I grab my sweatshirt from the back of the couch on the way out, feeling like my heart is going to punch its way out of my body. I’ve given Margot more trouble in her lifetime than I can ever hope she’ll repay, but I do like London. I like her a lot, and having it all reduced to a joke, or an amusing conversation over the dinner table, is starting to wear on me.
It bothers me that she felt she had to lie about working, but I get it.
It bothers me that I have no clue how to undo her perception of me, because it isn’t entirely wrong.
It bothers me to see her so obviously worrying about what Mia, and Harlow, and Lola would think of us together.
It bothers me that she’s so clear that nothing else will happen between us, but if all I can get from her is friendship, I like her enough to want to work for it.
But even though I know she was working last night, I didn’t go to Fred’s. I felt like I owed her some space.
“Hang on, Luke.” Dad catches me on the porch, stopping me with a hand wrapped around my elbow. The sun is setting over the horizon and it’s a dizzying mix of oranges and reds framed by long, delicate palms. Some days I feel like I would be insane to leave this town and move somewhere else.
“I wanted to say a few more things to you about . . . your dating life.”
And then sometimes I think I can’t escape fast enough.
“Dad,” I say, rubbing a hand down my face. “I know you guys mean well. It’s just . . . so incredibly unhelpful.”
It’s an odd thing to register that I love my dad’s laugh, but I do. It’s so unlike the rest of him—delicate and girlish—because he’s this tall, brooding dude with a pretty impressive beard. His love for literature combined with his career as a chemist earned from me the nickname Chemingway at an age when I was old enough to make the joke but not yet appreciate how great it was. Several of his colleagues have since claimed to have come up with it, but in my family, we all know the real score.
“I know it’s not helpful,” he says. “The last thing you need is the four of us butting in on your relationships status. But it’s just what family does.” Scratching his cheek thoughtfully, he adds, “You can’t imagine how much joy your mother, sister, and grandmother derive from interfering in your love life.”
“I think I have some idea.” I look past him, down the porch, and back to the ocean.
“My family did the same thing to me,” he admits. “I hated it, actually.”
This makes me laugh, and I nod, looking back to him. “I bet.”
“If you think Grams is bad now, imagine her when she was fed up with her four children and Papa, and on a tear.”
“Whoa, yeah.”
“You see what I mean?” he says, nodding. “So here’s what I wanted to tell you: Before I met your mother—”
I hold up a hand and start to turn away. “Nope. I can’t.”
Dad laughs again, catching my shoulder. “Oh, just listen. Before I met your mother, I . . .” He fidgets, blinks away from me. “I mean, I dated.”
Oh, Christ, that’s Dad’s code for Bedded a lot of ladies.
He bobs his head, laughing nervously. “Quite a bit, actually,” he adds.
I close my eyes, fighting the urge to shudder. “Dad, I get it.”
“It was the eighties,” he reasons. “Casual sex was fine; encouraged, even. But when I met Julie, I just knew she was it for me. It didn’t mean that I didn’t enjoy sex anymore—”
I groan.
“—or that I would have married the next girl who came around. It was her.” Dad leans in, forcing me to meet his eyes. “So don’t let your mother or sister or even grandmother bully you into thinking you need to settle down if you don’t feel it.” He pauses, adding, “You’ll just fuck it up if you don’t mean it.”
I feel my eyes go wide. My dad doesn’t swear. I mean, this man is the only one in our family who goes to church every Sunday, says “dang it” instead of “damn,” and winces when Margot swears at the television during Chargers games. To say he’s polite is an understatement.
“Thanks, Dad.”
But he’s not done. “In the same vein,” he continues, “if you do really like this girl, then tell her. Try to win her. I met your mom when I was your age, and I never looked back. Not for a single second.”
I look up at Dad and try to imagine a younger version of him, one from my early childhood when he would get up at dawn and surf for a few hours before work. One who would come up behind Mom while she cooked and whisper something in her ear that made her giggle and swat at him. Even as a kid, I knew my parents had something good. I think of him now, his easy hand on her thigh while he drives, how he’ll never go up to bed without her, the way he listens to her talk about her day while she cooks, with absolutely no distraction—no phone, no television, no newspaper. He sits at the breakfast bar and listens with intent while she rambles on about whatever happened that day in the world of oceanography at Scripps.
They’re more than two people who had kids together—I honestly can’t think of them as lovers, it just makes something curdle in my gut—but they’re also best friends.
I want that.
I want someone who makes me laugh, who challenges me, who listens to me. I want that leg within reach while I drive. I want to wait until someone is done futzing around the house before we head to bed. I need to be someone who a woman can respect and trust enough to spill the details of her day.
I blink, shaking my head. What the fuck is wrong with me?
* * *
“DO YOU LIVE here?” I pull out a stool at the bar and sit down, placing my phone facedown in front of me. I drove here on autopilot, and when I parked, I told myself it was because Fred’s is only a mile or so from my place and my parents’ place—it’s convenient.
It’s not that I was hoping she was working again and wanted to see her.
I just want a beer. And I’m not tired. And I didn’t feel like going home.
But of course I’m full of shit.
London looks up and gives me a wan smile. “I could ask you the same question.”
“Touché.” She smirks at this, and I lean in, adding, “That’s one of the things I like about you, Dimples.” I slide a dollar bill into her jar.
“That I live in a bar?” she asks. Her dimples flash when her smirk turns into her trademark playful smile, and something strange happens inside my chest.
“I like that you never let me get away with shit. And I like that you’re never actually mean when you call me out.”
This surprises her. I can tell in the way her eyes widen and her dimples vanish.
“Well,” she says when she’s recovered, “maybe the amount of shit you try to pull is so epic it’s easy to pick the low-hanging fruit.”
“Again,” I say, laughing. “Touché. But remember: I wasn’t actually here last night.”
London nods as she wipes the bar in front of me and then drops a coaster down. I try to interpret her expression; was she disappointed? “Can I get you a beer?”
“Actually,” I say, perusing the bar behind her, “I think I’m turning over a new leaf. I’ll have an amaretto sour. Dylan swears you make the best ones on the planet. I’d like to learn to appreciate them.”