Chapter 5 - What Mia Likes
Peter did not hear from Roman for four days.
He assumed that was probably healthy.
Roman Falcone was not a man who changed direction quickly.
He changed like a ship.
Slowly.
With resistance.
Usually after arguing with the ocean.
On Tuesday morning, Peter’s phone rang.
“Cal’s,” Roman said.
Peter checked the time.
“Now?”
“Twenty minutes.”
Peter smiled.
“You know most people say hello.”
Roman hung up.
Twenty-three minutes later, Roman entered the diner carrying a notebook.
Peter stared at it.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing.”
“Looks like a notebook.”
Roman sat.
“Coffee.”
Peter called to the waitress.
“Coffee for the angry student.”
Roman glared.
Peter smiled.
“You called me.”
Roman opened the notebook.
Written across the first page were seven questions.
Favorite color.
Favorite breakfast.
Favorite story.
Favorite teacher.
Favorite game.
What scares her?
What makes her laugh?
Peter looked at the page.
“Jesus.”
“What?”
“You turned parenting into homework.”
Roman closed the notebook.
“I’m leaving.”
Peter laughed.
“Sit down.”
Roman stayed.
Barely.
Peter leaned forward.
“You’re trying.”
“Yes.”
“That counts.”
Roman reopened the notebook.
“I asked Mia her favorite food.”
“And?”
“She said ‘depends.’”
Peter laughed.
“That sounds like her.”
“I asked favorite dessert. She said ice cream.”
“Flavor?”
Roman frowned.
“She didn’t say.”
“What did you ask?”
“What flavor?”
“And?”
“She said ‘depends where.’”
Peter smiled.
“Smart kid.”
“This is impossible.”
“No. It’s human.”
Roman looked down at the questions.
“I know how to solve problems.”
“Mia isn’t a problem.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Roman looked up sharply.
Peter’s tone was gentle.
“You keep treating knowledge like data.”
Roman said nothing.
Peter pointed toward table seven.
“You want to know your daughter?”
“Yes.”
“Stop interviewing her.”
Roman stared.
“Then what?”
“Spend time where nothing needs to happen.”
Roman frowned.
“That sounds inefficient.”
Peter laughed for so long the waitress looked over.
“You really are Vincent’s son.”
Roman ignored him.
“What does Mia order here?”
“Strawberry pancakes.”
“No syrup.”
Peter nodded.
“Why?”
“Because it makes the strawberries slippery.”
Peter smiled.
“You remembered.”
Roman did not react.
“What else?”
Peter shook his head.
“No.”
Roman frowned.
“No?”
“You want answers?”
“Yes.”
“Earn them.”
Roman’s expression cooled.
Peter drank coffee.
“You asked me whether I was judging your parenting. Maybe I was. That part ends now.”
Roman leaned back.
“I’m not sure I like you.”
“I’m certain you don’t.”
“I want to know what Mia likes.”
“Then ask Mia.”
“She gives strange answers.”
“She’s six.”
Roman rubbed his forehead.
Peter watched him.
“Take her somewhere.”
“Where?”
Peter stared.
Roman stared back.
Peter laughed.
“You really need help.”
“I asked a question.”
“The park. The diner. A bookstore. Walk around the block.”
“I have a garden.”
“That’s not the point.”
Roman’s face tightened.
“I spend time with her.”
“Doing what?”
“Dinner.”
“How often?”
Roman did not answer.
Peter raised his eyebrows.
“Exactly.”
That evening, Roman canceled everything after five.
Everything.
His assistant called twice because he assumed the schedule had been entered incorrectly.
Roman finally told him, “It’s correct. Do not move anything into it.”
At five-thirty, he found Mia doing homework.
“Put your shoes on.”
She looked alarmed.
“Why?”
“We’re going somewhere.”
“Where?”
Roman had no idea.
“Outside.”
Mia narrowed her eyes.
“That’s not a place.”
“Fine. You choose.”
Her expression changed.
“I choose?”
“Yes.”
“Anything?”
Roman immediately regretted the wording.
“Within reason.”
Twenty minutes later, they were inside a small art supply store.
Roman stared at hundreds of pencils.
Mia looked like she had entered a cathedral.
She moved slowly through the aisles, touching sketchbooks, markers and paintbrushes.
Roman followed.
She picked up a green pencil set.
“That one?”
Mia shook her head.
“Too yellow.”
Roman stared.
“It’s green.”
“It’s ugly green.”
There were apparently categories.
She found another set.
“This.”
“Why?”
“It looks like the tree.”
Roman smiled.
He understood.
Mia noticed.
