My dad and Danielle got married when I was six, just one week after finalizing his divorce from my mother. Danielle was twenty-one, a former cheerleader for the very team my father owned, and, as my mother had drilled into every conversation about her successor, Danielle was five months pregnant on their wedding day. These pieces came together to form a less-than-flattering picture of Danielle—and Mom certainly preferred the harshest angles—but that wasn’t the only story here.
“Honestly, I don’t know what we want yet,” I said, and I hoped she believed that. “We haven’t talked about it much. It just happened this weekend.”
“I will be thrilled for you either way but please tell me he didn’t propose at the Derby.”
“No,” I said, choking on an actual laugh. “Before. On the flight down there.”
“Much better. Love that. I’m so excited for you two.” She squealed and breathed a happy sigh, and I knew she was smiling. I realized I was smiling too. “Your dad’s so excited, even if you’re marrying the enemy.”
It was a joke. I wanted to take it that way. Just like I wanted to take some of my father’s phone calls too. I wasn’t there yet. Wasn’t ready.
All I could manage was a sarcastic quip about Chicago’s D-line crumbling like a sleeve of crackers against Ryan’s team last season. I pulled an artfully arranged blanket off the back of the sofa and did my best to wrap myself like a burrito as I said, “I think they are their own enemies first and foremost. We don’t even need to bring my fiancé into the equation.”
She gave a hearty laugh. “If that man of yours is interested in a few seasons in Chicago, I think we can?—”
“No,” I said, much harder than necessary. “That’s not—we’re not getting into that.”
“Of course not, sweetie,” she said, fully unbothered. “And everyone knows he’s a Boston boy. They’re not giving him up for anything.”
She was always the gentle parent—for me, for her own kids, for my dad. On certain occasions, my mother. We could be atrocious versions of ourselves and she’d take our hands and say it was okay to have huge, uncomfortable feelings.
“No, and you need to save the money to buy yourselves a decent rushing game,” I said. “And a QB who doesn’t spend all his time flattened under a pile of defensive ends.”
“You know you’re telling this to the wrong person,” she sang. “He’d love to give you a peek at what they have in store for next season.”
“I have a lot of work to do. I should probably get to that,” I said. “After the Derby, I wasn’t prepared to teach today and it showed.”
She laughed easily and said, “Before you go, I just want you to know I would love to host a shower for you. Or a luncheon or cocktail party or whatever you’d like if you don’t want an old-fashioned shower.” When I didn’t respond immediately, she filled the silence. “We could do it in Boston or you could come to Chicago or we could pick a cute location. I’ll fly all of your bridesmaids in with you, of course. I’dneverexpect you to come all on your lonesome.”
Every conversation with Danielle was studded with small acts of penance. Today we were repenting for all the holidays and summers when my parents’ custody agreement required me to visit my father’s new family halfway across the country and I’d spent all that time being an outsider. As I grew up, I’d asked to bring a friend along only for my father to tell me that I was onhisgoddamn time and if I had such a problem with it, I could be the one to tell my mother she wouldn’t receive another penny in child support from him.
Every conversation with Danielle also featured casual updates on my father’s newest mood-stabilizing meds or his newfound commitment to mental health counseling. Any minute now, she’d mention that he’d be late to dinner tonight because he was meeting with his therapist or that he’d said something a few weeks ago that’d really stuck with her as proof of his progress.
It wasn’t that I didn’t believe her. I did—and that actually made it so much worse.
He’d left me enough choked-up voicemails in the past few years for me to know that someone was asking him hard questions. But that didn’t mean I wanted to have a hard conversation with him.
I’d had enough of those already.
“I don’t want to interfere with any plans your friends or Ralston’s family or your mom already have for a shower,” Danielle added. “If you want to give me your maid of honor’s number, I’ll take it from there. I’ll follow her lead and foot the bill.”
“That’s really sweet of you and really generous, Dani.” I drew in a breath to steady myself. I’d faffed my way through this conversation long enough. “I need to talk to Ryan first. I’m not sure about his schedule and?—”
“Will you be traveling with him next season?” She practically screamed this down the line.
“Oh, I—I’m not sure. I don’t know how that would work with my school schedule.”
“You’re going to continue teaching, then?”
“That-that’s the plan,” I stammered, though I had no idea what state my life would be in at the end of the summer. I’d be married and…then what? How long was that supposed to last?Washe expecting me to attend his games?
Ryan and I were long overdue for a little chat about the details of this arrangement.
“Good for you.” I heard her slap something. Probably a marble countertop. “Okay, beautiful girl. I’m sure you’re inundated with well-wishes and congratulations right now so I won’t keep you any longer. If I can help you with anything…”
I thought about the kitchen and the piles of gifts waiting for me. Dani would know how to handle it all.
Then again, so would my mom.
