Four losses in a row, Bex. Twelve total and April isn’t even near over.” Dad’s large, stubbly face filled the screen as he took off his battered ball cap and ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “The Cubs are going to be the death of me.”
“Chin up, Dad,” I said, yawning. “Literally. I can only see half your face.”
It was a new baseball season, and Dad and I were picking one Cubs game each week and video chatting right after, when, as he put it, the agony or ecstasy was still fresh. I had woken up before dawn for today’s rant, and although we were both bleary and bummed, I wouldn’t have missed it. I’d spent too long being defensive and evasive with my parents because I was secretly upset with myself. It’s the cruelest coincidence that the meeting with Nick that I’d so dreaded turned out to be the exact thing I needed to pull myself together, and I still catch myself wondering what might have happened if I’d reached out to Nick sooner, or at least said hello. But I always come back to the fact that running away was a necessary act of cowardice, begetting a necessary act of stupidity. I needed to hit rock bottom; I needed bleary regret.
Half of Mom suddenly ducked into the video frame. “Good night, Rebecca,” she shouted, as if she had to carry her voice across the ocean.
“It’s only good night for you,” I said. “I still have to go to work.”
She clucked. “The things you do for that team.”
“It’s the truest love there is,” Dad intoned. “Well, except for one.”
“Thank you, Earl,” she said, right as Dad and I said in unison, “Cracker Jack.”
“Oh, well, that’s lovely. See if I make you my famous beef Wellington again,” she huffed, as Dad pulled her onto his lap. “It was highly lauded by Hardware Pete and his wife. We had them over for dinner yesterday, Bex. Much nicer than Auto Sal from Sal’s Auto.”
She lovingly touched her screen, where I think my cheek must have been. “You do look so much better, sweetie. Happier. Or at least more solid.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I mean it. I know I was tough to take for a while there.”
“You want tough, try Mrs. Auto Sal’s brisket,” Mom said.
I smiled as she prattled on about the offending meat. I did feel more solid. The first step in my recovery, not unlike what we used to do before going out and getting blitzed, had been establishing a solid base. I skulked into the Soane museum, apologized for my spotty attendance, and promised my boss, Maud, that I’d fired Jack Daniel’s as my therapist. Maud is an extremely nice fortyish woman who is also a bit of a blank canvas—her hair is neither blond nor brown, yet also both; her features and wardrobe are plain, her thick hose as neutral as possible, and she and her mid-height, mid-weight boyfriend seem to eat only at mid-priced chains—and I think she was tickled that I confided in her, confidentiality agreements notwithstanding. I paid back her milky tea and sympathy by throwing myself into my job, the most successful product of which was convincing the Soane to turn an unused basement space into an art studio for at-risk children. We named it Paint Britain, and watching the kids revel in it inspired me to go back to my own art classes. And it was there that I met the first guy of about eight that I would date in the ensuing months—proper guys, employed, called when they said they would, stood when I got up from the table, remembered every detail a well-bred boyfriend ought. The one hitch was that I couldn’t make out with any of them without feeling like my heart was stuck in my windpipe. Another stage of my Irresponsible Ladies’ Home Journal Guide to Healing was supposed to be recalibrating via harmless romps—or, per the old adage, getting over someone by getting under someone else—but after my two-day tryst with the actor in Cannes, I’d lain awake worried that Nick had spoiled me on casual sex, because I couldn’t stop making comparisons to him. And yet I wasn’t ready for anything deeper; I had to hope someday I would be.
I focused in on my parents again as my mother was launching into an explanation of the origins of beef Wellington, and something caught my eye.
“Mom, what are you wearing?”
“Oh, this?” Mom fluffed the collar of her robe. “I’d gotten accustomed to the ones at The Dorch, so I bought one and personalized it, and now I have a piece of London here at home.”
“Does it say Lady Porter?”
“Damn right,” Dad said, nuzzling Mom’s arm. “I am an Earl, after all.”
“You two crazy kids,” I said. “I have to go. I haven’t had enough caffeine yet to watch my parents get all gross with each other.”
“When will we see you again?” Dad asked.
“Next week, right? The Pirates are going to murder us tonight, and then the Reds…ugh.”
“No, I mean, in person,” he said. “Come for a game!”
Iowa still bore the taint of my post-breakup trip, so I’d avoided it, including convincing my parents to spend last Christmas in England (I know they saw through me, but luckily, they were totally on board). I did pine for that crack-of-dawn pilgrimage to Wrigley Field, though, wandering around Chicago in a daze to kill time before the game, then guzzling stadium food and sodas to fuel the five-hour ride home—as if our electric indignance about their performance, win or lose, wasn’t enough. I missed that ritual.
“It’s a date,” I said. “Now go to sleep.”
“Will you be watching Nicholas tonight?” Mom asked.
“Honey, maybe she doesn’t want to talk about icholas-Nay,” Dad said, nudging her.
“I do speak pig Latin, Dad,” I said. “And it’s fine. I promise. Lacey and I are going to watch it together.”
“He’s a very nice young man,” Dad said. “I’m sure he’ll do great.”
“Earl!” Mom rapped his hat brim.
“What? He can be nice and still undeserving of our beloved firstborn,” he said.
“Good night, guys. I love you,” I said, laughing as I closed my laptop.
*