1. Couples Are the Worst
LUCIE
“My legacy? Men have legacies. Women have families.”
Excerpt from interview with Savannah Lamb, recipe blogger
“ C ouples are the worst.” I held up my hands. “There. I said it.”
Andrew, who’d been gazing intently at Carly like he could Vulcan mind-meld her into leaving us all behind so he could take her home and do couple things like pick out fucking wallpaper, blinked slowly. “No, we’re not.”
At the same time, Carly said, “What? We’re not a couple.”
Andrew’s mouth turned down as he snatched his arm from the back of Carly’s barstool.
“I meant,” Carly said, “we’re not that kind of couple. Like that.” She nodded at the booth closest to our high-top table, where the guy had his tongue down the woman’s throat. And possibly his hand up her skirt. I leaned around Tessa to look. Yep, definitely fingering going on.
I straightened. “You’re worse,” I announced. “It’s not just hot sex, it’s love.”
Carly hid her blush against Andrew’s soft-looking gray sweater. He stroked her arm, looking like she’d given him a gift he’d been coveting for years.
“You agree with me, right, Tessa?” I swiveled in my chair to face her. Our standing Wednesday-night happy hour was down one—our friend Savannah hadn’t been able to make it from Sacramento this week—but we’d added Carly’s boyfriend. I supposed this was going to be a regular thing now.
She tilted her head. “I find it fascinating how Carly has changed since she accepted Andrew as part of her life. But I don’t need to judge it as better or worse. Just different.”
Speaking of Vulcans. “But look at this.” I picked up my glass of scotch and pointed at them with it. “They’re like a couple of Care Bears. With fucking hearts shooting out of them.”
“Care Bears? What are those?” Andrew’s hand had moved from Carly’s arm to her hip. Like they were snuggling, right here in the bar.
Carly looked up. “Even Lucie knows the Care Bears. You don’t remember them?”
“It’s like he grew up on a different planet.” Dude was only seven years younger than me. I sipped my scotch, and it burned my throat on the way down. It tasted like socks someone had worn to a camp-out.
“God.” Tessa rested her chin on her hand. “I’d forgotten all about Care Bears. I wanted one so bad back in the ’80s. Like it was my passport to social acceptance.”
“Did you ever get one?” I asked. Tessa was tighter than a nun’s asshole about her past. So far, I’d figured out she’d been sheltered, or more like held back from popular culture in the ’80s and ’90s. Maybe she’d come from one of those TV-rots-your-brain families. No wonder she was so smart.
“No.” She drained her glass of whiskey and set it down. “Who wants another?”
“Me.” I raised my hand. All this couple bullshit was stirring up something uncomfortable inside me. Not jealousy, exactly. But a weird kind of longing. I needed to either drink it away or fuck it away, and from the anemic selection of single people in the bar tonight, it was probably going to be drinking.
“Want another glass of sparkling wine?” Andrew murmured. “I’m driving.”
Carly smiled up at him, her eyes practically matching the string of paper hearts hanging over the table. “Okay.”
“Got it. I’ll bring you a seltzer, Andrew.” Tessa strode to the bar.
“What are you two doing after happy hour?” I asked. “Want to try that new Ethiopian place across the street?”
Carly’s lips turned down. “Sorry, we’re doing takeout at Andrew’s place. I have to head down to LA the day after tomorrow, and since it’s Valentine’s Day…”
“Valentine’s Day?” I looked up at the paper hearts. “Guess I lost track of the date.” Why did February 14 raise a flag in my brain? Today had been a normal day at the paper, and I didn’t have any interviews scheduled for my book until March. I lifted my phone from the table.
“Round two,” Tessa announced, setting down the four drinks like a pro. She raised her glass. “To…?”
“To love,” Carly said, her cheeks turning pink. “I love you all. And Savannah, too.” She whispered something in Andrew’s ear that made him puff out his chest like he’d won an award.
Award. It clicked into place. “Shit!” I plunked down my drink and scraped back my chair. “Gotta go. I’m late.”
“Need us to drive you?” Andrew asked.
That’d be just what I needed, to give my friends a glimpse of my cringeworthy family life. “No, thanks, I’ll get a rideshare.” I waved as I flicked open the app and headed toward the exit.
