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41
LIAM
It was all going so well.
We enjoyed our fantastic meal (yes, I indulged a little. Breaking all the rules here) at a long, barnwood table decorated with wildflowers and flickering candles. Annie and I were sitting with Lana Mae, Legs and a group of Luke and Mindy’s friends, including Aiden—the guy I met last night—and his sister Jess—the curly-haired brunette Annie was talking to earlier.
Prosecco was poured liberally and toasts were made. Over salmon and baby potatoes and broccolini spears, Aiden’s wife Courtney regaled us with tales from their honeymoon a year ago, which consisted of a roadtrip across the States and into Mexico with their three dogs (“fur babies,” as Courtney called them). Plus a whole lot of making love in the most bizarre places they could find (Lana Mae had to cover Legs’s ears a few times).
A giant flying saucer may have come up. I didn’t dare ask questions.
But, as inappropriate as the conversation veered, Luke’s friends were warm and hilarious and full of ridiculous stories.
At one point during the main course, Annie snuck her hand into mine, and though the gesture was small, the meaning felt enormous. How many events like this had I attended solo over the years? Or, brought a woman I barely knew when I needed a date, a woman I didn’t have any feelings for?
I never had a partner in crime, an equal, someone who was still there after the glitter of the evening was swept away.
I never realized it, but I was missing out.
And then, it all went wrong.
As dessert was winding down, people started mingling. Annie excused herself to go to the bathroom—right in time, it turns out. Because as soon as she left the table, Dad and Constance came over to say hello.
Or rather, tell us everything we’re doing wrong with our lives.
“How’s Allegra doing in school?” Dad asks Lana Mae now.
She sips her drink, sets down her glass, and tucks her hair behind her ear before she answers. “Why don’t you ask her yourself?”
Beside her, Legs is happily playing Candy Crush and ignoring all the adult chat.
“Because I’m askingyou, Lana Mae.”
“Fine. She’s doing just fine.”
“And what is your definition of ‘fine?’ A’s? C’s? Skipping class to smoke pot in the bathroom?”
“Dad! She’s eight, for goodness sakes.”
“I hear kids start young these days. You’ve got to have a tight rein on your children. Bad grades are a slippery slope…”
Wow, this is rich. The Hypocrite of the Year award goes to Edward Donovan—the man who left us, barely saw us when we were growing up, and yet insists on managing our lives for us when hedoesshow up.
And while I can’t change who my father is, I can help Lana Mae out of this line of questioning. By volunteering as tribute.
“Dad,” I cut in. “Did I tell you that I got a new tattoo?”
I did not get a new tattoo. But my father ranks tattoos next to getting C’s and smoking pot in the bathroom on the list of behaviors he views as delinquent.
“Still doing that, are you?” Dad laughs humorlessly. “Thought you’d have grown out of that nonsense by now.”
I could say the same to him. But I refrain.
“Nope,” I say pleasantly.
“And who’s that girl you’re here with tonight?” Constance asks. “What happened to Tabitha?”
“Who?” I ask, taking an annoyed swig of my Prosecco. The bubbles go up my nose and I wish it was a whiskey on the rocks instead. I have a feeling I’m going to need something stronger than fizzy wine to get through this conversation.
