20. Quinn
Quinn
“I’m sorry, do I know you? You look vaguely familiar…”
My mouth twists and my eyes deadpan. “Are you for real right now?”
“It’s something with your eyes. No, the blonde hair. No, that’s not it either. I know, it’s the sass. I know that sass.”
“Very funny, Dad,” I say as I set my things down on the entryway table in his foyer and make my way over to him, my heels clacking on the cherry flooring as I go.
My dad grins and pulls me into a warm, tight hug that smells the way it always has. Woody. Fresh. Dry cleaned. “How are you, Lovebug?” he asks while still holding me. It’s a nickname he gave me ages ago, and while I used to hate it, I’ve grown to find it endearing in recent years.
“I’m good,” I tell him.
“Work going well?” he asks, pulling away from me.
I follow him into the kitchen, where he stops at the fridge to pull out a pitcher of sangria.
Then from there, we go onto the back porch, and the smell of grilled steaks wafts through the air, and my stomach growls.
There’s something about being with your parents that reminds you of things like this.
Well, being with my dad, that is. My mom isn’t here, obviously.
Life is crazy and busy and always full of things that need your attention, but also, homemade sangria hits the spot when it’s still not Friday but you really need something.
And that you need to eat. Eating is important.
“Yes,” I tell him, as I brush my hair back and lean against the bricks with my sangria in hand. “I have a new client,” I say.
“Oh?” he asks, turning the steaks over and closing the grill again. “Any chance her name is Ashley?”
“Yes,” I light up. “She called you already?” I ask.
“She called me at one in the morning,” he chuckles.
“Oh, wow,” I say. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think–”
“I’m taking her case,” I say.
“Thank you, Daddy,” I tell him. “I’m sure you’ve already got a lot going on, but she…she loves him. And I really, really want it to work out for them for some reason.”
“You want every marriage to work out,” he teases.
“And you don’t?” I ask, and we both laugh.
“I guess we are both guilty of being romantics,” he says as he takes the steaks off the grill. We take them inside and add salad to the plates and sit at the table together, just my dad and me. Just like the old days.
“I just…” I start in, pushing a crouton around with my fork. “I want people to believe in love. The kind of love that you can depend on. That makes the hard things in life not matter. The kind of love…” I trail off, afraid to say the words because my throat is already tight.
“That your mother and I had…” he finishes for me.
Not caring if his eyes are teary or his throat is tight (which I can audibly hear) because he’s a defense lawyer, but he’s also a romantic.
He’s interested in the facts, but leads with compassion.
Because he’s my dad, and honestly, he’s the reason I am the way I am.
“I miss her,” he tacks on, and I nearly choke on my sangria.
“I swear to God, Dad, don’t make me cry at the dinner table,” I say.
“I miss…how opinionated she was. How she always said exactly what she was thinking, and you knew without a doubt how passionate she was about it,” he goes on.
“I miss the way she used to curse at everything but people. She scolded drivers in traffic the way you’d correct a preschooler, but if she sliced her finger open cutting a pineapple–”
“She’d call the knife a dick,” he laughs, and I do too.
Then I swallow. “I miss being able to talk to her. Listening to her advice while she braided my hair, which always took hours because she never wanted me to cut it…”
“And you still haven’t cut it,” he notes softly.
“No. I haven’t,” I whisper with a small smile. Then I clear my throat. Because I didn’t come to my dad’s house for dinner to cry into my sangria.
“So, is there a lucky man in your life?” he asks. He always asks this question, probably because, like everyone else, he finds it ironic that I invest so much of my time and energy into other people’s relationships and the concept of love in general, and I’m perpetually single.
I am about to say no, but the truth slips out instead. Well. Part of the truth.
“I have been seeing someone, sort of,” I answer before popping a small cut of steak into my mouth. I close my eyes and savor the perfectly seasoned, perfectly tender cut of medium-cooked meat.
“Seeing someone sort of,” my dad parrots with a hint of skepticism. “And what exactly is seeing someone, sort of?” he asks.
“I’ve been going to a lot of weddings,” I tell him, cutting another bite of steak. “As a plus-one.”
“A plus-one,” he continues to repeat my words. “Quinn, honey, you are nobody’s plus-one. If anything, they should be your plus-one.”
I just smile at my dad. “We are each other’s plus-ones,” I say.
“So, is it getting serious? Is it someone I need to have over for steak and sangria and interrogation?” he asks.
“No, no, and absolutely no,” I say with a chuckle. “It’s not like that. I’m not in love with him and I’m not going to fall in love with him, so there’s no need to fuss,” I state matter-of-factly as I reach for my sangria. But before it reaches my mouth, he cuts in again.
“Are you sure about that?” he asks casually.
I blink. “What do you mean? Of course I’m sure about that.”
“I see,” he nods as he eats.
“You see what?” I ask, the sangria still paused between my mouth and the table.
“You’re different,” he adds.
“Different from what?”
“You have a spring in your step. More spring in your step. You’re happy and glowing and, oh god, you’re not pregnant, are you?”
“Oh my God, Dad, no! I’m not pregnant. And I’m not in love,” I insist. “I’m just…excited that you’re agreeing to take Ashley’s case, that’s all. Though I like to think it won’t ever reach a courtroom. But even if it does, I’m sure you’ll smoke whoever it is.”
“Perhaps,” he chuckles.