“Sure did.”
“Your dad’s in the kitchen.Go keep him company.”That’s Phyllis, our housekeeper, drill sergeant, and Emma’s newly found grandmother.“Turn off the lights before you go.”
Summer throws an M&M at me.It stings when it hits me on the cheek.I haven’t felt this unwelcome since I kicked down the door of an enemy combatant’s safe house in Mogadishu.
I hit the switch, and they all return their gazes to the screen.“What you watching, anyway?”
“Christmas romances.Care to join us?”
Hell, no.“Maybe some other time, Victoria.But shouldn’t you girls be helping Finn?Because that’s one stressed-out man over there.”
All five women spin around and glare at me again, but they’ve kicked up the wrath a notch.Victoria hits pause on the remote.Phyllis rises from the recliner, hands on hips.
“It’s okay!”Emma jumps from the couch as if to protect me from Phyllis, who’s shaking her head and walking toward me, clearly getting ready to let me have it.
“I’ll have you know that while you were in London getting measured for new underpants, we’ve been busting our butts on wedding preparation.”
Jasmine giggles.Probably due to the use of the word “underpants” and/or “butts.”
“Poor Emma just needed a break,” Phyllis continues.“Finn has been driving her crazy, and my granddaughter just wanted some time to relax.”
“Finn’s only being sweet,” Emma says.“He wants everything to be perfect for me and I love him for that.”
“Except that Emma wanted a simple wedding,” Victoria says.
Summer laughs.“That horse has left the barn—and it’s probably got glitter stuck in its mane.”
Everyone thinks that’s hilarious, including me.
It’s time to find my dad.Victoria hits the remote and their make-believe love story resumes just as I smack open the swinging door to the kitchen.
I find my father at the table, digging into a big bowl of ice cream.
“Really, Dad?Isn’t your cholesterol level still high?”
“Shhh.Don’t tell Phyllis.And son, let me be real plain—it was either this or a bottle of fifteen-year-old Macallan because Finlay has gone off the rails and my living room’s full of women watching romance movies.”
“No interest in joining them?”
“I’d rather jab a fork in my eyeball.”
“I hear that.”
I grab a beer out of the fridge, twist off the cap, and pull a chair away from the table.I spin it around and straddle it, my arms draped over the back, and take a swig from the beer bottle.
“So you’re hiding in your kitchen?”I ask him.“While your sons are working themselves to the bone, decorating chairs and shit?”
“I’m working.”He looks up at me, his spoon hanging in mid-air.“I’m working on this Rocky Road.”
I laugh.
I shoot the shit with my dad for a bit and thoroughly enjoy it.We talk about nothing in particular, but it’s nice to have some time with him, just the two of us.I decide I’ll make an effort to do it more often.It hasn’t always been easy between us, and it took a lot of years to smooth over everything that happened after Mom died.I was twelve, and I lashed out at him, blamed him for anything and everything.
That was about the time I decided to start keeping a detailed mental scorecard of all that went on around here.I wanted to prove to myself that I was the one always getting the short end of the stick.
I noted who got more of Dad’s attention.Who got the better horses.The nicer clothes.The fewest chores.Who was praised and who was blamed.Whose birthday was forgotten.
It went on and on, until the day I left for the Navy without even telling Dad of my plans.
