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And Scott, especially, did not like it.
Luna was now in our huddle.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“Her dad is coming for a visit,” Scott told her.
Luna’s mouth dropped open.
I waved a hand—yes, you guessed it—fake-airily. “It’s not a big deal.”
“He’s never been here,” Luna pointed out.
“I know,” I replied.
“In eight years,” she went on.
“I know,” I repeated.
“You’ve never been home,” she continued.
“I know,” I said yet again.
“What’s up withthat?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “I’ll call him later. Tomorrow.”
Or the next day.
Or when I dropped off Cleo on Sunday, climbed into Tweety, and drove to Reno, whereupon I’d text him and say I was sorry to miss him, but I was on vacation, lady luck was smiling at me, I was up at the craps table, so I couldn’t possibly come home to share some father/daughter time.
I didn’t play craps or gamble at all (I couldn’t buy second-hand Prada sunglasses if I did), but obviously, Dad didn’t know that.
Luna opened her mouth.
“Leave it,” Scott ordered firmly.
He might be a progressive liberal, animal-loving, craft-beer-drinking, TEVA-wearing, affordable-housing advocate.
But when he wanted his word to be law, it was just that.
Thus, Luna shut her mouth.
“I gotta do a water loop,” I said before handing out good-bye hugs and making a beeline for the water pitchers.
I’d done the loop and taken and put in an order for some of Lucia’s pulled barbecue chicken and cheddar nachos, Scott and Louise were gone, and Luna was all up in my space.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Sure,” I answered.
“Don’t pull that bull,” she warned.
I sighed.
Then I said, “I’ll call him. Later. Tomorrow. When I have time to emotionally handle it.”
“I’ll come over,” she stated immediately.
