubborn for his own good.

  But mostly I didn’t think he knew how to do anything but take care of us. At least in his own way.

  “Do you want me to help you to your room?” I asked him.

  He yawned and shook his head. “Nah, I’m more comfortable here. Plus, the TV’s already on.”

  I handed him the remote again and told him goodnight. His snores filled the air before I could even check the front door to make sure it was locked.

  Making my way through the rest of the house, I flicked off lights and picked up my things that were scattered throughout every room.

  When I moved out on my own I became an obsessive neat freak. First by choice, and later by necessity. But since I moved back in with my dad, old habits had popped up out of nowhere. I couldn’t seem to remember to pick up my socks off the living room floor or put my dishes in the sink. It wasn’t that big of a deal, but I couldn’t help but feel the panicked dread every time I noticed one of my belongings out of place or dirty dishes on the counter.

  It was silly. And if anything I should be grateful there were no real consequences to leaving my things strewn about the house.

  I should feel better.

  But I couldn’t. Not yet.

  Moving back home with my dad at twenty-six was never something I planned for, but I was grateful to be here now. He needed me, and I was not afraid to admit that I needed him—for as long as I could keep him.

  I showered, then changed into yoga pants and a tank top and spent a few minutes in the bathroom brushing my teeth and adding product to control my excessively thick hair. By the time I shut myself in my old room, exhaustion had settled in my weary bones.

  I blinked blearily at the clock and forced myself to do another hour’s worth of work. I desperately needed to finalize the menu for Friday night. And once that was done, I needed to figure out my grocery list and where I could pick up all the ingredients around town. I still needed to wash all of my equipment and lug it over to the truck. Plus, I needed to write up the menu on my chalkboard and figure out how to hang it next to the window.

  Panic swirled through my belly. What am I doing?

  I can’t do this.

  What makes me think I can do this?

  I glanced at my knives still in their case on my desk. The clean black cloth was nicely folded, velvety in perfect softness and hiding the tools of my trade. They were a graduation gift from Vann and my dad. And the most expensive thing I owned. I had always been suspicious that my dad took out a loan to pay for them. But I’d always been too grateful for them to ask.

  My knives stared back at me tonight, asking silent questions and looking sorely neglected. I hadn’t cooked since I’d been back home. I hadn’t tested recipes or flavors or even made myself a grilled cheese sandwich.

  And I hated the reason why.

  I was afraid.

  No, it was worse than that. I was crippled by fear. I was drowning in the terror of failure and the realization that I might have bet my entire life on a false sense of self-worth.

  Old insecurities slipped into my thoughts like thunderclouds on a sunny day. They covered the sun and blocked out the blue sky. They darkened every positive thing and left me feeling cold and lost, without a sense of direction.

  My breathing staggered and my hands turned to ice. I felt the pressure to succeed—the pressure not to screw this up like I’d destroyed every other thing in my life—like serial killer hands around my throat.

  I shook my head and threw my notebook off my lap. I’d been sitting on my bed with my legs tucked under me hoping to find inspiration, but that hadn’t worked. And I couldn’t make myself face my knives yet. I couldn’t even use my desk because I was afraid to move them.

  How pathetic was that?

  Pulling my laptop onto my lap, I let out a slow, steady breath. Fear and self-doubt still tugged at my confidence, trying to unravel everything I’d worked to regain over the last year. I wouldn’t let them win.

  I wouldn’t.

  It was sheer determination that my breaths evened out and my vision cleared. My hands still shook as my laptop came to life.

  I intended to research some food for my menu, but my Facebook homepage popped up because I never closed out of it the last time I used my computer. I was instantly pulled into the newsfeed, even though it wasn’t very interesting.

  When I left for Europe, I closed my personal page. Actually, I did more than that. I shut off my phone and deleted my email. I went as off the grid as possible. Well, not actually off the grid, since I did get a new cell and email account. But only so I could keep in touch with dad, Vann and Molly. I’d skipped Facebook to stay hidden.

  As soon as I decided to open Foodie, I knew I couldn’t run a small business without a social media presence. It was the only reason I opened new profiles on social sites under a different name. Vera May instead of Vera Delane.

