“A few months ago? Come on, Owen. He’s your dad!”
Owen sighs and hangs his head again, hand now brushing his cheek, pushing back his hair as if soothing the thoughts in his head. “He’s an embarrassment,” he says. “Even I cringe when I’m around him. The way he keeps meeting these girls, the way his whole life revolves around attention and…trust me, it’s just bad.”
“Look,” I say, putting a hand on his leg under the table, “why don’t we just kill two birds with one stone? I can come with you. Deflect some of the tension, act as a buffer.”
Owen’s expression is one of confused surprise. “You’d do that for me? Do you realize what you’d be putting yourself through? What I’d be putting you through?”
“It’s what friends are for, right?” I say, emphasizing the word ‘friends.’ “And if it all goes south, I’ll pretend I’m getting a migraine so you can have an excuse to leave and bring me home.”
Owen snorts. “You know, that might actually work. Way to be an evil genius, Margo.”
We laugh together, and when we stop Owen’s looking at me in that intense way of his, as if he’s taking in everything about me, pride and desire flaring in his eyes.
“I’ll definitely owe you one for this,” he says slowly. “So start thinking about how you want me to make it up to you.”
I let myself melt a little in the heat of his gaze, and when we both turn our attention back to the trivia, I decide not to mention New York yet, not to let myself consider just how difficult it’s gonna be to give him up.
17
Owen
Even Margo’s colorful summer dress, those long legs glistening in the sun, even that thin fabric falling over her breasts, her hips, her ass like trailing water, can’t take me out of my bad mood as I bring the car to a stop in the parking lot.
I kill the engine and feel Margo’s cool hand on my arm.
“Owen,” she says, gently. “You’re scowling like you wanna kill someone.”
I look at her and immediately realize she’s right, letting the tension between my brows disappear for a second.
“I’m just realizing what a bad idea this was,” I say.
“Come on—you have to see your dad sometime.”
“But I didn’t have to drag you along with me.”
“I wanted to come, remember? Besides, it’s just one meal. A couple of hours at most. And after that…” she says, her hand trailing down my arm to my crotch, gently teasing the bulge with the back of her fingers as she leans in. “You can get to work on showing me just how much you appreciate my support.”
I nod to let her know that plan’s fine by me. I don’t tell her just how deep my scowl runs, just how many things are dragging my mood into the dirt now. It’s bad enough to watch your own father act like a caricature, bad enough to see the man who was supposed to guide you, teach you, give you the right kind of platform in life chase and fawn over women half his age like a horny teenager. It’s even worse to share that embarrassment with a close friend, someone who’s potentially more than that.
I should have told Margo she didn’t need to come—no matter how much she insisted. I should have bailed on our date and gone to see my dad alone. Or better yet, bailed on him and spent the time with Margo instead. The closer we came to this moment, the more it sunk in, the more I just wanted to take a sick day from life.
“Listen,” I say, once we’re out of the car and walking slowly to the ritzy Italian restaurant, “maybe we should go over a couple of things before you meet him.”
“Ok,” Margo says, compliant. “Just tell me what I need to know. I’ll reserve all judgment.”
“Firstly, this Nancy girl is probably going to be, like, our age—if not younger. And even then, she’ll have the mentality of a spring-breaker.”
Margo nods and says, “Ok. Check.”
“Secondly, my dad is probably going to spend most of the dinner talking about how much he loves her, and how perfect they are for each other—there will probably be a lot of PDA too. So my advice? Don’t order anything creamy or difficult to digest—‘cause with all the romantic bullshit you’re probably gonna be close to barfing anyway.”
Margo laughs and reaches out to take my arm, stopping me in front of the restaurant.
“Owen,” she says, as I turn to face her. She tugs at a loose strand of her hair for a moment and looks away, as if debating what she’s about to say. “I know this is hard for you, and I’m not saying it won’t be awful, but…it always seems worse when it’s your own parent. You know?”
“Sure.” I nod. “Let’s get this over with, then.”
Margo shakes her head and laughs, and I take her arm and lead her inside.
We walk under an entrance canopy covered with olive vines and toward the ma?tre‘d stand. After giving him our names he leads us between the couples dining at linen-covered, candlelit tables and out to the outdoor patio in the back of the restaurant, a view that looks out onto a grassy knoll that juts out into the dark blue Pacific. It’s a nice place, but I’d still rather be anywhere else. The fact that it’s still early and the other patio tables are empty fills me with a little confidence, though—my dad can get loud, and though I’m not exactly a wallflower, I prefer not cringing in front of an audience.
“Son!” he calls out, standing up from a table at the edge of the balcony.
“Hey Dad,” I say, as he pulls me into a one-way embrace.
He stands back and looks at me as if he’s about to tell me I’ve grown since he last saw me.
“This is Margo,” I say, pulling back.
“Well!” he says, looking at Margo with a giant grin on his face. “You are beautiful!”
I look at Margo, wincing apologetically, but she’s actually smiling at my dad as he leans in for an airkiss.
“This is Nancy,” he says, as the woman steps aside from her chair behind him. “My own beautiful girl.”
“Oh, Ron! Stop it,” The woman purrs in a lovely southern drawl, slapping him playfully on the shoulder before shaking both of our hands gently. “It’s so nice to meet you.”
For a moment I’m speechless, but Margo comes to my rescue.
“It’s nice to meet you, too. Both of you.” She smiles big enough for both of us and tugs me into my seat, then shoves a water glass into my hand, clearly noticing my shock. I drink the water, stalling for time.
This is not what I expected. Nancy’s not what I expected. At all.
For a start, she looks to be within ten years of my dad’s age. She’s also dressed quite elegantly in a dark dress that doesn’t show the kind of bikini cleavage or thigh-high skirt length more typical of the women my dad usually brings to dinners like this. Far from the usual nasal, bratty voices I’m used to his girlfriends having, she’s got a throaty, southern twang—the sound of a woman who’s actually lived a life, lived it her own way, and lived it well enough not to be bitter about it.