“There’s oat in the fridge,” I say.
He gave up dairy over two decades ago at the recommendation of his cardiologist. I keep some around for his spontaneous stop-bys, to ensure he has what he needs.
“Might even steam it up,” he says.
“Live large,” I tell him, and plug in the milk frother.
Once he’s finished we take our mugs to the couch and settle against the folds of our white cotton Cloud. Leo hates this couch—he’d prefer modern lines and hard-backed chairs—but I love it. It makes me feel ensconced in a soft world. Nothing bad can get you when you’re in the Cloud.
“Did you get in the water already?”
Dad shakes his head. “Nah, board on the rack, though. I thought maybe I’d check out Zuma on my way back if it’s not too late.” He pats my leg. “You should have seen the moon on the drive over. Ooo-weeee.”
My mother hates that I live in West Hollywood. She doesn’t understand why we don’t move to Malibu, or, OK, Santa Monica, or even Venice, for God’s sake. But I grew up on the ocean. I know it so well, its pace and rhythm all its own. It’s familiar to me in ways that are both comforting—and painful. It’s better for me, now, to keep my distance.
Plus, Westside home prices are even worse than West Hollywood. Leo and I could never afford it.
Dad loves it here at my house. “My pied-à-terre in the city,” he calls it.
“Are you still carrying the board down yourself?”
He waves me off. “There’s always someone around.” He surveys the house. “How long is Leo gone for?”
“Dad,” I say, ignoring the last part. “You’re getting older, It’s OK to ask for help. You’ve been there for all of them.”
He raises his eyebrows at me in this way that says,Move on.
Dad taught me to surf when I was just four years old—tossed me on the board and paddled out, no excuses. He taught me how to head into a wave—“Paddle, don’t scream”—how to dive underso as not to be knocked down, and how to time the perfect turnaround.
The ocean is a woman, baby. Never turn your back on her.
I caught my first wave alone at six, and by eight I was towing my board out myself, Dad waving from the shore.
I haven’t been out in years, though. I got into the water less and less after graduation. I’m out of practice. Dad is the one who has kept it alive, kept it a part of his life.
“He’s just gone until tomorrow,” I say. “It’s a quick trip.”
He blows on the rim of his cup. Some oat foam settles on his upper lip. “How is work going for him?”
I know my dad worries about us. Will we have enough money? Will Leo “make it”? Our mortgage payments are low and our life is simple—as simple as any life can be in Los Angeles—but infertility is expensive, and the longer it goes on, the more expensive it gets. We’re tapped out. There’s nothing left in savings. I won’t let us overextend our credit cards, not after I’ve seen the messes some clients have gotten into, but it means the budget is razor-thin right now. Even this six-hundred-dollar IUI meant scraping the barrel for the utility bills.
“Good,” I say. “He’s meeting with a showrunner this weekend. Fingers crossed.” I hold mine up, locked together.
Dad beams. “They’ll love him. Everyone loves Leo.”
It’s true; everyone loves Leo. He’s warm and present, and his stature makes him look like a teddy bear. Everyone always wants a hug. When we first met I thought it was strange how many of his ex-girlfriends remained in his life—how many called on him—but as I got to know him I understood it completely. He hates letting people down, and nothing is a big deal to him. He’ll drive three hours out of his way for a great scoop of ice cream, or make a runto Home Depot before they close for a pair of batteries or a pint of paint. I’ve never seen the man frustrated or inconvenienced in four and a half years. Except at the clinic.
But my dad—my dad especially adores Leo. His love for my husband is probably the single greatest thing in my life. Both Leo and Dad are social, but it comes out in very different ways. Leo makes people open up, and Dad opens up to people. My mom always says she’d never take a cruise with him because she wouldn’t be able to walk five feet without a conversation with a stranger. Malibu is a small town—and everyone knows Dad. The barista at the Starbucks in Cross Creek, the girl who works the register at Sun Life, the waiters at Lucky’s. And they all know the details of his life, too—and mine. When I got into USC our mailman left me a note that read: “Fight On.”
Dad’s world is full of connectivity, and when I was younger I’d always marvel at that, the way so many people cared about him. He has a bad memory—always has—and he could not be relied on to remember a birthday or a doctor’s appointment—but you always got the sense when you were with him that there was absolutely nowhere else he wanted to be. He’s never once looked over someone’s shoulder to see who else is in the room. And he’d tell you his bank account balance over coffee.
The thing Leo and my father don’t share, though, is a love of the water. Leo claims the ocean is just not his thing—he’s more comfortable on land—and I used to tease him that he didn’t know how to swim. The more time that has gone on, the more I think it might not be a joke. Once, on a trip to Hawaii, he walked around in the shallow end until I made him hold my hands. He lifted his legs, shook his head, and then promptly got out of the pool.
The water used to be so much a part of my life that sometimesit seems wild that my husband doesn’t share my passion. That he never knew me that way. But part of adult partnership is accepting that they will never really know our before. What’s important is that Leo knows who I am now, and who I will be.
“And how about you?” Dad asks. “What’s new on the numbers front?”
“Reliable,” I say, and he laughs.
