27. Bruce
CHAPTER 27
brUCE
Just as I finish my Zoom call with my CTO about a breakthrough on the crypto, my dad walks in.
“Am I interrupting?” he asks.
I do have some emails to answer, but I wave for him to come in, in part because I don’t spend that much quality time with my folks anymore, but also, it’s a chance for me to disprove Lilly’s workaholism accusations.
“Are you working on your birthday?” Dad asks.
“Are you going to call me a workaholic?” I retort.
Dad smiles. “I’m going to say I’m proud of your work ethic.”
Yeah, and since I learned it from him, what else is he supposed to say?
“So…” Dad sits down. “Your girlfriend is nice.”
I should’ve told him about the emails after all. “Are you designating Lilly as my girlfriend, or are we talking about someone else?”
Dad’s smile widens to Joker levels. “Lilly.”
“Did you ask her if she’s okay with the girlfriend moniker?” Even if she considered it this morning, she’s bound to dismiss the idea as insane after that baby conversation with Mom.
Reading something in my expression, Dad says, “Don’t be mad at your mother. After all… your Lilly is awfully small.”
My Lilly. I do like the sound of that.
A lot.
But her perky body is not too small. It’s pure perfection—and is henceforth my type, even though I always thought I didn’t have a type. Not that I plan to tell any of this to my father. It was bad enough sitting through his version of “the birds and the bees” when I was five, and him laughing when I asked what I still think was a reasonable question: “Does it hurt?”
I mean, it hurts most women the first time, so?—
“You’re the opposite of small,” Dad continues. “So I hope things can work for you two in that department.”
“What are you, twelve?” I demand. What I don’t plan to tell him is that things did work out, better than I could’ve ever imagined. It was mind-blowing. The best I?—
“I’m sorry,” Dad says with visible contrition. “Oh, and in my defense, I should mention I didn’t come here to discuss your love life.”
“No?” I don’t even bother correcting the “love life” bit.
“The female members of the family are scheming about a party.”
I grit my teeth. “Birthday?”
Dad nods.
“What’s the thought process there? I hated the first thirty-four birthdays, but this year will magically be different?”
“You liked your fifth birthday party,” Dad says.
Maybe. There was a clown at that one, and no food that I can recall. But apart from that one exception, I loathe all events where eating is a central theme—and especially the evil trinity: Thanksgiving, Christmas, and birthdays.
“Why didn’t you stop them?” I demand.
Dad snorts. “If they can be stopped, why don’t you go ahead and do it?”
He’s right.
I frantically run through various excuses in my head.
A work emergency? Weak.
Appendicitis? No, they’d follow me to the hospital.
Explosive diarrhea?
Fuck.
Why haven’t I found myself a body double—like Saddam Hussein, Kim Jong-un, and Keanu Reeves?
I guess there’s no helping it. To stay sane, I’ll have to use industrial-strength earplugs or high-end noise cancelation headphones because there’s no way around it.
I’ll have to soldier through yet another fucking birthday party.