“Great!” Mike said. “I’m really looking forward to it.”
“Me, too,” she lied, and they chatted a little longer before hanging up. She stood in the kitchen, staring at the phone, thinking not of Mike, but of Flynn.
She’d been through all the standard emotions during the day, as she could hardly think of anything else. She’d run down the full gamut of reasoning: He was just a little late, to unavoidably detained. To dead on the side of the road where no one could see him.
Or maybe, she had scared the shit out of him with her declaration of love. Maybe she had never been anything more than a casual fling to him. Maybe he’d gotten laid, and now he hated her for being such a pathetic little sap and not understanding grown-up flings and she would never see him again, because, at this very moment, he was on a plane back to London to get as far away from her as he possibly could.
And then again, maybe she was overdoing this a little. It wasn’t as if he’d behaved as if he hated her, hated her. But then why didn’t he come today like he said he would? Or at least call? Even if he was dumping her, she was pretty sure he’d at least call. So back to dead on the side of the road again. And she couldn’t very well go sit in a bathtub with a gallon of ice cream and sort it all out with Dad here, so reluctantly, she returned to the living room, a very thin and very false smile already hurting her face.
Dad had taken off his suit jacket and his shoes, had his feet propped up on the coffee table, a glass of wine dangling from one hand.
“Who was that?” he asked. “That moron who calls himself a professor?”
“No, Dad,” she said with a sigh as she took the chair next to the couch. “Just a friend.”
“Uh-huh,” he said. And then he winked at her. Winked at her. Like they shared some little secret. Jesus, who was this man in her living room? He’d been remarkably composed all day, had not made even the slightest joke about her students or Dagne or even Myron for that matter, and kept winking and smiling and acting like they were big buds. Being on the edge of a nervous breakdown as she was, it was about all she could endure. “Okay,” she said, in all seriousness, “where’s my dad?”
“Right here, baby girl.”
“No, you’re not him. You’ve been far too calm today. You haven’t said a word about my students, or my friends—”
“Nice people,” he interjected with a grin. She gave him a skeptical look and Dad chuckled. “Ah, Rachel,” he said, pausing momentarily to sip his wine, “why don’t you have a drink with your old man and relax a bit? You did a lot of work today. Take a load off; tell me what’s going on in your life. You know, a little chat among friends.”
Now she gaped at him. “I will definitely have some wine, because I can’t cope with this weird change in you.”
“Great. So tell me about your life,” he said as she came to her feet.
“Dad!” she exclaimed, disconcerted. “There is nothing going on in my life. It’s exactly the same as it has been for years now. And let’s please not forget that you haven’t been a big fan of my life,” she said, and walked into the dining room and an open bottle of wine there.
“I don’t care if there’s nothing new. I still want to hear about you,” he sunnily insisted.
Fat chance of that happening, a thought she broadcast to him with a look of pure suspicion. The last time they’d had a little chat, she’d gone running back to Providence.
“Hey, it’s not what you think,” he gaily continued. “I’ve turned over a new leaf. No, really! See, I’ve been doing some work with your mother, and I have come to a couple of conclusions about you and me.”
Oh great, just great. She already knew what his conclusions were, and this was really not the day she wanted to hear it—she was a tubby with a dead-end degree and a dead-end life and a dead-end boyfriend who wasn’t even her boyfriend.
She poured wine to the very rim of the wineglass, pounded the cork back in with her fist, then returned to the living room and glared down at her father on the couch. “I thought you and Mom were in marriage counseling, not father counseling.”
“We are in marriage counseling,” he said, completely undaunted by her glare. “But part of marriage counseling covers our joint parenting, and before you tune me out,” he said in response to her groan, “at least hear me out.”
“I don’t want to hear—”
“Sure you do. Like I said—a new leaf.”
Rachel sighed and sat down, resigned.
“I promise, no fighting,” he added.
“Do I have a choice?”
“Sure! If you don’t want to hear me out now, I’ll just stay on indefinitely until you’re ready.”
Rachel took a big gulp of wine and said, “Okay, shoot.”
“Let me start with your professor. He’s a dead-end—”
“Da-ad!” she cried. “I knew you were going to do this!”
“Rachel, please let me finish,” he said calmly.