Much to Maisie’s chagrin, we pick up a sheet cake on our way out, and then we’re home with cheesy birthday napkins, yellow cake, and hair dye. Samantha is very skeptical about the whole thing. “What made you want to go back to red? You look so good as a blonde.”
Bailey elbows her twin, almost knocking her fork out of her hands. “It’s her breakup hair! You wouldn’t get it.”
“I’ve dated people.”
“Who?”
“Um—”
“Who?”
I ignore their twin-mindmeld bickering, popping a bite of cake into my mouth. It’s May 26, and I’ve turned thirty in my hometown, with my baby sisters, while wearing pajamas. If we watch any kind of rom-com that has a breakup lasting longer than five seconds, Iwillsob in front of them. The me from a few months ago would’ve had a heart attack over this.
This me doesn’t mind. Despite Bailey insisting onPride & Prejudice, which does make me turn into a puddle of tears.
“See?” Samantha says during the gazebo scene. “Mr. Darcy would be here. That guy isn’t worth the hair change.”
“I’m not doing it for him.”
“Feminism win. Woman changes hair not because a guy has told her to but because he hasn’t.”
I throw a pillow at her, then haul the three of them to the bathroom.
At seven, Dad gets home from the garage, having refused to let me work today. I meet him on the porch with a slice of cake. He undoes his boots, washes his hands with the hose. “Good day off?”
“Not bad.”
He takes my peace offering, then seems to notice my hair, the same shade as his. “Jesus, is that my kid?”
I was already stuffed up fromPride & Prejudice. The floodgates open back up with a snap. “Hey now, that’s enough.” Dad sets the cake down and takes my shoulders, pulling me into a hug moments later. Despite my waterlogged sinuses, his soft flannel shirt smells like cars and every problem of mine magically getting solved. “What did I say?”
“Nothing,” I croak out. “I’m just happy to be here.”
He lets me go, rambling over to his favorite wicker chair. I stay standing. No one eats the cake. After five painful minutes, Dadsays, “I’ve been thinking about what I needed to say to you. And I wanted to tell you that I wasn’t angry, but that would be a lie.”
My chest feels like it’s bowing inward. All I can do is nod, sniffling.
“But it’s me I’m angry at,” he continues. “I know why you did what you did, Arcadia. I’ve been trying to be strong for you since your mother passed—then when Grandma passed, too, I didn’t want you to know how scared I was about what that meant for you, or how small I felt as a father, not having money to give my children the lives I wanted them to have. To think I could’ve brought you into this world, and…” He scrubs at his chin softly, not meeting my eyes. “I’m sorry. I thought that if I kept my panic inside, then you’d never see me sweat, or worry that we couldn’t get through it. But I made you worry anyway.”
Like father, like daughter. I can’t remember the last time we talked like this. It would’ve been years ago, here on the porch, one of his stay-away-from-boys speeches. “Dad…” I clear my throat. “I don’t know if we were supposed to just get through it.”
His face falls, and I continue before he can say anything else. “What I mean is, I think we need to stop trying to do that, you know? I think you have to fall apart when something really bad happens to you. So we can… start talking about it. We should talk about it.” I pick up the cake and hold it back out to him. “But maybe after the movies, okay? It is my birthday.”
A small smile fills his face. Tentative, but there. “Chick-flicks?”
“Yup.” Forever a girl-dad.
“You know I like those.”
I grin, and he takes the plate again. “I put your Stark-Benzin merch in the basement, by the way.” He’d left it outside, and it’s too rainy for that.
Dad had almost gotten a bite of cake in. He pauses, frowning, and I guess one of my sisters filled him in on this subsect of the drama. His daughter, his favorite driver, and a lot of tears. “You sure, kiddo?”
“They’re our team, Dad.” I inhale—try to feel all the aches and pains right here, right now. “Who even knows if Faust will drive for them next year. Plus, he’s Maisie’s investor. Gotta support the people who support us.”
And he’s not that bad. He just isn’t here, I add to myself. Dad wouldn’t want to hear it.
Then at eight, I hear the sound of someone delicately tapping our front door’s giant doorknocker, and I do think about it for one moment—Mr. Darcy, in the fog, so stupid. “Happy birthday!” Renata screams, her suitcase toppling behind her. “I’ve come bearing gifts!”
