“Whoa, yeah.”
“You see what I mean?” he says, nodding. “So here’s what I wanted to tell you: Before I met your mother—”
I hold up a hand and start to turn away. “Nope. I can’t.”
Dad laughs again, catching my shoulder. “Oh, just listen. Before I met your mother, I . . .” He fidgets, blinks away from me. “I mean, I dated.”
Oh, Christ, that’s Dad’s code for Bedded a lot of ladies.
He bobs his head, laughing nervously. “Quite a bit, actually,” he adds.
I close my eyes, fighting the urge to shudder. “Dad, I get it.”
“It was the eighties,” he reasons. “Casual sex was fine; encouraged, even. But when I met Julie, I just knew she was it for me. It didn’t mean that I didn’t enjoy sex anymore—”
I groan.
“—or that I would have married the next girl who came around. It was her.” Dad leans in, forcing me to meet his eyes. “So don’t let your mother or sister or even grandmother bully you into thinking you need to settle down if you don’t feel it.” He pauses, adding, “You’ll just fuck it up if you don’t mean it.”
I feel my eyes go wide. My dad doesn’t swear. I mean, this man is the only one in our family who goes to church every Sunday, says “dang it” instead of “damn,” and winces when Margot swears at the television during Chargers games. To say he’s polite is an understatement.
“Thanks, Dad.”
But he’s not done. “In the same vein,” he continues, “if you do really like this girl, then tell her. Try to win her. I met your mom when I was your age, and I never looked back. Not for a single second.”
I look up at Dad and try to imagine a younger version of him, one from my early childhood when he would get up at dawn and surf for a few hours before work. One who would come up behind Mom while she cooked and whisper something in her ear that made her giggle and swat at him. Even as a kid, I knew my parents had something good. I think of him now, his easy hand on her thigh while he drives, how he’ll never go up to bed without her, the way he listens to her talk about her day while she cooks, with absolutely no distraction—no phone, no television, no newspaper. He sits at the breakfast bar and listens with intent while she rambles on about whatever happened that day in the world of oceanography at Scripps.
They’re more than two people who had kids together—I honestly can’t think of them as lovers, it just makes something curdle in my gut—but they’re also best friends.
I want that.
I want someone who makes me laugh, who challenges me, who listens to me. I want that leg within reach while I drive. I want to wait until someone is done futzing around the house before we head to bed. I need to be someone who a woman can respect and trust enough to spill the details of her day.
I blink, shaking my head. What the fuck is wrong with me?
* * *
“DO YOU LIVE here?” I pull out a stool at the bar and sit down, placing my phone facedown in front of me. I drove here on autopilot, and when I parked, I told myself it was because Fred’s is only a mile or so from my place and my parents’ place—it’s convenient.
It’s not that I was hoping she was working again and wanted to see her.
I just want a beer. And I’m not tired. And I didn’t feel like going home.
But of course I’m full of shit.
London looks up and gives me a wan smile. “I could ask you the same question.”
“Touché.” She smirks at this, and I lean in, adding, “That’s one of the things I like about you, Dimples.” I slide a dollar bill into her jar.
“That I live in a bar?” she asks. Her dimples flash when her smirk turns into her trademark playful smile, and something strange happens inside my chest.
“I like that you never let me get away with shit. And I like that you’re never actually mean when you call me out.”
This surprises her. I can tell in the way her eyes widen and her dimples vanish.
“Well,” she says when she’s recovered, “maybe the amount of shit you try to pull is so epic it’s easy to pick the low-hanging fruit.”
“Again,” I say, laughing. “Touché. But remember: I wasn’t actually here last night.”
London nods as she wipes the bar in front of me and then drops a coaster down. I try to interpret her expression; was she disappointed? “Can I get you a beer?”
“Actually,” I say, perusing the bar behind her, “I think I’m turning over a new leaf. I’ll have an amaretto sour. Dylan swears you make the best ones on the planet. I’d like to learn to appreciate them.”
She gives me a skeptical look. “That’s a pretty sweet drink. Are you sure?”
“I’m trying to get in touch with my feminine side.”
Laughing, London shakes her head as she turns. “There are so many possible responses to that, I don’t even know where to start.”
I watch as she pours, shakes, and serves up an orange, frothy glass. I’ll admit, it looks amazing, and reminds me of getting Orange Julius with Mia after school our freshman year.