“You sure Apple isn’t paying you to go around saying this stuff?”
“Shhh.” Dad dramatically puts a finger to his lips before bending down under the table. I assume it’s part of the bit until hereappears with some kind of painting on a square of cardboard. “For you, my love.”
“Whoa. Dad.” It’s a mixed-media piece, with paint and newspaper scraps and what appears to be melted crayon, combining to form the image of a very familiar cartoon beaver. “This is beautiful.”
“Just some new techniques I’m messing around with,” he says. “Thought Billy needed a comeback.”
“Damn right he did.” Billy Beaver is this character Dad first came up with when I was little, inspired by my obsessions with Daniel Tiger and Peppa Pig. Billy was meant to be a more countercultural cartoon buddy, featured in silly art pieces for me and Vivian, usually imparting some lesson likeAlways question authorityorDon’t assume something is good just because it’s mainstream!(He might need to talk to Dad about his iPhone addiction.) In this latest work, Billy Beaver is standing on a riverbank gnawing on a chunk of wood represented by shreds of newspaper.
“I assume that wasdamnspelledD-A-M,” Dad says.
“Naturally. What’s the message of this one?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Dad pats the table like it’s a pair of bongos. “Try new things even when you feel old and past your prime?”
I hate hearing him say that. “Come on, Dad, you’re still in your prime. You might live another fifty years!”
“Eh, fair enough.” He pages through the menu, though he’s going to order the same thing he always does: an omelet with Swiss cheese and mushrooms. “I was thinking: Why didn’t I make the beaver female, you know? Like, I had two daughters. Why didn’t I make it Becky Beaver? Or Bonnie Beaver?”
“Uh... Maybe because it instantly feels ninety times more inappropriate once you do that?”
“Ha! That’s a good point.” There may be nothing better in the world than Dad laughing at one of my jokes. “You’re funny.” Okay, maybe him saying that.
“I try,” I say, definitely blushing. “Seriously, though, I love this. Thanks, Dad. Long live Billy Beaver.”
Dad and I each put our hands together, as if in prayer, and solemnly bow our heads. When we’re done, Dad is giving me a little grin. I grin back.
“Taking a while for Doreen to get here,” he says, looking around. “I bet she thinks we’re still waiting on Viv. You know what you want? Any deviation from the norm?”
“No deviation, sir. How about you?”
“’Course not.”
Dad flags down Doreen, who’s blond like the woman who stands in front, but at least ten years older. I order my spinach feta scramble, Dad orders his omelet, and Doreen scoops up our menus and goes.
“Okay, then,” Dad says. This is always the best moment of these meals, when we transition from the jokes to the real stuff. “How’s everything with you, Mags? How you recovering from that heartbreak? I hate thinking of you having to feel that.”
Dad knows about my relationship with Carter in broad strokes: that I was dating someone I really liked and that we broke up. But he doesn’t know, for example, the part about my boyfriend being the forever-teenager, who recently regressed a year and forgot that I exist. I told Dad I had to end it because it wasn’t working. Technically true!
“I’m actually doing a lot better,” I say, and I really mean it. “It’s still hard, but—”
“Well, hello there,” my older sister says, appearing from nowhere and sliding into the booth next to Dad, giving him a kiss on the cheek. “What’s still hard?”
“Viv, you’re here!” Dad says, putting an arm around her shoulder and squeezing as she shimmies out of her parka.
I try to make words, but it comes out more like a mangled mix of “Hey” and “What?”
“Nice to see you too, Mags,” Vivian says, laughing and taking off her deep purple wool hat. She smooths down her vibrant, always-luscious dark brown hair.
“No, yeah, I’m so happy you’re here,” I say. “I just—You said you couldn’t make it.”
“Yeah, well, plans changed. Is that okay?”
“Of course. Of course!”
“Better than okay,” Dad says. “I love when the whole trio is together!”
“Hey.” Vivvy reaches across the table and puts her hand on mine. “Everything all right? What’s still hard?”
