Me: Also, maybe bring a couple of pounds of limes, just in case.
What follows is a string of laughing emoji and a fist bump emoji, just like in high school. In my defense, I was twelve when I entered high school, and Benji was the only senior who didn’t haze the super geek.
I like to think I’ve leveled up since then.
“Problem solved,” I say to Jocelyn as I send Benji a digital bird. “He’s dropping them off in ten minutes.”
She places her hand on her heart. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“No worries,” I say, looking around for my co-chair.
“Brant’s in the back, powdering his nose,” Maya whispers as Jocelyn runs back to the taco bar. “Again.”
Brantley Whitaker, the region’s newest state representative, is rolling out his coke habit in the middle of our gala.Great.
“He’s had a few close calls, broseph,” Maya warns as she waves to a friend. “I know you were doing him a solid by looping him in on this event, but I’m not so sure he’s good for the direction you’re going in.”
“You’re right, sissy.” I rub my brows, a headache brewing. “This is what I get for co-chairing with the guy who cried when our tenth birthday party was better than his.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, well, his rented ponies had nothing on Uncle Hen belting out ‘Let It Go’ and ‘Dance Monkey’ to a bunch of kids strung out on birthday cake and Kool-Aid.”
While Uncle Hendrix is a true-blue punk rock legend, he isn’t actually a blood relative. Our fathers, who’ve been together since the dawn of time, are known for collecting friends over theyears, and now we have an infamous, chaotic found family who I love to pieces.
Speaking of, Maya points out our fathers, watchful and—thankfully—hanging back from the crowd.
“I really tried to get them to stay away, but…” I trail off with a sigh.
“These are the same men who practically threw a ticker-tape parade when we both aced our SATs.”
To be fair, we were fourteen.
“We should join them,” Maya says, after a few more minutes of shaking hands. “Get in front of their over-involvement before they do something truly cringeworthy.”
As dads go, they aren’tthatembarrassing, but she has a point. It’s always better to manage up with those two.
With some good-natured grumbling, we link arms again and head over, smiling at the way our fathers only have eyes for each other. Dad still wears his thick sun-bleached hair long and the white stripe along the part in Baba’s black hair is debonair as hell, though neither has aged much over the years.
It’s hard not to be jealous when my early fumbling attempts at love always ended in a puddle of loser with a chaser of betrayal. After the last one, I told my dad I’d never fall in love again, which, while pretty dramatic for a nineteen-year-old, still holds water four years later.
It was heartbreaking to realize that true love is all but a myth for my generation, but I’m glad to have learned the lesson young. My expectations for finding my fathers’ kind of eternal, nausea-inducing love are practically subterranean.
That level of pessimism’s difficult to maintain, though, as I watch Baba playfully tug on Dad’s carefully crafted man bun. Honestly, they’re almost as bad as Grandma and Grandpa with how much they can’t get enough of each other.
They see us coming and stand with broad smiles.
“How are things going?” Baba asks as Dad slides his arm around my shoulders.
I let go of Maya and briefly lean into Dad’s hold. I made tonight about the military because Dad served, like, thirty years ago, and now uses what he learned to help people live longer, less painful lives. I hope I’ve made him proud.
“Eh.” I blow out a dramatic sigh. “Maya and I got an eyeful of Mrs. Bracehurst, and I have to meet Benji up front in a few because we ran out of tortillas, if that’s any indication.”
“You forgot to mention creepy stalker guy,” Maya supplies helpfully.Not.Leaning in with a conspiratorial look, she stage-whispers, “Orange Bow Tie, ten o’clock.”
Dad shifts subtly, his eyes narrowing when his gaze lands on the guy in question. “He giving you any trouble?”
“No.” I bump shoulders with Maya, who’s trying to cover her laugh with her hand. “He’s never said a word to me. Just stands there and stares.”
Baba, basically an older version of me, tracks Dad’s line of sight and thins his lips.