Nope, my friends were happily deluded that I was a moderately successful journalist. I wouldn’t reveal what my family knew and never hesitated to toss in my face, that I was a disappointment, destined to be forgotten.
A fact that my next stop was sure to remind me of.
“ L ooks like they’ve already started,” the driver said as she cruised up the now-empty circle drive in front of the campus union hall.
I didn’t have to glance at my phone to know how late I was. “Yeah.”
“Sorry about the traffic.” She waved a hand behind her, as if she could still see the snarl we’d fought through on our way from San Francisco.
I shrugged. “It happens.” Especially when you leave late because you’re drinking with your friends.
One of my dad’s many mantras is that we make time for what’s important. That was the one he used when he caught me pulling an all-nighter to finish a paper in college. And when I said I was busy at work and couldn’t make it to whatever university event he wanted to trot me out at like a show pony. But that was before my early promise had faded like old newspaper.
When I stayed in her Tesla, staring at the closed doors of the stucco building, the driver said, “Kind of late for a funeral, isn’t it?”
“Funeral?” I tilted my head.
She turned and pointed at my torso. “With that getup…”
I looked down at my black trench coat that covered my black shirtdress. “Oh. No, it’s an award banquet, actually.”
Her forehead scrunched, setting the barbell in her eyebrow sparkling in the building’s yellow security light. “I hope you’re not the one getting the award.”
I chuckled. “Yeah, no. It’s my father. As usual. Thanks for the ride.” I pushed out of the car but paused on the sidewalk to take a deep breath. Then another. Pasting a smile on my face because he expected it, I strode to the door, heaved it open, and flung myself into the lion’s den.
I smelled coffee and a muddle of foods. Potatoes, maybe, and fish. My stomach rumbled. How long ago was lunch? Oh, right, I’d skipped that. Maybe I could still scrounge a plate of something.
My father wasn’t particularly tall, and he wore a dark suit like all the other men in the room. Still, he had a presence that drew my attention. Everyone’s, really. His white hair and beard stood out against his brown skin. He didn’t break his perpetually serious expression as he spoke with a colleague, his focus unwavering even as I approached.
My mother saw me, though. She beamed as I weaved between the round banquet tables, her strawberry-blond hair glinting in the spotlights from the nearby dais. She usually wore more muted colors, but her dress tonight was the color of one of those heart-shaped candy boxes.
“Lucie! You made it!” Her eyes crinkled, obscuring a few of her freckles.
“Sorry I’m late,” I muttered as I kissed her cheek. “Traffic.”
I winced as soon as I said it and glanced at Dad, hoping he hadn’t heard. My hope died when he turned toward me, his jaw set.
“That old story?” he murmured. Louder, he said, “Cal, you remember my daughter, Lucie? She won an award for a seven-part series on human trafficking. How many years ago was that, Lucie?”
My cheeks burning, I shook the older white man’s hand. “Fifteen or so.”
“She was a brand-new reporter. No idea how she got the assignment, but she made the most of it,” Dad said.
I already knew the question was coming before Cal opened his mouth. “And what have you been working on lately?”
“Moldering in the newsroom at the city paper.” My father spat out the last two words like he’d say “garbage dump.”
At the same time, I stood to my full height of five foot four and said, “Actually, I’m working on a book. I just signed the deal.”
I’d signed it two weeks ago, but I’d wanted to look Dad in the eye when I told him.
His white eyebrow twitched upward.
“Oh, Lucie, we’re so proud.” Mom squeezed my shoulders.
Cal asked, “What’s the book about?”
“It’s about legacy. What we intend to leave behind. What we hope we’re remembered for.”
Cal chuckled. “You going to interview your dad, I assume?”
“It’s a book about women’s legacies,” I said.
“Women’s legacies?” Cal asked. “Like motherhood?
We all glanced at my mother in her drab Eileen Fisher suit, white silk blouse, and empty smile.
“Women can be more than mothers,” I blurted. “I have some interviews lined up. A tech founder, a Hollywood stylist.” I left out the facts that they were my best friends and I hadn’t asked them yet. “And?—”
“I’ll connect you with Dr. Watts,” my father said. “The university’s first Black female president should have a place in your book.”
Cal scratched his gray beard. “Marvin, didn’t you speak on a panel recently with Senator Gu? He’s got a wife who does something with refugees, I think.”
