Chapter Seven
Dad is talking on speakerphone with Serena when I walk through the door Friday evening, four days since spilling coffee on Mom’s shirt but also somehow only five seconds since Wednesday and my existential I can’t do this crisis.
I haven’t seen James since, which is totally fine.
Catarina mentioned yesterday that he had a shortened schedule this week due to appointments.
That’s more than fine by me. It’s good. There needs to be a discussion about the social media plan, sure, but we needn’t meet face-to-face to do it and we certainly don’t have to bring up my waterworks and the note and—
“Here she is!” Dad declares proudly when he hears the door close. “Our new little actress.”
“We’ve talked about this,” I say, hanging my bag on a hook next to his ranch coats. “It’s audiobook narrator. ”
Dad ignores this.
“Hail the conquering hero! Home from the war known as her very first week on the job. May she find the bounty her loving father acquired from that local Italian place she likes to be a fitting tribute.”
Serena’s tinny voice comes from Dad’s speakerphone: “Congrats, Junie!”
“This seems like…a lot,” I say, looking around at the impressive number of take-out containers. “It was just the first week.”
“Yeah, but it was a big week, ” Serena says. “And also your best friend sucks and has been buried beneath thirty-five pounds of raging toddler and unavailable for anything but sporadic texting, so you deserve some fanfare.”
“ But, ” Dad says, like a ringmaster about to announce the next act, “she did come through on your favorite Italian food because your old man couldn’t remember if you liked ravioli or tortellini.”
“Ravioli,” Serena and I say in unison.
“Thanks again for your help, Sunset,” Dad tells Serena.
He’s called her that ever since Serena accompanied me on my by-choice adult summer trips to visit Dad after Mom died.
The first outfit he saw her in was a crocheted lesbian pride flag top that he mistook for a sunset, to which Dad—ever the excellent small talker—said how much he loved sunsets and did Serena make that top herself?
It looked lovely and the craftsmanship reminded him of something my mother would make.
He made such a big deal about loving sunsets that rather than risk him being embarrassed—because she is the kindest soul who ever walked the earth—Serena declared herself a sunset enthusiast, Dad started to call her Sunset, and that was that.
“Yeah, Sunset, ” I say, teasing. “Thanks for stuffing me full of carbs and ignoring my calls.”
“ I’m sorryyy, ” Serena repeats. “I’ve actually gotta run because— get this—we found a babysitter who is willing to watch Misha two nights in a row so we can go to that jazz fest thing Leonora bought tickets to. But real quick, take me off speaker?”
Dad is busy unpacking the food and arranging it buffet-style on the counter, but I still walk into the corner with the phone to my ear because I know what’s coming.
“No,” I say simply.
“ No? ” Serena echoes. “Are you sure?”
I snort. “Pretty sure I would remember.”
“It doesn’t make any sense.” Serena’s voice is nearly whining. “He must have wanted you to text. There’s no way he doesn’t want you to after that note. It was playful. ”
“It’s not like he owes me an explanation for his absence,” I say. “So he’s taking a long weekend to work on something else. What does it matter to me, really? What am I supposed to say? Thanks for the cockles. Here’s my number. Let’s talk about how I’ve cried nearly every time we’ve met?”
“What is something else, though?” Serena asks, like she didn’t hear me at all. “Is it a meeting about a movie? Is he recording his first-ever pop album?”
I don’t dignify any of that with a response.
“Aren’t you the least bit curious?” Serena asks, practically begging.
“Sure,” I say, trying to keep my voice casual because I can feel Dad’s nosiness from the kitchen like a hand on my shoulder. “But there’s nothing I can do about it. Besides, I crossed him and”—I make a gesture in the air—“all of this off the list, remember? Not my problem.”
“That move was not sanctioned by the list maker,” Serena argues.
“Ugh. Okay, I’ve gotta run because otherwise I’m going to have to rush my cat eye and you know how much I hate squiggly eyeliner.
But text him, Juniper. He wouldn’t have made sure you had his number if he didn’t want you to reach out. ”
He could have texted me himself by getting my number from Catarina or Genie, but instead he left a note on my car like a carrier pigeon. Or a serial killer, I think.
“Sure,” I tell her. “Have a good time at the jazz festival.”
“I mean it,” Serena says. “Do it. Text him. I dare you.”
“ Bye, ” I stress. “Go enjoy a night out with your wife.”
