REID
The bal ’s in her court; I’m better when it’s in mine. I’m used to being in complete control of any relationship with a girl—
whether it’s for an hour or a few weeks. Keeping control is effortless when the outcome is clear or inconsequential.
Neither of these applies to Dori.
It’s been four days. Under normal circumstances, I’d be pissed that I’m counting, more pissed that I care. Where Dori is concerned, there’s no such thing as normal circumstances.
Returning the clothes was her idea, so I should wait for her to contact me. I could contact her first... I have her phone number. And I know where she lives.
I sound like a damned stalker.
***
“You’re up early.” Through careful voice inflection, Dad manages to take statements that should be positive and twist the words to sound accusatory and suspicious. It’s a gift.
It’s also bait, and I’m not rising to it. Without turning, I continue peeling the orange in my hand, separating the continue peeling the orange in my hand, separating the smooth rind from the fruit below by tearing pieces away and dropping them into the sink. “I’m meeting with George in an hour, discussing new project proposals.” I detach a wedge and pop it into my mouth, resisting the impulse to lick the juice from my fingers. I fight the urge to enjoy anything too much in front of him, actual y, and now that I’m aware of that fact, my brain gets hung up on why that is.
“Mmm,” he says, as unconcerned as possible. In my peripheral vision, his brows are almost knit at the center as he stares at the empty mug in his left hand and the coffee pot in his right, as though he’s forgotten how to pour. He doesn’t look at me, and I debate whether to turn and head back to my room or wait until he says actual words. I elect to silently count to five first. I’m up to three when he adds,
“Anything of note?”
Sweeping the bits of orange peel into the disposal and flipping it on, I savor the tangy whiff of citrus almost as much as the motorized droning that purposeful y stal s my reply.
“Yeah, a couple. One has possible critical appeal—
maybe even Oscar-worthiness. The other’s an action flick.
More money, probably.”
“Mmm,” he says again. Strange. Seldom without a blunt opinion of my career, particularly when it comes to financials, this man seems like someone else’s father. A minute later he’s snatched a sheaf of papers from his attaché. My upcoming film choices forgotten, he removes a giant clip and thumbs through the one-inch stack, flagging something in the center of a page.
Dad is a contracts expert. No fraudulent detail can be Dad is a contracts expert. No fraudulent detail can be buried deeply enough that his expertise can’t root it out, for which his clients pay a buttload, as John would say. Too bad the emotional details of life flow by without his notice, which is why everything Mom and I do strikes him as out of the blue. Suddenly that question I typical y dodge pops up: how much am I my father’s son? I’ve become proficient at avoiding emotional entanglement. Funny how my earliest self-protective behavior turned me into the very thing I was protecting myself from.
I leave him to his standard obsession—work—and head to my room, deciding halfway there that if I don’t hear from Dori by the end of the day, I’m cal ing her.
Her text arrives in the middle of the scheduled meeting with George.
Dori: The clothes are back from the dry cleaner. Where should i send them?
Me: I can get them when i pick you up for lunch tomorrow.
Dori: Visiting my sister tomorrow.
Me: Al day?
Me: Nevermind. Tonight, then.
Several minutes go by during which my long-suffering manager repeats the name of the director of one of the proposed films two, three times, and I stil don’t hear him.
“Reid. Let me know when you’re actual y listening rather than setting up booty cal s.” His dry tone belies his annoyance with me, only because I know him so wel .
Dori: Lunch tonight?
Me: Haha, yeah. Lunch tonight.
“I’m listening,” I tel George, seconds ticking by while I wait for her to reply, clicking the phone to make sure it’s stil powered up. Final y, she answers.
Dori: Ok
Me: Pick you up at 7
“Color me unconvinced,” George says, his tone dry as toast, and I give him my almost undivided attention. I’m already planning tonight.
*** *** ***
Dori
Here I am, staring into my closet again, chewing my thumbnail and wondering what one wears to return a borrowed outfit to a celebrity.
I arrive downstairs in jeans and a white button-up shirt with three-quarter length sleeves. The last time I wore this shirt to school, Aimee said, “Jeez, Dori, you look like my mom.” Her pity smirk said this wasn’t a compliment. But what she hates about it is what I like. This shirt says I’m not trying to be enticing—not 18-year-old girl enticing, anyway.
Mom’s on second shift at the hospital and Dad’s been in his study most of the afternoon. I dread looking in on him.
Too often, he’s staring out the window, or worse, at some invisible thing in his mind’s eye, and when I interrupt his reverie he looks—for a beat or two—as though he’s never seen me before in his life.
I stop in the doorway. “Hey, Dad.”
I’m relieved when he peers over the top of his glasses at me, his hands never leaving the keyboard. This is good.
He’s working. Writing sermons has been grueling for him the past few weeks. He’s always grumbled good-naturedly about striving to hear God speak; when I was little he’d step into the hal way and tel me semi-sternly that he couldn’t hear God while I practiced cartwheels in the living room, or when Esther and I roughhoused on my bed, her playful barks mingling with my laughter. Now, I suspect that the impediment to hearing God comes from a different source.