  Unfortunately, there weren’t that many people left in my life to friend other than Vann and Molly. And quite frankly, I was tired of all of Vann’s healthy lifestyle, extreme sports posts. Blah, blah, blah, Vann. We get it. You like to torture your body and eat cardboard. Hooray for you.

  Finding nothing interesting on my personal Facebook page, I clicked to Foodie’s business page. I’d been spending a minimal amount of money on advertising, thanks to Vann’s small business expertise. He’d been showing me how to make the most on a small advertising budget.

  Because of that, Foodie had several hundred likes. Woo hoo! Okay, it wasn’t much, but I had to start somewhere. I’d been super lucky to find a graphic designer who gave me the hottest promo pics for free—thank you, Molly!

  Plus, food trucks were trending around the country and Durham didn’t have many yet.

  I smiled at a few posts from people excited about Friday’s opening. Their enthusiasm was contagious, and I couldn’t help the excitement that began to bubble inside me. I nibbled on my bottom lip, unable to hold the superstition at bay, afraid of having too much confidence at this point. But hope still bloomed, washing away the lingering nerves and fear of failure.

  The message box indicated someone had contacted me and it grabbed my attention. I eagerly opened it to find my first business related private message. It was sent this afternoon, and I instantly felt bad for not checking sooner. I would have to do better at keeping up with this page now that Foodie was finally becoming a reality.

  I skimmed the message first, too nervous to dive into the content. My spirits jumped off a cliff and landed in a fiery explosion when I forced myself to go back to the beginning and read it word for word.

  Checking out the name of the sender, I clicked on it and quickly skimmed through what I could see of his private profile page. Fear of being discovered burned at the back of my neck, but I promised myself that my business page kept my identity hidden. It was there to promote my food truck and nothing more. There was no personal information or picture of me. It was just the truck, Molly’s gorgeous promo material and my mission statement. The sender could glean as much information about me as I could about him. Which was virtually nothing.

  Although clearly, he didn’t like me anyway.

  James Q: I don’t understand the point of your food truck. There are already restaurants in that area of downtown. What are you hoping to accomplish? The other restaurants are going to crush you. Save yourself the pain.

  My chest felt hollowed out by embarrassment. It was like he’d read my mind and thrown all of my insecurities and fears back at me, asking the same questions
I was too afraid to say out loud.

  Vann’s parking lot was the only real estate I’d looked at because he let me park there for free. Plus, I could park beside his building with access to power and water, promising to pay my portion of the utility bills of course. And I was in accordance with the city laws that pertained to the distance I needed to be away from brick and mortar restaurants. Lilou was the closest restaurant, and I parked exactly the required distance away.

  The spot had been perfect. Unfortunately, it was also surrounded by other established restaurants. I consoled myself with the knowledge that none of them served what I would offer. My truck and menu were all about late night comfort food. The other six restaurants in the plaza catered to the high-end dining experience. My food would come in a box with unlimited napkins. Theirs required a dress code.

  Insecurity was quickly replaced with outrage. Did this guy not know anything about the food industry?

  I tapped out a response to James Q. And could we be honest for a second? That didn’t even sound like a real name.

  Foodie the Food Truck: Thanks for the unwanted advice, James Q. But you missed the point, idiot. Go back to trolling the internet and living in your mom’s basement.

  I quickly backspaced before my itchy fingers accidentally pressed send against my better judgment. The customer, or potential customer, in this case, was always right.

  Foodie the Food Truck: Thanks for your concern, James.

  We were obviously on a first name basis by now. He’d lost his right to the Q and any formality by being a complete jackass.

  I continued my message response.

  Foodie the Food Truck: But, I am not interested in competing with the other restaurants. In fact, I wouldn’t even consider myself a restaurant. I’m offering a completely different service that I’m hoping will be very popular in that particular section of town. Thank you for reaching out to me. I hope you give Foodie a try sometime soon!

  I pressed send, impressed with my professionalism.

  The cursor started blinking immediately, telling me he had started his reply.