"Me?" he asks, laughing as he continues circling around like a lost squirrel. "I would never do such a thing to my daughter. Ever."
"Right, well, take pictures," I add.
"I will. Hey, have you seen my phone?"
I scan the countertops and a few of the shelves he was stocking this morning. "No, I haven’t seen it. I’ll call it from mine.” I pull my phone out of my back pocket and walk toward another set of shelves to look as I press on his name.
The phone lights up on the shelf I’m right in front of, face-up, displaying the words:
The Girl of My Dreams
The words are floating above a photo of me. A photo I didn’t know he took.
I take a minute to process why I see these words illuminating his screen. I press the end button on my phone and the words disappear. "I’ve got it," I call over to him.
"Oh, thank God," he says, rushing toward me. "Last time I was late, I got read the riot act in the truck for twenty minutes by the little girl you refer to as a princess."
I reach out to Brett with his phone, trying not to smile, but wondering if he meant for me to see the way he has my contact listed on his phone.
When he tries to take it from my hand, I pull back for a quick second. "I’m the girl of your dreams?"
His eyes falter to this phone in my hand, and he huffs a quiet laugh, understanding my question. "You have been for a long time, but I have labeled you that way since I first snagged your number," he says, leaning forward to give me a soft kiss. Brett leaves me with a hankering for more. I want to hold my hand out and ask him to come back, but if there’s anything I’ve learned recently—life takes its turn whether we like it or not.
"See you later," I tell him.
"Oh, Mel," he says, stopping as he has one hand on the back counter. "Ah—I know you’ve been procrastinating about the letter your dad left for you, but tomorrow is your birthday, and I need you to read the letter before I give you your gift. Will you be able to?”
His question takes me by surprise. Maybe he’s asking me now so we don’t have to have a drawn-out conversation about the pros and cons of reading Dad’s final words, but I know I should open the envelope. I haven’t stopped thinking about the letter, but it’s taken almost three months to wake up, feeling okay in the morning and the thought of tearing my heart back open, makes me wonder if I’ll undo all the healing. "Yeah, I—I’ll read it," I agree.
"If you want to talk after—"
"Enjoy Daddy-Daughter Night at Parker’s school. Don’t worry about me," I tell him.
"Okay," he says. "Tomorrow, though, I will make sure this birthday is good for you."
Brett has been talking about my birthday for the last few weeks. At first, I told him I’d rather just make it another ordinary day, so I don’t think about the reasons this birthday differs from all my past birthdays. Dad has always been the first one to call me in the morning, or when I was younger, the first to wake me up with the most horrific singing voice. He told me he needed to be the first, because he has always been the first to tell me happy birthday ever since the day I was born. Mom was too busy smiling at my face and introducing herself, but the first words out of Dad’s mouth were: "Happy Birthday, my beautiful girl." Mom has made sure he’s been the first to repeat those words to me each year since. It’s something small and the thought only goes through my mind one day a year, but it’s been on my mind a lot these last few weeks, knowing I won’t get a call or hear the ear-piercing song.
"Thank you for being this person in my life," I tell him. "Now go!" I press my hand into his back and shove him toward the back door. "Tell Parker, I found the color nail polish she was asking about."
"Nail polish?" he asks, walking away.
"A little girl needs to have pretty nails sometimes."
Brett rolls his eyes and shakes his head as he disappears through the back door.
I head to the front of the shop to clean up the display from the bourbon samples we were handing out earlier, but the mindless work forces me to think about the letter I’m supposed to read tonight. I know Journey hasn’t read hers either. We’re both having trouble facing the words. I’m sure it’s nothing crazy or some revealing surprise about life we didn’t know, but it will be his words. We’ll hear his voice in our heads, and it will be like he’s with us for those few minutes. Then, he’ll be gone again, and it will be the last thing we ever read from Dad.
Brett hasn’t brought up the letter in a couple of months, so because he asked me to read, I feel like I should move forward and suck it up. I need Journey to know I’m going to do it, though. We agreed to read our letters on the same day.
Since I still have my phone in hand, I send her a quick message.
Me:Brett has requested I read "the letter" tonight because there’s something written inside pertaining to my birthday. I don’t know if I’m ready to see what it says, but I’m going to open it.
Journey takes a minute to respond; the three little dots flicker and disappear at least three times before her message pops up.
Journey:I—I kind of already opened it. I didn’t want to tell you because you had said you weren’t ready, but the suspense was killing me.
Me:What? You didn’t tell me? I thought we would do it together?
