Possibly because Elena spent the entire drive home from the game narrating my psychological collapse in real time. “You smiled when they talked about him.”
“I did not.”
“You smiled so hard your entire face changed structure.”
“I was being polite.”
“You are neverpolite recreationally.”
Dad: Hey, honey. Your friend Elena invited me to dinner, see you tomorrow. I’m bringing the wine. Love Dad.
Now she stands beside me in the elevator mirror, adjusting her earrings while I glare at the floor indicator like it personally offended me.
“You invited my father to dinner,” I say.
“Yes.”
“Without asking me first.”
“I asked spiritually.”
“Elena.”
She smiles serenely. “Frank Amato has been a widower for twelve years. I am performing a public service.”
“You’ve never even met him.”
“I have met his daughter. The genetics are encouraging.”
The elevator dings. I exit immediately.
Elena’s apartment smells like garlic, wine, and the lemon candle she burns year-round regardless of season. She disappears into the kitchen humming to herself while I drop my bag near the counter and mentally prepare for what will absolutely become the most stressful dinner of my adult life.
My father lands in Chicago tomorrow morning for an officiating meeting with league operations. This dinner was supposed to happen tomorrow night. Supposed to. Instead, Elena decided she wanted to “test the chemistry” via video call tonight while she cooks.
Which is already horrifying enough before she says casuallyover her shoulder, “You should text your hockey player.” I nearly walk directly into the counter.
“He is not my hockey player.”
“Mhm.”
“There is no hockey player.”
“Mhm.”
I point at her with dangerous emphasis. “You are not allowed to flirt with my father and psychologically profile me at the same time.”
“I’m multifaceted.”
The buzzer sounds downstairs. I freeze. “Elena,” I whisper. “Please tell me that is not?—”
“It’s grocery delivery.” I exhale. She narrows her eyes at me. “Interesting level of panic, though.”
I hate this apartment. Ten minutes later, Elena has Frank on FaceTime propped against the wine bottle while she stirs sauce and openly flirts with my father in Italian.
I sit at the island pretending I do not exist.
Frank looks unfairly distinguished on camera. Salt-and-pepper hair. Dark sweater. Reading glasses low on his nose while he talks to Elena like she’s been in his kitchen for years instead of three hours. Traitorous chemistry.
