Chapter 3
He didn’t pry. Never had.
Even in my thirties, he was still the one I called when I needed help. We weren’t close when I was growing up, but ever since — he’s a good man. I’m lucky.
“Want to get something to eat on the way home?” He asked over the voices on the radio. He was big into podcasts now. I had jokingly told him that his midlife crisis should have been more involved than podcasts.
He’d told me that his midlife crisis also involved helping his adult daughter move back in with him.
That had shut me up pretty quickly.
It was easy between us, mostly. He wasn’t nosy, didn’t ask for all the details and misgivings of my marriage. Just opened his arms and his home and welcomed me back like I had never left.
He joked it was really just because he was excited to have Lance back. My dad — Herschel Haddock — had a deep love for cats. That was his true midlife crisis.
Cat foster dad.
It was a wonder he wasn’t one of those crazy people with nineteen cats and a single litter box in their homes.
“No, I’m okay,” I muttered, feeling as embarrassed as I did when I called him drunk from a house party in high school. “Can we swing by the bar, though? I should get my car.”
“Sure thing, hon.”
We made it back to the house easily. He helped me carry a couple of boxes in. Dad had recently renovated the basement as a guest room, in case family came to visit.
Dad had joked — just once — that it was too soon to note that he hadn’t expected family to move in.
“Alright, kiddo.” He set the box down, pretending to wipe sweat from his forehead. It’s March in Seattle; the high for the day was forty-four. But his attempt at theatrics did lighten the stone that had settled in my gut. “I have to get back to work. Shout if you need anything?”
“Sure thing, Pop.” I offered him a smile before he left, before I tossed myself back on the bed.
I should be allowed to wallow… right?
I think I’ve earned it.
Plugging my phone in, I opened social media, excited about the wonderful afternoon of doom scrolling that sat ahead of me.
This definitely wouldn’t cause my mental health to decline even further.
As I scrolled, his face popped up.
COMING TO SEATTLE THIS WEEKEND ONLY:
ANSEL BARLOWE
Followed by the link to purchase tickets to the convention, and how to see him. My stomach churned as I clicked the comments. I should have known better… They never changed when it came to him. Always the picture-less icons. Always the usernames created solely to shit on others.
This con used to have good guests.
He was so bad in Candlelights though…
Washed up.
Not even one of the newer heroes? LAME.
He was a talented actor. He always had been — it wasn’t his fault that the director/writer for his literal debut did a terrible job directing him.
Besides — ‘Battle for the Cosmos’ was supposed to be a little campy. You weren’t supposed to watch it for the realism or the relationships. You watched it because it felt like home. Like a warm hug. Like nostalgia and hope, all at once.
I had left the world of fandoms so very long ago, relieved that I could finally just enjoy things casually. But something about the way the internet’s fuckboys treated Ansel would always grind my gears. Without thinking, I slammed out my own response.
juniepwillikers: can’t wait to see @anselbarlowe this weekend
I’d barely had time to leave the post when my phone made a little ‘ding’.
Ansel Barlowe liked your comment.
My heart stuttered, just a little flip before I remembered I had his number in my pocket. That he’d bought me a drink last night. That I’d insinuated that he’d be moaning my name.
My face flushed deeply before I tossed my phone aside.
I’m thirty-three years old, dammit.
I wasn’t a teenager getting starry-eyed over an online celebrity interaction.
I just wasn’t.