I shake my head when I hear my own phone ping from my pocket as soon as I close Dad’s. I’m willing to bet a hefty amount of my narrating salary that it’s a final DO IT text from Serena before Leonora hopefully takes her phone away for their date.
I make a mental note to look into the friend-making apps again.
When I come back into the kitchen, Dad makes it a good five minutes of pretending like he wasn’t trying to hear my entire conversation with Serena before asking, “Where has that nice boy gone off to?”
My mouth is full of ravioli, which curbs some of my parricidal tendencies.
“ Dad. Let’s not do this again, okay? I save it for girl talk.”
“That sounds awfully sexist of you, kid. Sunset says we should all work toward eliminating gender norms to bring about a kinder, brighter society.”
“ I’m sure she does, ” I mutter. “But she can come talk to me about clichés when she admits she fell for Leonora because of her propensity toward wearing overalls.” I set down my knife. “Can we talk about something else? Anything new at the ranch? Something? ”
Dad twirls a roll of fettuccini covered in white sauce.
“Got a new mare at auction,” he says, his tone suspiciously innocent. “Poor lonely thing. Was kept on her own for too long and spent the last few days nipping at anyone we tried to introduce to her corral. Funny thing, horses. They need others of their kind. They need companionship.”
I set down my fork.
“Dad.”
He continues, ignoring me.
“She’s doing better this week. Oddly, there’s a stallion that usually keeps to himself in his corral, but he has been coming as close to her as he can and whinnying and she answers him. I think they like being less lonely together.”
I make a gagging sound but stop when I nearly choke on a ravioli.
“All my growing up,” I say, “you told me not to go giving human emotions to animals, and now you come at me with this nonsense?”
“I only told you that when you were trying to save every spider in the house,” he answers.
“But you know, I think sometimes the people who feel the most are the ones who go to the greatest lengths to make sure other people don’t have to feel sadness as deeply as they do. You’ve always been that way, kid.”
“That’s, like, two shitty metaphors back-to-back,” I say. “You’re only allowed one shitty parental metaphor per meal. Pick one.”
Dad looks put out.
“I got you extra breadsticks,” he says, “so I don’t know why you’re so snippy about your old dad just making sure you are happy.”
“I’m not a spider, ” I say, and my voice comes out gentler than I intended on instinct. “I don’t need saving, okay? I’ve always been okay. Always will be. You don’t need to worry about me.”
“But I do worry,” he says. “It’s my job.
I want you to be better than okay. And you’ll have a hard time convincing me that the girl who made her bedroom a living shrine to a fairy tale about a girl who finds her true love and lives happily ever after isn’t interested in a forever kind of relationship. ”
“Wasn’t going to try,” I mutter. I stuff a piece of bread into my mouth so my voice is deceptively chill and unbothered when I ask, “What about you?”
“What about me?”
I take another bite.
“Why didn’t you ever remarry? Date? Something, after you and Mom split?”
I’d wondered when I asked to move in if I would find evidence of women coming around—nicer hand towels, a spare toothbrush—but I’ve found nothing.
“Not interested,” he says, and it’s not dismissive.
Just a fact. “Your mom and I were two complete puzzles from the get-go. Neither of us needed the other, but we picked at the other’s pieces to try to find a place to connect and we never could.
Not in the way we wanted. Until we had you, that is, and I think loving and raising you was the kind of love we did want.
The kind of love we needed. It was enough for both of us to have fondness for each other and save all our love for you. ”
“Three strikes and you’re out,” I say. “ Way too many metaphors.”
Dad ignores my jab and looks right at me.
“Some puzzles benefit from being linked to another. It expands their picture; they complement and change each other for the better. If you have two puzzles that are meant to be together, they’ll find a way to join their pieces without damaging the other.”
I want to make another crack about the metaphor thing, but for all our candor, Dad and I aren’t serious with each other like this very often.
It’s like the stars need to align and there have to be enough breadsticks for us both to quit joking around and rolling our eyes to get to the real stuff.
And once we do cross that line, we tend to retreat for months at a time before we talk about anything significant again.
I ask one more question before the veil tears away and we go back to talking about horses and Serena and Italian food.
“What if I’m a broken puzzle who is missing a bunch of pieces?” I ask. My voice catches in my throat, which I blame entirely on the cream-heavy sauces and not my emotions. “What then?”