“You know the tree now.”
“I do.”
They bought the pencils.
On the way home, they passed a bakery.
Mia stopped.
Roman stopped too.
“What?”
She pointed.
“They have rainbow cookies.”
“You like those?”
“Rebecca lets me get one sometimes.”
Roman looked through the window.
“Want one?”
Mia hesitated.
“Before dinner?”
Roman considered the rule.
Then the reason for the rule.
Then his father’s letter.
“One.”
Mia grinned.
Inside, Roman ordered two.
“You said one.”
“One for you.”
“What’s yours?”
Roman looked at the tray.
“I don’t know.”
Mia laughed.
“You don’t know what you like?”
The question stopped him.
“No,” he said.
Mia considered that.
“You should figure it out.”
Roman smiled.
“Apparently.”
They sat by the window.
Mia ate half the cookie.
Then wrapped the rest.
“You don’t want it?”
“For tomorrow.”
“You always save half?”
“Sometimes.”
Roman thought about Peter’s questions.
Pancakes.
Green pencils.
Grilled cheese.
Small things.
He realized how many chances there had been to know them.
He had simply not been there.
“Why do you save things?”
Mia shrugged.
“So they last.”
Roman looked at his daughter.
“Do you think I work too much?”
Mia licked frosting from her thumb.
“Sometimes.”
“Does it bother you?”
She thought.
“Sometimes.”
Roman waited.
Mia kicked her feet beneath the chair.
“Rebecca says grownups work because they have to.”
“She’s right.”
“I know.”
Mia looked out the window.
“But you work when you don’t have to too.”
Roman felt the sentence hit cleanly.
No accusation.
No drama.
Just a fact.
“How do you know when I don’t have to?”
Mia shrugged.
“Because sometimes you say you’re done and then your phone makes the noise.”
Roman stared at his phone on the table.
He turned it off.
Mia looked surprised.
“You killed it?”
“For an hour.”
“Can phones die?”
“Mine might.”
She laughed.
Roman smiled.
“What makes you laugh?”
“What?”
“I was wondering.”
Mia considered.
“When Mr. Jenkins sneezes.”
“Who is Mr. Jenkins?”
“My music teacher.”
Roman wrote the name mentally.
“No notebook,” Mia said suddenly.
Roman froze.
“What?”
“Peter said you have a notebook.”
Roman stared.
“Peter talks too much.”
Mia giggled.
“He said you made a list.”
Roman groaned.
“Traitor.”
“Why did you make a list?”
“Because I wanted to learn things about you.”
Mia tilted her head.
“You could ask.”
“I did.”
“You ask like school.”
Roman almost laughed.
Peter had said the same thing.
“How should I ask?”
Mia shrugged.
“Just talk.”
Simple.
Humiliatingly simple.
That weekend, Roman went to Cal’s with Mia.
Not to confront Peter.
Not to investigate.
Just breakfast.
Peter was there.
Mia waved.
Peter waved back.
Roman nodded.
Peter looked genuinely surprised.
They did not sit together.
Roman chose a booth across the room.
Mia ordered for herself.
“Strawberry pancakes. Syrup on the side.”
Roman ordered eggs.
During breakfast, Mia told him the diner’s ceiling fan looked like “a helicopter that forgot its body.”
Roman laughed.
She told him Rebecca hated ketchup.
She told him the boy who sat behind her in school ate erasers.
Roman almost choked.
“He eats what?”
“Little pieces.”
“Why?”
“Maybe he likes them.”
“No.”
Roman made a note to mention that to the school.
Then stopped himself.
Mia was telling a story.
Not reporting a problem.
He listened.
After breakfast, she pulled out her sketchbook.
Roman watched.
She drew the diner.
Peter at table seven.
The waitress.
A coffee machine.
Roman appeared in the booth.
This time, he was sitting.
Not standing.
Mia used the green pencil for his tie.
“Why green?”
“Because you know now.”
Roman did not ask what she meant.
He thought he understood.
Across the diner, Peter saw the drawing.
His eyes met Roman’s.
Peter lifted his coffee cup slightly.
Roman nodded.
For the first time, there was no anger between them.
Only recognition.
Later that night, Roman passed Mia’s room.
She was asleep.
The old family drawing remained on the wall.
The one with the empty chair.
Roman took it down.
Not to hide it.
He placed it beside the new diner drawing.
Before leaving, he noticed something written in tiny letters beneath the chair.
Mia’s handwriting.
DADDY WHEN HE COMES HOME.
Roman stood completely still.
May you like
The chair had never been empty because she did not want him there.
It had been empty because she was waiting.
