Cold Feet by Amy FitzHenry Page B

since. Sure, you once held hands and shared graham crackers during snack time, but it’s pointless if she doesn’t know you now, if she doesn’t know how much you hate your job or who the last ex-boyfriend to drunk text you was. It’s the little things.
    From the corner of my eye, I noticed someone familiar entering the café. He was wearing a blue-and-black-plaid shirt and looked almost too tall to make it under the fancy entrance.
    â€œDusty?” I called over to him.
    â€œHey! How are you?” he answered, heading over. This must be his local coffee shop, I figured quickly. It’s just a coincidence. Despite that, I felt a slight flush at his appearance. It’s because he’s an attractive guy you don’t know very well, I reminded myself. Don’t be weird.
    â€œI’m good,” I said, when he reached my table. “How’s your Sunday going?”
    â€œGreat. So, I have to admit, this isn’t a random run-in,” he said. “I saw the note you left for Liv. I don’t have your phone number or I would have called.”
    â€œOh, okay. What’s up?”
    â€œI wanted to tell you what I was thinking last night after we talked. About you—and your dad, the mythological Hunter Moon,” he quickly added. “I wanted to tell you, but I wasn’t sure if I should.”He paused then. I nodded encouragingly for him to go on. “The thing is, I’ve been there. I grew up with my mom and twin sister. I never knew my dad either. It’s not exactly the same because I finally met him when I was sixteen—unfortunately, since he turned out to be kind of a bastard—but I get the allure of wanting to fill out your family tree.” As he spoke, Dusty endearingly, if nervously, ran both hands through his hair and over the back of his neck.
    â€œI made this huge deal out of finding him, and then when I did, he took me out to dinner and gave me his business card, like we were at a stupid networking event or something. He said to let him know if I needed money, or a college recommendation,” Dusty recalled painfully. “He lives in Fairfield, Connecticut, with his new family. It’s such a cliché. But I guess those are around for a reason, right?”
    â€œRight,” I said quietly.
    â€œI never even told my mom or sister that I met him. Actually, I’ve never told anyone. It was too embarrassing. His reaction I mean.” He looked at me. His face read unhappy but composed. He had accepted that this was the hand he’d been dealt, and he had it under control. It was a look I recognized. Also familiar was the way he lightened the conversation and changed its focus to me immediately after sharing his story. “So anyway, about Hunter Moon, great name by the way.”
    â€œI know, it’s so silly,” I said, with an odd flush of delight. It was definitely more fun to have an absent father with a catchy name than a boring one.
    â€œMaybe it’s fake,” Dusty suggested. “And he’s some San Francisco celebrity operating under cover. George Lucas? Gavin Newsom?”
    â€œMaybe Gavin! I don’t want to brag but I
was
in student government.”
    Dusty laughed, surely relieved we were back on a more comfortable topic. “I can tell. You have leadership skills.”
    â€œWhat about your mom? Can she help?” It was the same question Liv had asked in the car. It was the obvious one. It also happened to be my least favorite. Explaining my relationship with my mom is an inevitably painful activity. For one, it’s semidepressing, and for another, it usually disappoints the person who’s asking. Usually when people find out I was raised by a single mother they assume we were best friends, that it was “us against the world.” It’s hard to explain to someone that for me, the experience was like two pieces of bone rubbing together, with no cartilage to operate as