“We haven’t done that since Tess left,” I say. “Family Night was a Tess thing, not an Us thing.” Tess instituted monthly movie nights when she and Dad got married. It wasn’t the worst. We made it through all of James Bond and about a dozen Jack Nicholson movies and any Pixar movie that came out over the last few years. We ate guac and a lot of cheese, and even after Arizona left for college it was still sort of nice, wrapping ourselves in blankets and turning up the volume whenever sirens screeched or cabs blasted their horns. Tess getting a little tipsy. Dad falling asleep before the best part.
“We still have traditions. Tess wasn’t the head of this family. We were here before her and we’ll be here after.” He looks put together even in pajamas. They’re the matching, stripey kind that people in the movies wear, which is fitting because Dad looks like he’s from a movie. He touches his perfect head of hair. He used to be balding, but he’s not anymore. He used to be graying, but he’s not anymore.
I want what he’s saying to be true so badly it nearly sobers me up.
Then I catch sight of the ceiling fan and I’m drunk again.
Being drunk is a little like running a race against your last drink, and mine has officially caught up with me. I was pretty gone before, and now I am officially trashed. Nothing feels particularly real, and that makes me sputter-laugh.
It is not subtle.
“You’re drunk,” Dad says.
“Well, that didn’t take any see-rus, see-yus, serious detectiving work,” I say, struggling to get my mouth around the words.
“You’re acting out because I’ve made mistakes,” Dad says. Arizona grins like she’s proving a point, and I dig into the popcorn. It’s hot and on the cusp of being burned. I try not to care and just crunch. “I understand that and I’m ready to earn back your trust.”
Arizona mouths I told you and tucks her hair behind her ears and juts out a hip.
“Dad feels bad about how hard this year was for you,” she says. “So do I.” They share a look, and I know I missed some kind of bonding situation, but I’m pretty sure half my buzz is from simply being around Karissa, so I don’t care the way I should.
“You need water, Montana. And to never do this again, okay? Or to make sure you have adult supervision if you do.” He nods, agreeing with himself. It’s something he does.
“I had adult supervision,” I say.
It must come out like mush, because neither Dad nor Arizona replies, and there’s no look of wonder or confusion on their faces. I’m not sure who they think I was with—maybe the mysterious friends I pretend to have so that I can stay at Natasha’s apartment from time to time.
My dad would hate me being there, but Arizona would hate it even more. We are supposed to have a united front on all stepmoms and girlfriends. We are supposed to forget all about them once they’ve moved out and moved on.
It’s not as easy as they make it look. I tend to hang on. And with Natasha I’ve hung on for a long, long time.
“I want you to know things are different,” Dad says. He seems relaxed, and he pulls a slab of cheddar out of the fridge and starts grating it over the popcorn. “Trust me, this is excellent,” he says. I believe him. Cheddar is the key to happiness. “A friend taught me to do this.”
A friend always means a girlfriend.
“I don’t want to have a whole big talk right now,” I say. “Are those new slippers?”
He has zebra-striped slippers on. They look ridiculous and comfortable. Those are two things my father is not.
“Your old man can still surprise you sometimes,” he says with a laugh. He kicks one off his foot, like a Rockette with a joint problem, and I try to imitate the movement, but slip and bump into the counter.
“I’ll put her to bed,” Arizona says. She’s so sober it hurts.
“I don’t need bed! I’m rocking out! I’m a whole new girl too! Wait until you see all the things I’m gonna be and do!” I stand up on one of the kitchen chairs. It seems like one of the greatest ideas I’ve ever had. “I’m gonna dance it out. I’m not gonna be one of you.” I point at Dad and then Arizona’s chest. I am on a freaking roll. “I’m not gonna be who you want me to be!” I sing to the tune of nothing.
“You know I want you to be you and only you,” Dad says, even though we have cold, hard evidence that that isn’t true.
“You and only you,” I sing to the tune of a Frank Sinatra song that may or may not actually exist.
I don’t fall off the chair, exactly, but I slip and end up on my butt, hysterical on the ground. It feels so good to laugh this hard and be this wasted.
“Montana. You’re going to hate yourself in about six hours,” Arizona says. Dad nods.
“Look. What I wanted to tell both my girls is that things are going to change around here. I know me and Tess splitting up was hard on everyone, and I’m finally ready to settle down and make a stable environment for all of us.”