Rom-Com Collection

“Oh, I know, Daddy. I love your new house,” I lied right back.

“Go play now,” he said, and I knew he didn’t want me to watch him go. He hugged me so hard it hurt, then gave me a gentle push toward the stairs.

I couldn’t help it. I stood at my bedroom window, a Hello Kitty throw pillow pressed against my mouth as I sobbed, watching my father bent in sorrow, openly crying as he pulled his suitcases to his car, the trunk yawning, swallowing up his things. Then he looked up at the house, and I dropped the pillow and pressed my hand against the window. And I forced myself to smile, a pretty smile, a real smile, so my father wouldn’t have to drive away with that image in his heart, the remembrance of his little girl crying.

But after that day, he’d been the George Clooney type … determined to have fun when we were with him, no matter what Hester’s mood or, later, Freddie’s fussiness. He’d taken on that sheepish bad-dog personality around my mother, who responded with icy disdain. All those years passed, and I figured my father was just fine. I never realized he still carried so much grief. So much loneliness.

I reached over the side of the chair and fumbled in my purse for my phone, then hit Dad’s name. His voice mail picked up immediately. “Hi, Daddy,” I said after the beep. “I just wanted to say I love you. And you’re a great dad. Also, I’m free for bowling tomorrow night, okay? I love you.”

No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make you love me again.

The words certainly struck a chord. Apparently my father and I had more in common than sparkly brown eyes and dimples. After all, wasn’t that what I’d been doing with Mark? I’d tried so hard to get him to notice me, and when he finally did, tried so hard to be perfect. Even after he’d put our relationship on pause, I’d tried so hard. Tried be cheerful, tried be upbeat, tried not to let my feelings show, not to blame him, not to mind when day after day, week after week, his nonchalance eroded my heart.

Sometimes, being an optimist was quite the fucking effort.

For a second, I had the urge to call Ian, because something told me he’d understand. Then I remembered that he had his own heartache to deal with. With a sigh, I set the bowl of cherry chip batter on the floor for Bowie to finish off. He wagged vigorously as he finished up my snack. Then, because I couldn’t think of anything better to do, I washed up and went to bed, petting my dog’s thick fur until we both fell asleep.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THINGS WERE BETTER the next day. Good night’s sleep and all that. Besides, all that doom and gloom last night … blick! “No more Bitter Betty,” I informed Bowie, who was curled in a tight ball on his side of the bed. “And no more Debbie Downer. I killed them both in my sleep. Today is a new day, Bowie, you handsome eighties pop icon, you!” My pet licked my face in vigorous agreement. I sang in the shower, Bowie chiming in on harmony, then put on a wicked cute pink dress and paired it with to-die-for gray pumps, made pancakes for Noah and kissed his cheek as I left.

When I got to work, my mood continued to blossom. Muriel had gone to California—some BTR meeting she couldn’t miss. Without her, the office had its old vibe back; Damien snarked about, lounging in my office to update me on his joyful reunion last night with Dave (their fifth). Fleur told a funny story about her latest wanker. In the art room, Pete and Leila spoke in their feral child language, laughing at jokes no one else understood but which made us all smile anyway. Mark brought in pizzas for lunch, and Karen even emerged from her cave to eat with us.

“The office is closed tomorrow,” Mark announced, waving a slice of garlic and sausage in the air. “Yankees–Red Sox at Fenway, and even though I had to mortgage my house to get the tickets, you’re all worth it.”

Cheers broke out, though Karen was the only true baseball fan. Field trips like this were something Mark had done from the beginning of Green Mountain Media. Once we’d spent the day at Ben & Jerry’s (heaven, I tell you). Another time we’d gone skiing (or, perhaps more appropriately for some of us, drinking in a picturesque lodge while Mark and Karen skied). We’d been to Fenway once before, and it had been wicked fun.

After work, I swung by the funeral home. Mom didn’t mention the Bette Davis debacle, and neither did I. She and Louis were engaged in a mutual praise-fest over the restoration work on a particularly gruesome case involving a man and a wood chipper (enough said, don’t you think?), so I endured that as long as I could, then kissed my mom’s cheek and left them to their work. Dropped by home, got Noah’s dinner ready, called my dad and found myself at the bowling alley an hour later.

“Poodle!” Dad cried when he saw me. I could see he was back to channeling George Clooney.

