Chapter 5: The Son and the Storm
“Dad? What on earth is happening in here? Why is there a security detail in the driveway?”
I turned to see a younger man standing in the doorway. He looked like a younger, more vibrant version of Walter—the same sharp features, but with a warmth in his expression that his father’s “performance” had lacked. He was tall, dressed in a simple button-down and slacks, looking completely bewildered.
“Timothy, meet Rebecca,” Walter said, waving a hand as if he were introducing us at a garden party.
Timothy looked at me—really looked at me—and I saw the moment he realized I was wearing a cheap jacket over pajamas and looking like I wanted to set the room on fire.
“You brought her here with a full motorcade?” Timothy asked, turning to his father with an expression of pure exasperation. “Dad, we talked about this. You can’t just abduct people for your social experiments.”
“I wanted her to feel safe,” Walter replied, entirely unbothered.
“Safe? You sent four black SUVs to her house at seven a.m.!” Timothy turned to me, his eyes full of genuine apology. “I am so incredibly sorry. My father has… let’s call it an eccentric streak. He thinks he’s a character in a Dickens novel.”
“Hi,” I managed to say, feeling the anger start to drain away, replaced by a strange, surreal exhaustion.
“Hi,” Timothy replied, a faint, lopsided smile tugging at his mouth. “I’m Timothy. The son who apparently needs his father to vet his future acquaintances by way of grocery store theft.”
Walter clapped his hands together. “Good! The introductions are made. I have a 10:00 a.m. tee time. I’ll leave you two to sort out the logistics of the apology.” And with that, the man who had cried over bread yesterday strolled out of the room like a king.
The days that followed were a blur. I refused any immediate “payback” from Walter; it felt like taking a bribe after a prank. But Timothy was persistent. Two days later, he showed up at Miller’s Grocery. He wasn’t in a suit. He was wearing a casual jacket and jeans, and he actually took a number and waited in my line.
“I figured this was less dramatic than the alternative,” he said when he reached the front.
“The alternative being a helicopter landing in the parking lot?” I asked, scanning his carton of orange juice.
Timothy winced. “Don’t give him ideas. Look, I know my dad is a lot. But he wasn’t lying about one thing: he was moved by what you did. He’s been talking about ‘the girl in the bread aisle’ for forty-eight hours straight.”
We didn’t fall into a whirlwind romance. That only happens in the movies Walter likes to imagine. Instead, we talked. Timothy took me to a quiet coffee shop—no motorcades allowed—and we spent three hours just figuring each other out. I told him about my grandfather, about the struggle of working a register, and about the fear of the “After” when the money runs out. He listened. He didn’t try to “fix” it with a checkbook; he just heard me.
