chance meeting,
love lasting.
on a seemingly normal night, a famous creator raids a smaller streamer and sets off a chain of events that lead him to his dream girl.
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The drive back from the cemetery should've been silent, mournful, but it was the complete opposite. Entirely off key, my mom and I screamed along to Dad's favorite song, "Hey Jude."
I imagined him in the driver's seat, screeching along with us. For a second, I saw him there instead of my mom. I saw his head bobbing in time to the song and his fingers tapping against the Disney wheel cover. I saw his toothy grin, the years-old scar on his lip.
But I blinked and he was gone, the song coming to an end.
My mom looked at me, confused, when she caught me staring. "You okay, hon?"
"Hmm?" I pulled myself from my thoughts. "Oh, I'm good."
"Lani," she warned, watching the road again.
"Just thinking, promise."
She reached across the center console, flicking my shoulder. "Hey, you know something?"
"What?" I rubbed my arm, scrunching my nose at her.
"You were such a little crier when you were a baby. 'Hey Jude' was the only song that would shut you up."
I laughed. "Really?"
"Yep. Listened to it so much that our friends thought we lost our minds."
"I always thought it was Dad's favorite because he loved the Beatles."
"Oh, he did. When we first started dating, it was the only band we listened to since he always drove." She laughed softly, the lines in her face seeming to fade. "But he loved 'Hey Jude' specifically because of you."
I folded my arms around myself. "I never knew that. How did I never know that?"
"He liked sharing it with you. I doubt he would've ever told you himself."
"I miss him, Mom," I whispered.
"I do, too . . ." Her voice trailed off, allowing a moment of silence before she slapped her hand against the wheel and made me jump. "Food now! Where?"
"Chick-fil-A," I declared before the question even left her mouth.
My mom smiled. "You are your father's daughter."
↠
Anytime my family went out to eat, we always brought back leftovers for the next day. My dad called it "planning ahead," but my mom called it "being too lazy to cook."
Walking into the kitchen with only three bags between the two of us felt wrong. The house felt empty, even though he never set foot in it.
My mom noticed my change in mood because she threw a waffle fry at me. It bounced off my nose and landed in my lap, spreading salt on my jeans. She smirked, holding her arms in the air in the shape of a 'U'.