“That’s right,” Dad said. “Eleanor. Everyone says their son is on the road to the White House. I’m sure she’ll do me a favor and talk to you.”
Suddenly, dinner leftovers didn’t seem so appetizing.
“I’ve got it, Dad,” I growled.
“All right.” As he shrugged like he didn’t care (he did), the lights flickered. “Ah. That’s my cue.” Without another word, he strode to the dais and took his seat next to the university president.
Cal had already disappeared, so I turned to my mother. “Did you save me a seat?”
“You can borrow your father’s. He won’t need it.” She pointed at a chair and sat in the one next to it. The efficient servers had removed everything edible from the table. I turned the coffee cup over, hoping someone would come to fill it, and I could beg for a leftover dessert.
As the lights dimmed, Mom leaned over to whisper in my ear, “We’re both so proud of you.”
It was a lie. Not an intentional one; my mother was definitely proud of me, and she thought Dad was, too. But the only way my father would be proud of me was if I was sitting up on that stage, getting an award for scholarly achievement. He’d been furious the day I’d told him I’d declined my grad school acceptance to go to work for the paper. He’d told me I was throwing away my future. But I’d wanted a different future from his.
It wasn’t because Dad’s research into the long-term effects of racism on society wasn’t valuable. It was, and politicians and activists wore out the cushions of his dining-room chairs as they begged for his advice on how to make the country a better place for all its citizens.
But I didn’t care for the sanitized type of research he did, with statistics and expert interviews. No, I wanted to dig deeper into people’s stories and help them share those narratives with a broader audience. Because people connected better with stories than with dry research. I’d blaze my own trail and change the world my way.
So I went to work at the newspaper, where as the new person, I took the assignments no one else wanted: city council meetings, school board meetings, the mayor’s press conference announcing the city budget. Until one day, I was in the right place at the right time when a reporter called in sick, and I got to cover a bust of a human trafficking ring. Then, I’d convinced the editor to let me do a follow-up piece on some of the victims, and even Dad had noticed when a national news magazine picked it up as a feature.
Too bad I’d done nothing noteworthy in the seventeen years since.
The burst of applause startled me, and I focused on the stage just as my father stepped up to the podium. Another plaque for his wall of achievement was displayed on an easel beside him. Was there even space for it? He’d already annexed the wall in my old bedroom, the one that used to be covered in posters of Bono, Jane Goodall, and Nelson Mandela.
The speaker before him must have introduced his work because instead of talking about his research, Dad thanked the university for the honor and launched into a lengthy list of acknowledgments, from his editor at the university press to the graduate students who’d run the statistical analysis. My eyebrows crept up my forehead. Normally, Dad wasn’t big on sharing credit. Some people probably thought he set the type on the printing press himself.
“…and most importantly, I’d like to thank the person who’s stood by me through it all, who’s supported me, who’s encouraged me, who’s been my partner in my journey.” He paused, still unsmiling.
I was pretty sure I’d never heard him acknowledge my mother. I reached for her hand and squeezed it. She’d given up everything for him. For us both. She’d been forced out of her graduate program when her relationship with my father, who happened to be her adviser, was exposed. I was born three months later. If anyone deserved his thanks, she did.
“Dr. LaToya Watts,” he said. “Without the support of our university president, my research wouldn’t have received the exposure it has. Thank you.” He lifted the plaque from its easel and posed next to Dr. Watts for photos as the audience applauded.
I froze, still gripping my mother’s hand. Had I somehow missed his thanks to her? Judging from the forced smile on her face, no.
I leaned forward to whisper, “Are you okay?”
Her eyes crinkled at the corners. “Of course I am. This is a major achievement for your father. For us all.”
One glance at my father up on the stage, shaking hands with the trustees, told me she was wrong. It was an achievement for one person only, and that was him. I hated that he couldn’t love me for who I was, but ignoring the person who’d given up everything for him? No. I couldn’t sit around and pretend to smile after that.
I kissed her cheek. “Bye, Mom. I’ve got to go.”
She blinked her blue eyes wide. “You’re not staying to talk to him after? Come to the house. I’ll whip you up a snack.”
“No, thanks. Early meeting tomorrow.” As much as I longed for one of my mother’s meals, listening to my father’s pompous speech had ruined my appetite.
I needed another drink.