Dark Wild Night

“No,” I hurry to say, immediately defensive. “Nothing like that, it’s . . . it’s just a long story.”


“You may have noticed I’m currently minus one girlfriend. I’ve got time.” He watches me pull two slices of bread out of the bag and rip little circles out of the middle for Eggs in a Basket, his favorite breakfast. He always watches me make this with a look of wonder on his face like there’s some voodoo involved. It’s adorable; the secret is bread and eggs cooked together in a pan. Sometimes I’m amazed he’s survived living here alone.

“What’s going on?” he presses. “You were here with him the other night and the two of you could barely keep your hands off each other. Now you’re here, sleeping in your old bed for the first time in ages. Talk to me.”

I set the eggs and bread on the counter and pull out a frying pan.

“I don’t want to talk about Oliver,” I tell him, and am blindsided by the sting of tears rising up out of nowhere. I know Dad sees me brush them away, so I mumble, “Sorry, I’m just wiped. I’m messing everything up. The movie, the new series. Oliver. All of it.”

“That doesn’t sound like you, especially not with Oliver.”

I laugh, lighting the burner. “Doesn’t sound like me? Do you remember the first time Oliver came over? You looked at him like he was an endangered species.”

“It was new,” he says in his defense. “You’d never brought a guy home before.”

“I panicked about work and told him I wanted some space. So, he went out with someone else,” I say, and brush at my eyes. “He’s mad and I guess he thought that would help.” I place a pat of butter in the pan and watch it melt. “I regret saying what I did, and now I’m not sure how to fix it.”

“But you just . . .” He pauses and shakes his head. “I’ll admit, Lola, I may be more upset about this than about Ellen.”

And now, relief. There had been a tiny piece of my brain that was stuck on the image of Dad after Mom left, and worrying he would go to that terrible place again if Ellen ever left him. Thank God he won’t.

“Now, back up,” he says. “What happened with work?”

“I missed a deadline. Not to mention three interviews I slept through.”

Dad’s eyebrows rise to the ceiling.

“I’ve never missed a deadline in my life and now I’m so distracted I’m turning books in late and unable to focus. . . .” I drag the bread through the melted butter, flipping to coat both sides.

“But—and don’t get upset with me here,” he says, holding up his hands, “I’m just trying to understand—what does that have to do with Oliver?”

My stomach twists with the discomfort of talking this out with my dad, but I’m already sort of all-in here. “Lately I sit down to work and find myself drifting off, wondering what he’s doing, or thinking about something he’s said. I’ve been so preoccupied I thought I had another week to finish Junebug.”

“I’m guessing you didn’t.”

“It’s three weeks late now. I think I blamed it on what was happening with Oliver, instead of . . . I don’t know . . .”

He takes a few moments to let me finish before he says gently, “Instead of you just being completely, and understandably overwhelmed?” in a way that suggests the root to my freak-out is really obvious to him. “Lola, baby, your life had been turned upside down—even before all of this stuff with Oliver.”

I crack two eggs into the pan, adjusting the flame so they don’t pop and sizzle. His easy understanding makes my eyes grow shimmery again with tears. “I know.”

“You’ve been on more planes in the past few months than that United pilot who lives down the street.”

“I know.”

“Do you remember when you first started drawing?” he asks.