He’s not wrong. I do love the diner’s double-decker grilled cheeses.
“Oh, uh, thank you. How was your drive from the city?” I ask, studying his face. Mom always said I get my looks from Dad. We share numerous features, dark eyes, thick brows, heart-shaped lips, and the same crooked smile.
“Long,” he says with a chuckle. “Summer traffic is picking up.”
“Ah. Any vacations planned?”
“I mentioned that we are moving into Alexandra’s parents’ lake house. So we’ll probably just take things easy—” He pauses, because he knows what I’m thinking. My heart twinges, hurt for younger me who would have given anything to have a summer vacation with Dad. I try to push that thought away, reminding myself that I have a busy summer ahead before college.
“Sounds fun,” I say, distracted by the waitress dropping off our orders. His order is the same too, a club sandwich held together by a toothpick with colored foil. He used to let me have them.
“Enough about me. I hear you’ve been busy. How were your exams?” he asks, removing the toothpick. His jaw cracks a little when he takes a bite, as it always does.
I shrug, still not feeling up to eating, even though I’m hungry. “Good. Really good, actually. I aced them all, I think.”
He smiles proudly. “Of course you did. Oh, your mom sent along an invite to your graduation ceremony. Alexandra would like to come with me if you can spare an extra invite.” He catches my reaction and hesitates. “If that’s okay with you, that is.”
I remember how it felt to cross the stage at my middle school graduation, searching every darkened row for his face in the audience. And how crushing it was to shake the principal’s hand and pose for a photo with Mom as my sole guest.
I clear my throat. “If you can make it, sure. If you can’t, that’s fine too. I’d rather you not cancel last minute.”
“No, we’ll be there,” he promises. “Alexandra really wants to meet you.”
My lips twitch. “That’s why you’re coming to my grad? So Alexandra can meet me?”
“No. I wouldn’t miss your graduation for the world. It’s a huge deal. But,” he adds, “of course I want you to get to know Alexandra, especially with the baby coming. That’s why I want you to spend some time with us this summer.” He lights up when he talks about Alexandra and the baby. It actually makes me kind of happy. Happy for my future sibling. The sparkle in his eyes seems so genuine, and everything in my heart wants to believe him.
“I’m sorry for how I reacted on the phone,” I say, lowering my head. “It took me by surprise. It’s not like we’ve been in regular contact.”
He lowers his chin. “I know. And that’s on me. I’m sorry I haven’t been around as much as I should have.”
“What made you come to this conclusion?” I ask.
“The baby,” he says without a beat. “Going through it with Alexandra made me realize how much time I’ve lost with you. I know you’ll probably never forgive me and I don’t blame you—”
“It’s okay,” I cut in when his eyes well with tears. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Dad cry in my life.
“No. I let my work take over my life. I let my relationship with your mom sour ours. And by the time I realized it, I thought it was too late. That you already didn’t want me in your life.”
The words pierce my heart, especially since I felt the complete opposite. “I did. More than anything. I’ve wanted your approval my entire life, and I never felt like I had it.”
“You’ve always had my approval. I’ve always been immensely proud of everything you do.”
“Really?” I ask, voice barely above a whisper. I think about the box that Alexandra gave me at the lake house. She’d said the same thing. Real or not, I was starting to think Dad actually did care about me.
“I just assumed you knew that,” he says. For some reason, I always thought adults made decisions with purpose. That they knew what they were doing all the time. But maybe adults are just like teens, bumbling around aimlessly, unsure if they’ve gotten it right.
“I definitely didn’t.”
He looks hurt, but he accepts it. “I’ll be better about telling you from here on out. Okay?” He extends his hand to me.
I accept his promise and return his handshake. The feeling of Dad’s hand around mine fills me with a sense of relief. For the first time, I feel inclined to let go of my anger and move forward. Maybe it’s not too late to have a relationship with him. Maybe this is just the beginning.
THIRTY-SEVEN
In tenth grade, I made a list of my dreams for senior prom.
First on that list was Clay Diaz picking me up with a corsage, admiring my beauty. I wanted to take those cheesy couple photos at Ollie’s in front of his mom’s rose garden, which I’d frame and display on my bedside table until the end of time. I wanted to Boomerang a cheers with champagne flutes in the back of the limo with Kassie. Also cheesy? Totally. But rom-coms have deluded my expectations, okay?
I’ve dreamed about this night ever since Kassie and I watched The Kissing Booth at a sixth-grade sleepover. We consulted Google immediately, ogling sequined gowns, making collages filled with celebrities we’d love to go with, curating the perfect romantic slow-dance playlists, and gushing about the day it would finally be our turn to go to prom.
And now, here it is. The best day of a teenager’s life, after years of anticipating, commiserating, and meticulously planning.
Things aren’t going exactly as planned. My hairdresser, Alice, butchered my updo. She went buck-wild curling the hair framing my face into tiny old-lady ringlets. It’s not that I have anything against curls. But this is far from the loose, old-Hollywood glam waves I presented in my album of inspiration photos.
“I have to do them tight because your hair is so pin-straight and coarse. It’ll fall throughout the day, trust,” she kept insisting as I watched the horror in the mirror.
It’s been two hours since I left the salon and it has yet to fall. In fact, I kind of resemble a hobbit. This does not bode well for my trust issues. Even Mom had to stifle a snort when she picked me up.
Unfortunately, my appointment ran late so I don’t have time to fix it. I have exactly forty-five minutes to do my makeup and get dressed before Clay picks me up.
I’m naked in the bathtub frantically shaving a patch of hair on my upper thigh when Clay shows up. He’s a good half hour earlier than I instructed last night via text.
As I hastily rinse the shaving cream off my legs, Mom answers the front door. I hear her squeal in delight. Footsteps pad into the living room and she says, “The famous Clay Diaz. Charlotte has told me so much about you!” Kill me now.
I struggle to zip my dress without assistance as Mom fawns over Clay in the living room, asking about Model UN, where he’s going to college next year, and what he hopes to do with his life. Then she tells him he’s the spitting image of one of the characters in the book she’s writing. I’m shocked he doesn’t flee.
By the time I muster the strength to emerge from my room, Clay is sitting stiff backed on my couch, gripping the armrest. He’s wearing a black suit with a pinstriped gray tie. There’s something different about his hair. Gel, perhaps? It’s combed back like an old-school gangster. All he’s missing is a fedora.
“Hi,” I say. I spot my dirty llama-print socks strewn over the cushion next to him. Cool. Cool. Cool.
“Hey, Charlotte,” he says with a half smile, eyes darting to my hair, and then back to Mom behind me. He looks flat-out nervous, very different from his usual chill self.
“S-sorry I’m late.” My face is hot from rushing around and blow-drying my chest to get a water stain out of my silk dress. “You look . . . nice.”
He smiles. “Thanks. My mom insisted I wear a suit.”