“It is,” Gin insists. She tilts to the side, feeling around for her purse. “Most of the work is going to be getting the Bhats’ backyard ready. It overlooks this beautiful marsh with cattails and tall grass…I’ll show you a picture, but Rishi and I are planting a ton of flowers so we don’t have to decorate. Like, at all.”
“Obsessed with that,” Chrissy says.
“Well, if we can help with anything, let us know,” I chime in, and Gin smiles.
“You guys were a huge help today. I really didn’t want to tryon any more dresses and then, boom. The very last dress.” She holds both hands to her chest like she’s pressing the moment there, stamping it onto her heart. “I wanna look at the picture again. Whose phone is it on?”
“Mine,” Renee chirps, already scrolling. “One sec. I’ll find it.” But I can see her screen from here. If I squint, I can read the words in the search bar: “easy backyard wedding decor.” I can’t say that I’m surprised.
We split the check and say our goodbyes, each of us headed in separate directions for tomorrow’s holiday. Renee has a train to catch to Iowa, Chrissy disappears in a cab to the western suburbs, and Gin is headed just down the road to celebrate Father’s Day with her soon-to-be in-laws. When she hugs me goodbye, she holds on a few extra seconds.
“Call me tomorrow if you need me,” she says.
It feels like my heart is developing a blister. Even after my shameful performance today, Gin is still as kind and supportive as if I had sewn her a wedding dress myself. I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve her. And yet here I am anyway, trying my best. Only I’m worried my best isn’t quite good enough.
“And hey.” Gin squeezes my shoulder. “Happy early birthday, Alice.”
Of course she would never forget.
That night, I stay up till midnight, as is my ritual for every big holiday since Dad’s been gone—Christmas, his birthday, any day that makes his absence hurt a little extra, I stay up to face it, priming myself for the morning. When the clock on the stove rolls over to 12:00, it’s officially Father’s Day, and I’m officially twenty-nine.
I sleep like shit, but I wake up to a happy-birthday text from Gin and a phone call from Mom before I’m even out of bed.
“Morning, birthday girl! How’s your day so far?” Every syllable is bouncy and exaggerated, like Mom is performing joy without knowing what joy feels like. I wonder which one of us she’s trying to fool?
I yawn and throw back the covers. “Thanks, Mom. I just woke up, so…happy Father’s Day, I guess.”
It’s quiet for a long time, Mom’s uneven breathing the only evidence that she hasn’t hung up. I’m halfway to the kitchen by the time she sheds the act. “I wasn’t sure if I should even mention it,” Mom says, sounding like my mother again. Tender and trampled.
“Yeah, well.” I swallow. What else is there to say? I’m already workshopping excuses to hang up when Mom sighs—not a sad sigh, thankfully. More like a reset.
“Well. Since you mentioned it, I’ve been going through some old scrapbooks looking for Father’s Day photos.”
I tip my head, pinning Mom’s voice between my cheek and my shoulder while I dig a clean mug out of the dishwasher.
“I didn’t realize how long we had that porch swing out front at the Outpost,” Mom goes on. There’s a rustling behind her that crescendos to a staticky crackle, and I wince.
“What are you doing, Mom?”
“I’m trying to find these pictures…just…hold on.”
I switch to speakerphone and dress up my coffee while listening to her dig through what sounds like a pile of dead leaves.
“Aha! Found it.” Mom sounds victorious, then sighs again, wistful. “God, it’s a cute one. You used to sleep anywhere as a kid—did I ever tell you that?”
“Mmm, I don’t think so.”
“Anywhere but your bed. I swear there are at least…” More rustling. “Three different pictures of you napping in a pizza box.”
A smile sneaks up on me. I’m not always up for reminiscing, especially about Dad, but it’s reassuring to know I was sleeping in odd places long before alcohol was part of the equation.
“But hey. Anyway.Birthday girl.Any plans for the day? I’ve got your present wrapped and ready, if you wanna swing by. I could get a cake or something.”
This sinking, guilty feeling is getting a little too familiar. I never did reschedule that dinner with Mom. “Maybe sometime this week? Today’s no good, but…” I check the calendar on my fridge, lifting up June to peek at July. “I’ve got a lot going on with Gin’s wedding, but I should be able to find a good time.”
The words stick to my tongue.A good time.I have time, but the thought of visiting Mom at that house just never feels good.
“Well, you’re welcome anytime,” Mom says. “Anytime at all. I’ll rearrange plans if I have to. Just let me know.”
