Love Signals: An opposites-attract, forced proximity, only one bed, revenge romantic comedy (Love St

37. Angry Packing and Unwanted Advice

Allie

“Why don’tyou bring a bathing suit? I’m sure the hotel has a hot tub and it’ll be good for your bones after that long flight,” my mom says.

“Meh, I really don’t feel like being in a swimsuit around people I work with.” The truth is, I don’t feel like going. Not even one bit. I’m bitter and angry and furious and … what’s another word for angry? Filled with rage. Well, that’s a phrase, but it fits. I’m also late. I should have left for the airport already, only I couldn’t bring myself to pack on account of all the rage.

“Why not? If I still had a body like yours, I’d be walking around in a bikini all year,” she tells me.

I open my underwear drawer and count out six pairs, then toss them in the general location of my open suitcase. “It’s not about how I look. It’s about me trying to get some respect, which is apparently the world’s biggest uphill battle for some stupid reason. On a hill made entirely of ice and I’m wearing Teflon shoes.”

My mom picks up my pajama pants and folds them neatly, then places them in properly. “I wish I knew what to say to make you feel better, tesora. What’s happening is not fair, but I still believe it’s going to work out.”

“Why on earth would you think that?” I ask, zipping up my overstuffed suitcase.

“Because it’s true. You’ve worked so hard for so long, and it doesn’t matter if some actor is going to get credit for your invention as far as the public goes. What we all think means nothing. None of us even know what the hell you do. Everybody who knows will know.”

Sighing, I say, “I guess.”

I pick up my passport and stuff it in my handbag while my mom calls down the stairs. “Enzo! Allegra’s ready to go. Come get her suitcase.”

“Ma, I can carry my own luggage.”

“Not down the stairs.”

“Of course down the stairs,” I say, giving her my handbag. I sling my laptop bag over my shoulder, then pick up my insanely heavy suitcase and fight my way to the front door just as my dad comes out of his den. “You ready?”

“All set. You two have a wonderful week. I’ll see you when I get home.”

He shakes his head at me. “What are you talking about? I’m taking you to the airport.”

Oh God, I do not have time to go dad-speed right now. “No, that’s okay. It’s too much trouble. You’d have to drive there, then turn around and drive all the way back here. I’ll drive myself.” Holding out my arms, I say, “Okay. Let’s hug it out, then I really have to run.”

He waves off my hug and picks up my suitcase. “I’m taking you.”

Ma nods. “Your father is taking you. End of discussion.”

I open my mouth, but he says, “I need to talk to you.”

Crap. He’s been trying to convince me to give Hudson a second chance since he showed up last Sunday, but I’m not having it. To be honest, I feel pretty damn betrayed that my own father would take his side. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“It’s not about that. It’s something else. Something important.”

I narrow my eyes at him, and he says, “For real. Let’s go.”

Two minutes and four hugs from my mother later, we’re finally on the road. I grip the armrest on the passenger door while my dad drives toward the freeway.

“What did you need to talk to me about? Are you okay?”

“Healthy as an ox,” he answers. “It’s not about me.”

“Is it Ma?”

“She’s good too. Strong woman, that one.”

“Okay, well you’re just going to have to tell me because I’m not in the mood to name every member of the family right now.”

He slowly makes his way onto the freeway, crossing all four lanes until he’s in the left one. “It’s about you.”

I close my eyes for a second, knowing exactly where this is going. “I told you, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You’re not going to talk. I’m going to talk,” he says, pointing a finger at his chest. “You’re going to listen.”

“Sweet Jesus,” I mutter.

“He’s tomato paste, Allegra. I know it. As a father, I know it.”

“I don’t think you do. You told me he was pepper.”

“I’m willing to admit I was wrong. He’s tomato paste.”

“He’s a big fat liar,” I tell him.

“No. He’s a man who was ashamed of something he had no business being ashamed of. He didn’t come right out and say it, but I’m pretty sure it’s because he has terrible parents.”

My heart picks up its pace, and not just because he almost hit the guardrail. “He told you about his dyslexia?”

Nodding, he says, “He told me everything.”

Oh God, I certainly hope not. “Yeah, well, he only did that because he’s trying to offload all the guilt he should be feeling about what he did.”

“He showed up because he loves you. Because he’s sorry he hurt you. Because he’s finally figured out who he is.”

“He’s been a grown up for a long time. He should have figured his shit out by now.”

“He couldn’t do it before, but he’s doing it now.”

“Oh really? And just how do you know he’s actually doing it now? He’s a professional liar, Pop. He’s made millions pretending to be people he’s not, and that makes him dangerous and unreliable, neither of which make him a good candidate to be with your daughter. So why you’re on his side is beyond me,” I say, staring out the passenger window just long enough to make eye contact with an elderly woman who passes us on the right with her middle finger aimed at my father. “You should be on my side.”

“I am on your side. I’ve always been and will always be on your side,” he tells me. “But it’s my job as a father to tell you when you’re about to ruin your entire life.”

“Oh God, I can’t deal with this right now. I’m late for my flight, I’m stressed out about this stupid trip, and the last thing I need is a big lecture from you.”

“I’m telling you the truth, cara. Hudson is a good man. He’s a hard worker. Life dealt him a crap hand but instead of giving up, he made something of himself, and that is to be respected. He’s also a brave man. He came all the way up to our house, on a Sunday, knowing your entire family would be there, just so he could talk to you. That’s not something pepper does.”

“He only showed up because he doesn’t want me to make a big fuss at the conference. I could really embarrass him.”

“No, he showed up because he loves you and he wants to make it up to you.”

“Oh yeah? If that’s the case, why the hell is he going all the way to Switzerland to steal my thunder?”

“That’s not what’s going to happen.”

“Of course it is. They already printed the agenda and he’s the keynote speaker, and the topic is “The Future of AI in SETI Research!” That’s my topic. Mine. And if he cared even the tiniest bit about me, he would’ve turned them down,” I say, my voice raising. “But he didn’t because he doesn’t care about me at all. He used me. That’s all he did. He used me and made me believe something was possible that isn’t possible. He’s cruel and selfish and I hate him. And nothing is ever going to change that.”

I expect my dad to argue, but all he does is shrug. “We’ll see.”

“Yeah, we will see,” I answer in a clipped tone.

We’re both silent the rest of the drive. I fume while my dad turns on the radio to a country music station. He hums along as though he doesn’t have a care in the world, which quite frankly makes me even more furious. When we finally pull up, I let out a big sigh. “I don’t know why you felt the need to tell me all this stuff I don’t want to hear. It’s not going to change anything.”

He looks at me, his face filled with love. “Because I know my opinion matters to you, and I didn’t want you to turn down your one chance at happiness because you think I don’t like him. I like him. He’s a good man.” Shrugging, he says, “He’s not Italian, but nobody’s perfect.”

“My one chance at happiness,” I scoff. “That’s ridiculous. There are plenty of good men out there.”

“Not like this one, cara. This one makes your eyes light up.”

“He does not,” I snap. “Maybe he did for a minute, but that’s over.”

“Is it possible that you’re fighting so hard to believe he’s pepper because deep down, you don’t think you’re good enough to finally have tomato paste?”

I stare at him for a long moment, not wanting to think about what he just said. “I have to go.”

He pats me on the hand. “You deserve tomato paste. You always have. You just have to believe it.”