But after my mom died, I wanted to move back home. My dad became a quiet recluse, leaving the house only to go to workevery day. He stopped calling, stopped going to the Moose lodge, stopped watching football; it was like he’d checked out of the world. My brothers tried helping, which usually just devolved into arguing because they knew nothing of subtlety, but my mother had taught me something important about my dad—he needed to be needed.
So I might’ve started needing him alot.
Because when I called and described the weird sound my car was making, he drove to my apartment and spent hours poring over the Honda. And when I mentioned I’d been too busy to eat, he took me to Tom Reid’s Pub for a burger and we stayed to watch the entire Coyotes game that was playing on the mounted TVs.
And when it was time to renew my apartment lease and I called to whine about rent increases and my student loan debt, he had said, “You’re welcome home anytime, Duff, if you need to save up some money.”
So I moved back home.
My dad could rewire a thermostat and make any car—in any condition—start, but he was a helpless child when it came to living alone. Getting groceries, setting up automatic bill payments, remembering to take his blood pressure medicine; those were things he’d happily ignore if I wasn’t there.
“Well,” he said, folding up the paper and crossing his arms as I took a sip of juice. “In spite of the fact that you told Cunningham he sucks, the press thinks we’re charming. Not a single word about the jinx or your violent behavior, just an article on how cute you two were.”
“Cute?” That was definitelynothow I’d describe it. Embarrassing, awkward—those were much better adjectives.
But I wasn’t going to let myself think about it. I had an entire workday in front of me and I couldn’t waste another minute dying of mortification.
But God, I’d actually saidout loudthe words “Did you?” when the Kells implied Connor Cunningham was asking me out.
Please kill me.
I was positive I was already a meme, an image of a nerd full-onbeamingat the mistaken implication that a famous athlete might’ve noticed her, so I was maintaining my social media blackout because I couldn’t let any more of that shit in.
It was much better to be in denial and pretend life was normal.
—
“Duffy Distefano, get your ass over here immediately.”
I took off my jacket and hung it on my cubicle hook. “Let me get logged in first, calm down.”
“Okay, I’m coming to you, then,” Ellie said, “because this can’t wait.”
I sat down and turned on my computer while she walked over, the click of her high heels growing louder. Ellie Shanahan was my best friend (and favorite co-worker), although one would never guess by looking at us. El was into fashion and pop culture and beauty regimens, whereas I was into buying clothes at Target and using makeup remover wipes as my entire skincare routine.
Occasionally, if my skin was dry, I’d rub on a little lotion.
I knew I’d probably have regrets about that when I was an old hag with terrible skin, but for the time being, I was fine with my poor choices.
Who could afford all those serums and moisturizers, anyway?
I’d known El since preschool. We’d been in the same class, on the same peewee hockey and soccer teams, and years later she’d majored in accounting at the U just so we could someday get jobs at the same company.
It’d seemed insane when she’d made that proclamation—her parents thought law would’ve been a better path for their little genius—but it’d worked out exactly as she’d planned, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. As it turned out, shelikedworking with numbers, and life was hard enough on its own, so having my best friend with me day-to-day was like an amazing bonus (even though I suspected we drove our co-workers a little crazy every once in a while).
“First of all, I need to know what he smelled like. I imagine him oozing expensive cologne out of those tight, gorgeous pores, but in the very best way.” She leaned against my desk and crossed her arms. “Subtle and delicious.”
“First of all, gross. Second of all, he smelled good but in a regular way, like he uses bar soap and shaving cream,” I said, ignoring my computer’s security reminder. “Seriously, why do we have to change our passwords so often?”
“Focus. What happened after the show?” she asked. “Did he follow up on the ‘you should have to buy me dinner’ comment?”
Please don’t remind me of that.
“As soon as the show ended, he disappeared,” I said, sitting back in my chair and looking up at her after finally logging in. “The show hosts talked to me and my dad while they unclipped our microphones, and by the time we were done, Connor was already gone.”
“Seriously?” Her perfectly done eyebrows furrowed. “But I could tell he was into you. No, no, no—we have to find a way to—”
“No, he wasn’t,” I corrected. “And no, we don’t.”
