A moment later, I watch as he closes his book, slides out of the booth and stretches. He’s taller than I expected—maybe six foot two, which would make him several inches taller than me—and his shoulders are broad. He looks strong. He’s dressed in a gray T-shirt, jeans and flip-flops, and I’m just in the middle of thinking what a nice body he has when he turns around. I blush involuntarily and try my best charming smile again.

He looks at me in apparent confusion for a moment and shoots me a brief, polite (but depressingly unflirtatious) smile. Then he picks up his book and walks out the front door.

For the first time in my life, I’ve utterly failed to interest a guy.

Well. This is new. Most of me is bummed. But in a way, surprisingly, it actually feels a little good.

After scarfing down my big breakfast, I’m in my ridiculously pink Beetle heading nervously south, toward where my father’s store is (according to the old Yellow Pages in my motel room) without a real plan. I’m confused about the fact that my smile has apparently stopped working, and I don’t want to spend a second longer in my dingy motel room than I have to. I have to admit to myself that I’m not 100 percent thrilled with the way my first brushes with normalcy are turning out, but I don’t want to think I’ve made a mistake by coming here. It can’t be a mistake.

Normal is good, I keep telling myself.

I’m fully aware that I may be delusional.

I drive downtown, heading for 528 Twelfth Avenue South, my heart pounding as I follow a map I bought at a gas station. Mecham’s Music. I could try my dad’s house first, but I figure that during the day, he’ll be at his store, right? As I turn onto Twelfth Street in the downtown area, I begin to scan both sides of the street.

Then I see it. A big sign with an electric guitar and the words MECHAM’S MUSIC: FOR ALL YOUR MUSIC NEEDS soars above the street on the right, atop a large white building set in front of a strip mall.

I’m frozen. This is it. Despite the number of times I’ve imagined this moment in the past few days—and, honestly, in the last thirteen years—there’s something about really, truly being here that makes me feel almost like I want to throw up. But it’s not like the occasional pre-concert jitters. Those I can usually shake by reminding myself it’s just one night. This time, if I’m not perfect, I could lose my dad forever.

I don’t even have a plan.

I take a deep breath and turn right into the parking lot. At this very moment, my father could be just yards away.