Me: “So, like the whole deal with Mapleton. Are we just going to hang out? I’m fine if that’s what you want. Actually, right now I just need a weekend away.”
I must have been more tired than I thought because I nodded off before I got his reply. A few hours later, I woke up to a glowing TV screen, and a text from him.
Nick: By the way, I wouldn’t have left you at the bar. That was a joke.
“That was a diversion, but why?” I asked myself as I set my phone back down, mulling over why he didn’t answer my question. I didn’t dwell on it too long, though, before I rolled over to go back to sleep, pretending to not feel my gut twist.
“Is that my favorite daughter?” A deep voice rang from the old two-story farmhouse doorstep early the next morning.
My eyes landed on my father who stood over six feet tall, even at sixty years old. Dad’s entire family was tall. Dad claimed it was from drinking black coffee. When I was little, I believed him and would proudly drink coffee at the breakfast table with him. Of course, he didn’t know I snuck three sugar packets into my cup when he wasn’t looking. It wasn’t until I got older that I realized height had nothing to do with the coffee; instead we were blessed with tall genes. By then, it was too late, and I already had a full-blown caffeine addiction. Still, to this day, I credit my spry old Dad for that fault.
I opened my arms and received a tight hug where I fit perfectly under his chin. It was seriously the best hug possible to fit like this. “Hey, Dad.” I grazed my cheek momentarily on his chest, feeling cozy next to his red flannel shirt. Safe.
“It’s good to see you.” He patted my back and pulled away, ushering me through the open door with the wave of his hand. “I got coffee in the pot, waiting for you.”
“Ah, thanks.” I forced a pleasantly surprised tone, but we both knew I wasn’t amazed. It was the game we played. I continued inside, shutting the old-farm house door behind me by giving it more than a gentle nudge, and unwrapped the gray wool scarf from my neck.
This house had been my grandmother’s and the home my dad grew up in. He’d inherited it when I was just a baby. Since my dad wasn’t one for décor, it mostly still looked as if a nineteen fifties housewife had designed it. With everything from the robin’s egg blue cabinets to yellow and white curtains hanging on the window. The one thing he had updated was the table. Though, he didn’t buy a new one, but instead made one from reclaimed barn wood, claiming this table was more masculine and comfortable than the little metal retro one we used to have.
“Just black, right?” He hobbled over to the counter, favoring his bad knee like he always did. The only explanation I’d ever been given about his knee was a service wound, but I’d suspected it had more to do with his years of playing catcher in the Marine softball team. Either way, it’s how I always remembered him, hobbling around, too stubborn to use a cane.
He grabbed my favorite Christmas mug, the one with a picture of the Mapleton Christmas tree on it. Every year when I went to Mapleton, I asked him what he wanted for a souvenir. He’d always request, “another mug for my collection.” I’d put money on him having more Mapleton mugs than anyone who actually lived there. He was practical when it came to gifts, and everything he did.
“Always.” A smile budded on my lips, pinning back the chuckle I always had for my sweet dad.
As he set my cup, he butted my mug right up next to the sugar bowl, and dramatically turned his back. “I just filled the sugar—for no reason at all.”
I pretended to be covertly dumping sugar into my cup, but we both knew my secret was out years ago.
After filling a mug for himself, he scooted a chair out next to mine and sat down. Sitting straight like a drill sergeant was watching, because he never let any of his old habits fall to the wayside. He was aproudex-Marine. In fact, once, I introduced him to a friend as ex-military, and I got a going-on-thirty-minute ear full about how he was not military. He was a Marine.There’s a difference.
“You look pretty,” he said, but not in the positive way you would expect words like that to sound. Instead, it emulated to a T the role of a “suspicious ex-Marine.” “You got a date?”
“I wish I had a date, but I’m babysitting for my boss.” I blew on my coffee before taking a generous sip.
“I see.” His chin raised and lowered the way he always did before he’d give me parental advice I didn’t ask for. “It’s been a while since you found someone to take you out—”
“Dad,” I cut him off as this was so cringy to discuss with him. He was old-fashioned when it came to dating, as he still thought guys should wear suits, open every door, and always pay the entire bill foreverydate. When I was in high school, he enforced the rule that the guy had to ask me out, and he refused to let me call any boy first. I may still be holding onto that memory as the sole excuse for never having a date to the prom.
It wasn’t until I got older I learned a way around the rule, and I started getting regular dates. I never did call a guy first, but I had no shame in casually, and sometimes more directly, giving a cute boy my number andaskinghim to call. Dad didn’t know about that, though; he’d break the ceiling if he did. It’s not like it was a secret, but I learned years ago that he’d never understand how different dating these days was. All the men with old fashioned values weredead. “It’s fine,” I said as nonchalantly as I could. “I’ve been busy with work—”
His lips caved down, as he clearly wasn’t trying to mask his true feelings. “That’s your first problem. Guys don’t like it when women spend too much time working.” He wasn’t taking a lecture tone, but I didn’t have the stomach to be told why I was failing.
I knew I was failing!
I spent a hundred thousand dollars to find a husband! All I got was a stupid piece of paper that said something lame like “Communications Degree.” I framed it and hung it on my wall, but I didn’t want a piece of paper;I want a ring!“It’s fine.” I placed my palm over his freckled hand, squeezing it as lovingly as I could, gritted my teeth, and said, “It doesn’t bother me—”
“Well, it should.” He imposingly flung his other hand toward me in the same manner he always did when I wasn’t living my life his way. “If you don’t meet a nice man soon, you won’t have time to properly date before you get married because your clock is ticking.”
“Itsfine.” My voice came out edged in a bit of a growl, as I couldn’t have this conversation today—or any day—because it was beyond awkward. I never held onto any sadness about not being raised by my mother, but it was times like these that I felt a mentor was missing. Someone to guide me without the drill-sergeant tone, while also sweetly helping my dad to see his helping wasn’t “helpful.”
He gave me his stern eye lock and went on, “I think—”
“I’m getting married!” I blurted out and held his eyes steady, terrified of something dreadful happening. I hadn’t planned on telling him—or anyone—about the marriage pact, but it had been in the front of my brain for weeks and somehow slipped out. As I waited in the stony silence, I listened to my words continue to thump around my head, and realized I would need to back that proclamation up with some details.
Dad’s eyes narrowed with obvious skepticism, but before he could press me for specifics I rattled out, “I never told you because I, well, it’s really new, likeso new, andwewanted to elope, but yeah, I’m getting married this next weekend!” I pulled my lips into the in-love smile and squeaked, “Isn’t it great?”
I wanted to duck under the table to hide from what was coming next. Dad was smart, and he knew I had always wanted a big, perfect wedding since the day I was three. There was no way this would make any sense to him, because it didn’t even make sense tome. I clamped down hard on my lip, waiting for him to call my bluff.
