Page 27 of Soft
The food arrived faster than I expected. It was, without question, the best breakfast I’d ever eaten in my life. I told Gemma when she came back to check on us. She winked, then said, "I know it," like she’d heard this a time or twelve.
Pops made a sound halfway through his plate that I chose not to comment on. It was too close to sex noises for my taste. Some things you didn’t need to know about a parent. As open as we were with each other, sex was where it stopped. He knew I was a Daddy in practice regarding playtime and such. Bedroom activities were a no-go zone.
"We're moving here," he said, damn near licking his plate.
I tried to bring him back to reality. "I haven't signed anything yet."
"Paxton."
"Pops."
"The biscuits," he groaned, gesturing broadly at his plate as though this completed his argument.
"The biscuits are not a deciding factor in my professional career. I have to have an agent. Then I have to have an offer. Then we have to sign contracts."
"These biscuits should be part of everyone’s life decisions." He took another bite. "They absolutely should be."
I laughed, finishing off my milk as I pushed my empty plate away. The morning light shone through the window. The noise of the small restaurant floated around us.
It was… easy here.
I kept coming back to that word. Everything about Bellport felt easy in a way that the last several years of navigating school, baseball, figuring out who I was, and deciding what I wanted had not.
After breakfast, we walked through town. Pops wanted to go into every shop that caught his eye, which was most of them. He bought a hat from a place that sold locally made goods, putting it on to wear the minute he had a receipt. At the next store, he held up approximately twelve different items to ask my opinion, then bought the one thing I told him I wasn't sure about.
"What even is this?" I asked when he came out with a small painted woodenthing.
"It's a pelican."
"It doesn't look like a pelican."
"The man in there said it was a pelican. I believe him." He tucked it under his arm. "It's for the windowsill."
"We don't have a windowsill. We're in a hotel."
"We'll have a windowsill," he replied, unbothered as ever as he kept walking.
We found a coffee shop about four blocks off the main strip that had mismatched furniture and a chalkboard menu. Once again, the line was out the door. Pops declared it another good sign.
He was right.
The cold brew I got was the prime example of why people got particular about coffee. I made a note of the name, because if I was going to be living here the way I intended to, I was going to need to know where to get good coffee.
We took our drinks and sat on a bench outside, watching the city go about its morning. I'd been to a lot of places with baseball. Plenty of them were fine. A few were genuinely great. This was in a completely different category.
I wanted more of it.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out expecting it to be Doyle, who had been texting me since last night demanding a full report. Much like I did with my pops, I only gave him vague non-answers.
But it wasn't Doyle.
It was Grizzly.
Grizzly:Thank you for the message. I'm sorry about last night.
I stared at it for a second. Pops looked over at my face, then very deliberately looked away as he took a long sip of his drink.
Paxton:Nothing to be sorry for. Glad you're okay.