“Hi, Daddy,” I said, giving him an extra big smooch on the cheek.

“Don’t you look pretty!” he exclaimed, and I smiled and gave a little twirl. If Dad was George Clooney, then I was Audrey Hepburn (well, a somewhat plumper Audrey) with a cute ponytail, pedal pushers and a white shirt tied at the waist. “Stan, doesn’t my daughter look gorgeous?” Dad called to his buddy, who was joining us.

“So gorgeous,” Stan called, winking at me as he reverently removed his bowling ball from its case.

“You doing okay, Daddy?” I asked.

“Of course!” he said. “Sometimes it feels good to get things off your chest, know what I mean? But your mother’s got a lot invested in being the martyred ex-wife. I was hoping that things could be different. Gave it my best shot. Que sera, sera.” He sang the last bit, took my hand and twirled me. “Now come on, pretty girl. See if you can knock over a few pins.”

I chose a sparkly pink ball (to match my personality) and lobbed it with great enthusiasm and zero skill. Dad chuckled and put his arm around me as we watched the ball head inevitably for the gutter.

AROUND FIVE THE NEXT EVENING, we were all jammed into Karen’s minivan, full of Fenway franks, Cracker Jacks and beer. “Those fucking Yankees!” Karen cursed, leaning on her horn as we sat in the sea of cars exiting Boston. “A total waste of fantastic fucking seats, Mark. Eleven to two. It’s just wrong.”

“I didn’t think it was a waste,” Damien said. “That Jeter has the best ass in baseball. And I heard a rumor he’s gay.”

“He’s not gay,” I said. “I got a totally hetero vibe when he looked at me.”

“You wish,” Damien sneered. “He was looking at me.”

“I’ll fight you for him,” I offered.

“You’d win,” Mark said, smiling as he checked his iPhone.

Yes. Mark and I were sitting next to each other. Pete and Leila, already entwined around each other, had claimed the seats furthest in the back and were, from the sounds of it, snogging. Damien conveniently suffered from carsickness, so he always got the front. Which left Fleur, Mark and me in the second row, Mark between us two girls.

“This was a great day, Mark,” I said. “Thank you.”

“Yes, thanks. Brilliant idea,” Fleur quickly seconded.

He put his phone back in his pocket. “Good to be with my people,” he said. His dark eyes slid to my face, and he smiled that crooked grin, then winked.

My face warmed, and to hide my blush, I turned my head and looked out on Commonwealth Avenue. Mark chuckled.

Twenty minutes later, my boss’s head was on my shoulder, his soft, curly hair tickling my cheek.

“How men can sleep anywhere, anytime, is beyond me,” Fleur said, shifting. The minivan was called mini for a reason.

“You okay back there, Callie?” Karen asked, glancing in the rearview mirror.

Everyone in this car knew about my crush. Everyone was also kind enough to say nothing, though Fleur raised an eyebrow. “I’m fine. I’ll just give him a good shove if I get uncomfortable,” I answered easily.

“I’ll give him a good shove if he keeps Muriel around,” Damien grumbled.

“Stop it,” I murmured.

“Seriously,” Damien said, turning around in his seat to whisper. “She’s such a self-important little bitch.” Fleur’s ears pricked up, and she leaned forward to join in.

“Damien. Stop,” I said. “What if Mark hears you? What if God hears you and puts a black mark next to your name? Okay? So shut it.”

“I hate moral people,” he said, turning around. “You’re so boring.”

“I’m telling Dave you were mean to me,” I said, grinning. “You know your boyfriend adores me.”

He turned around and smiled, his usually supercilious expression gone in place of a big smile. “Thanks for helping with that,” he said.

“You’re welcome. Buy me something fabulous.”

“You got it.”

And then I was alone again, sort of, breathing in the smell of Mark’s shampoo, telling my heart to wise up, despite it natural inclination to do otherwise.

ON SATURDAY, I SURVEYED my vast collection of fab shoes, wondering if bringing seven pairs on an overnight trip might be excessive, when Noah bellowed up the stairs.

“Got a second?” he asked. “I need some help in the shop.”

“Sure,” I called, glancing at the clock. Ian was coming at two, and it was only quarter after twelve, so I went downstairs, Bowie pattering after me, his steps light, looking up at me as if I were the most fascinating person in the world. Or as if I were about to give him some bacon, which was more likely.