21. Now
Now: December 19th
D ad, I’m going out tonight,” I tell him from across the table at lunch. Most of our meals fall out of sync with one another, but now is an exception. Today we are both sitting around the table, Dad in his chair and me in mine—eating salads together.
I used to love cooking. When I was seven or eight I dreamed of becoming a chef one day. Mom was always whipping up something amazing in the kitchen. The day I realized she wasn’t coming back was the day I stopped cooking and baking. I couldn’t come in here without seeing the memory of her in her checkered apron whisking, whipping, and chopping. I couldn’t block out the loud music blaring from invisible speakers that no longer exist. For the longest time, I couldn’t come in here without glancing at the fridge, expecting to see another one of her notes that read:
I’ll be out for a while, Spider-Girl. There’s some leftovers for you and Dad in the fridge to enjoy.
Love, Mom.
Now, I cook out of pure necessity, but nothing like I used to. The recipes are forever etched into my brain, but I can’t will myself to make any of them again. So most mornings it’s oatmeal, toast, or eggs. Lunch is a protein shake, salad, or soup. Dinner is always takeout or something from the freezer I can easily pop into the microwave. But from time to time I long to taste one of Mom’s home-cooked meals.
Over the last few weeks, not only have I completed final edits on the last book in The Honey Sisters series, but they’ve been sent off to Wendy and are resting in her magical hands. It feels good to tie a bow on the series, but it’s also left me with a bit of a hollow feeling inside. Since Wendy is my only female friend, over these last few years I’ve grown to know and love the fictional sisters and their unique stories as if they’ve been a part of mine all along.
Wendy hasn’t dared to ask me if I’d be open to trying another signing when this story is released in a few months. To be honest, I haven’t given it much thought, and every time I do, it reminds me of him. Speaking of… I glance back over at Dad who is using his right hand to shovel food slowly into his mouth and the other to hold open the newspaper he’s reading. We never had a lot to say growing up, and that hasn’t changed much. At least some things are a constant, even if they are a bit uncomfortable at times.
He doesn’t acknowledge my comment until I clear my throat gently in an attempt to gain his attention. Just look at me, Daddy, I’m right here.
His gray eyes finally meet mine as he sets down his paper. He, too, clears his throat before speaking .
“Is that so, Sweet P? That’s funny that you mention that because I have plans tonight too,” he replies.
Wait, what did he just say? Dad has plans? Where in the world would he need to go? He rarely ever leaves the house and never has anywhere to be past six.
My stomach begins to tighten with anxiety, I push my salad away and look at him. Really look at him. My Dad leaves the house less than I do. Worried lines crease my brows.
“You have plans,” I say carefully. “Tonight,” I add.
He nods his head shyly, a slow smile curling through his lips. “Believe it or not, your old man has a date tonight.”
I don’t have any food left in my mouth, but if I did, I’d probably spit it out. What? My Dad has a… did he say date? But he doesn’t date. He’s never gone on a date, not even when he and Mom were still together… Unless he counts her as… No, we are past all of that. That was sixteen years ago. He’s in his sixties now. Is this someone he just met or has this been happening for a while now and he finally dares to speak up?
When I found out about Dad’s affair in high school, our relationship was damaged. Between Dad threatening Mom with divorce and cheating on her with his therapist, it took a long time before I was ready to forgive him. A long time. But when he became all I had left, things started to heal between us. Slowly but surely.
He calms my swirling thoughts with the simple touch of his hand, now resting on top of mine. He gives it a gentle squeeze like I used to give Mom on the days she’d had enough. The days she’d been too much, even for Dad, they’d retreat into separate rooms of the house. The days when shattered glass lay broken on the floor, and I was left to clean up their mess. When we’d all become strangers in a shared space. I remember it all a little too well.
Tears begin to well up in my eyes, and I find myself blinking rapidly to fight them away. He must notice, because he moves his hand away from mine and catches the tear before it has the chance to fall. He doesn’t show it often, but at this moment I’m reminded that he does care for me. Possibly even love me. It causes my eyes to blur even more. What’s happening to me?
“That’s great, Dad,” I manage to choke out.
I can’t see if he has tears in his eyes as well, but he nods again and continues to wipe the moisture off my cheeks.
“Thanks, darling. What about you? You said you were going out too. Is it with your friend Wendy? I really like her, I think she’s been good for you,” he says, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
I gently shake my head and reach for a napkin to dab my eyes. I guess I shouldn’t be quick to judge him for wanting to go out with someone. I’m glad he’s finally found somebody he has an interest in spending time with, other than his grown daughter.
I have never gone on a date. I have never held hands, kissed, or done anything with a boy before. All hope of that was ripped from me when I experienced the worst thing possible at the worst time possible. I never recovered from it. I’m still trying to gather up all the shattered pieces from my mess.
Now, at thirty-two, I finally have my first date. Okay, it’s not “technically” a date. I decided not to go with Denver to his G&G meeting this month, but I did agree to let him pick me up for a late coffee after it was over. With every minute that ticks by, I have to fight the urge to pick up my phone and cancel. Backing out is so much easier than saying yes. Making up excuse after excuse is less complicated than expressing myself to another human being, other than the pretend ones I write in my novels.
But I’m doing this. Wendy is preparing for her flight across the country with her family to somewhere warm and beachy. She won’t be there this time to rescue me if I make another mistake. For all I know, this could be my biggest one yet. But I’ll never know if I don’t at least give it a chance. Give him a chance. The least we could do is become friends. Because God knows I could use another friend.
“Yes, she is good for me, but it’s not Wendy this time, Dad. It’s a man I met at the book signing I did a month ago.” I don’t feel like now is the right time to mention that I also ran into him at a grief group.
He doesn’t know about that yet. I don’t feel the need to share every piece of my life with him. Apparently, he hasn’t told me everything going on in his either.
Instead, I add, “His name is Denver, and he has a daughter who enjoys my books. He’ll be here around 8 p.m. to get me.”
This time I notice his eyes. They suddenly look less dull and gray than they usually do, and they shimmer like a sparkly nickel. “That is wonderful, P. I hope it goes well for you tonight.”
I reach across the table and gently squeeze his hand in mine this time. “You too, Dad.”
I’m so proud of him for being brave and getting out there too. It’s a really big deal that he’s doing this. And not for me this time, but for him.