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“Don’t say her name so often; you’ll summon her like Bloody Mary.” I hiss.
And just like that, the doorbell rings.
“Speak of the devil,” Allison says.
Abbie gets up to unlock the door. I hear her before I see her, the grating girlish voice that floats to octaves only dogs can hear.
“I mean, when you think about it, pie is just... unnecessary!” She chirps.
My nostrils fill with the powdery scent of perfume. Vince stands up. Mark Vynse gives him a once-over. My Dad doesn’t look intimidating. He’s 6’1 and newly skinny thanks to Cheryl’s no-fat, no-fun macrobiotic diet, with warm brown eyes and a silver comb-over he orchestrates to conceal his bald spot.
Today, he’s wearing his usual uniform of khakis and a pastel dress shirt. He was a great dad; after my parents divorced, he always made an effort to be a part of my life. But he’s never seen my job as a tour manager as a viable career path.
“Lyndsey! Hi, dear!” he says. He opens his arms for a hug, and I cross the room. He squeezes me.
“Glad to know you finally cleaned up a bit, although it is a holiday.” He’s also never approved of my wardrobe. He thinks I dress too casually. I smooth the fabric of my skirt and try not to feel constricted as the fabric squishes my thighs together.
“Although, it’s a little short, don’t you think?” The skirt’s ridden up well above my knees. I try and yank it down.
I resist the urge to tell my dad that I look fine. Something about him immediately transforms me into a petulant teenager, insisting that twenty pounds’ worth of eyeliner is a stylish look. But before I can open my mouth, he turns to Vince.
First, he grabs Vince by the shoulders. He says nothing. He takes a step back and furrows his brow. Vince is frozen in the spot; hand extended mid-greeting. They look like two statues about to come to life and face off.
“Is it just me, or am I being appraised?” Vince hisses through his teeth.
“I think so?” I genuinely have no idea what my dad is doing. He’s never been like this with any of my boyfriends. Granted, he’s never been in the same room long enough to judge them.
“He’s looking at you like you’re a piece of meat,” Priya affirms.
“Is this what it’s like to be objectified?”
“Welcome to the club,” Priya jokes.
Finally, after an agonizing silence, my dad clears his throat.
“You must be Vince.”
“Yes, and you’re Mark, right? Lynds has told me so much about—"
My dad puts his hand up to stop Vince, “Flattery will get you nowhere. You don’t have to pretend that Michelle or Lyndsey was singing my praises because they probably weren’t.”
“Well, I have heard a lot about you,” Vince starts again.
“I could say the same about you. I recall a particularly enthralling tabloid article Michelle showed me where you were; oh, what was it? You were drunk in Greece, and you tried to charter a yacht despite zero boating experience?”
Vince’s face reddens. “Yeah, that was a long time ago. The nineties, y’know! It’s all a blur.”
“I actually don’t know. I was busy being a young father and shouldering the twin responsibilities of fatherhood and my recent promotion.”
“Mark’s always been a smarty pants,” Cheryl coos, circling her arm around his waist and protectively draping her palm across his chest. She gives him a scratch like he’s a particularly docile lab, and I resist the urge to throw up in my mouth.
“Right, right,” Vince mumbles. “Well, I’m sober now! The yacht sealed the deal. It’ll be twenty years in February.”
“And I think that’s great! It’ll be six months for me in January,” Abbie adds.
“Congratulations,” Vince says.
Abbie grabs his elbow. “If you want to hit a meeting with me after this, I won’t blame you,” Abbie whispers into his ear. Vince’s face softens, “That … might be a good idea. I’ll let you know.”
