“Dad, I’m fine,” I say by reflex.
“Of course you are, but that doesn’t stop me. I worry about whether you’re safe at night, whether you need a new dead bolt for your front door, whether you’re eating enough vegetables, whether the people in your life are treating you with respect. I worry about whether you’re happy. It’s hard to let a child out into the world, even if they’re thirty. But once you do, they get to make their own decisions, and your job is to be there for them when they do. I sound like my therapist, don’t I?”
That’s a lot, and I feel some kind of guilt about all of it, like there’s something I’ve done to make my dad feel this way even with everything he means to me.
“You think this is a bad decision?” I finally ask. I press my hands into the mug even harder.
“No!” he says. “No. It’s—well, it’s surprising. And I haven’t quite wrapped my head around it, to be honest. But I don’t think someone who makes you smile that much can be a bad decision.”
Then he leans forward, serious behind his glasses.
“And you know our home will always be open to both of you. Any time, any reason.”
“I know,” I say, because I do. In truth, I’ve never really thought about it before. I just assumed I could go home to either of my parents whenever I wanted. But I know why he’s saying it now, like this. “Thanks, Dad.”
“And if he hurts you, I know where they keep the nuclear submarines.”
“Okay,that’soverkill.”
“Is it?” he asks with a shrug and a smile.
I do not makegood use of my Sunday. I didn’t really have plans in the first place—I assumed I’d be doing something family or wedding related, and instead I ditched—and unstructured blocks of time can make me anxious. I spend about an hour mindlessly scrollingAm I the Asshole?posts on Reddit and sending the fakest sounding ones to Amy just to get her baffled reactions. I’d send them to Javi, except I think he’s on the road for most of the day, and I don’t want to bother?—
I manage to stop that thought in its tracks. I bite my lip. Then I send Javi a particularly wild post involving a seagull, a toupee, a lobster roll, and an outdoor dining patio.
Everyone is the asshole,he texts back two hours later.Especially the seagull.Call you when I’m home in an hour and a half?
I change the sheets on my bed, but I keep the pillowcase he slept on last night because it still smells like him and I’m a little bit pathetic. I do some meal prep and some menu planning and some cleaning, but it’s an oddly empty Sunday. I left the whole day open for Family Wedding Stuff, then didn’t do any Family Wedding Stuff because I don’t feel like dealing with them any more today.
I end up getting dinner with Emily because I can’t rattle around my apartment any longer and don’t know what else to do with myself, then don’t tell her anything. I just listen to her talk about her office drama (someone left a mildly salacious printout in the printer, and no one knows who) and her wedding stuff and enjoy someone else’s problems for a while.
The whole time I feel wrong-footed, like I lost my balance at some point and haven’t quite gotten it back. I try not to resent the casual way that my dad and Amy and Emily all saywe, but I can’t help it. I try not to think about the fact that if things had been different, I could’ve spent the last three years saying it, too, instead of missing him and hating myself for it.
When he calls, he sounds so far away it hurts. When we hang up, he says “I miss you already,” and I say “Me, too,” and when I’m alone again in my quiet apartment, I sit on my couch and finally cry about it.
Three years ago, my life didn’t look much different. Same apartment, same job—I got promoted a year and a half ago, but I still work at the same place—same friends. I’m pretty sure I’ve got the same bed sheets and the same coffee maker, and all ofthat’s solid and steady and comforting, but that’s not enough any longer, is it?
Someone who makes you smile that much, my dad said.
I know what I want, so maybe I should go get it.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
JAVIER
WhenI finally get to Wyatt’s after the day I’ve had, Zorro rushes to the front door, puts his paws on my thighs, and unleashes ahowl. I can sympathize.
“It was awful here?” I ask, scratching him behind both ears. “No one fed you even once? Your sister bullied you? The sunlight patches were insufficient?”
“He’s a liar,” Wyatt calls from the next room. “He got plenty of cat treatsandI busted out some brand-new catnip.”
“I don’t know who to believe,” I tell Zorro. On the other side of the room, a pile of orange fur rises, stretches, and then hops off a cat tree. I scoop Zorro up and hold him like a human baby, fluffy belly facing up, which is a thing he’s never let anyone else do. “Did you act right?” I ask him.
“He was a gentleman and a scholar,” Wyatt says, coming out of the bedroom. Then he stops short, frowns, and gives me a concerned up-and-down look. “What happened?”
Just once, I’d like to not get read like a book by my friends.
“It’s a long story,” I say.
