by Dahlia Adler
I wonder if I could beg Lizzie and Connor to go for a drive in scenic Middle-of-Nowhere for a bit.
But before I can say a word, the front door opens, and my dad comes out with flannel-covered arms open. His blond beard is frosted with white and he looks about five years older than the last time I saw him, but joyful all the same. “Caity,” he says warmly, enveloping me in a hug. “I’m so, so happy you could make it.” The words are muffled in my hair—at six-five, he’s clearly the source of my height genes—but they make me really happy I chose to come, too. Now I just hope his and Cammie’s reunion is equally nice.
Yeah, right.
I say goodbye to Lizzie and Connor and tell them to drive the remaining four hours safely, have a good week, and report back on all interesting things. Then I follow my dad inside his messy, newspaper-filled house. I love the familiarity of it, even though he’s only lived there a few years—anywhere he lives smells like mustiness and newsprint. For all that he’s adjusted to email and text messaging, he just cannot read full coverage of sports on a website.
Judging by the mess, Abigail hasn’t moved in; it’s hard to imagine another human living in this nest of paper piles, beer bottles, and cigar smoke. My dad is the consummate bachelor, which just makes me wonder for the millionth time how the hell he’s going to be a new groom and papa all over again.
“I’m guessing Abigail doesn’t spend a lot of time here,” I say, sniffing as I round up the bottles and toss them into his recycling bin. “She must get hives every time she steps over that threshold.”
He just grunts and clears a stack of papers off the couch, and I take a seat, dropping my bag on the floor and sending up a cloud of dust.
“How were midterms?”
Midterms? Seriously? That’s what he wants to ask me about, when I’m having the best lacrosse season of my life? When I just gave him the opportunity to talk about The Child Bride? Ooookay. “They were good. My partner project for Econ went really well, my Stats exam was a piece of cake, Communications was totally open book, and Greek Tragedy was just a paper—I wrote half of it on the bus to Albany.”
“Atta girl. Have you figured out what you’re taking next year?”
I shrug. “Another Econ class, probably another Communications class…not sure yet what else. I haven’t really started thinking about junior year yet.” Except the part where I want to be captain.
He drops into the battered Eames chair he’s had my entire life, but there’s a tension in his body as he searches for his next words, and I realize what’s coming before he even opens his mouth. “You know, sweetheart, those are classes you could really take anywhere, and UCSD—”
“Is not Radleigh.” He sucks in a sharp breath at how quickly I cut him off, and I realize I’m not gaining myself any points here. I try again a little more patiently. “I’m really happy at school, Dad. I’m doing well, I’ve made really good friends, and I’m seriously killing it on lax. I mean, you saw that article—at this point, Coach Brady would probably break out into tears if I left.”
Dad chuckles in this most annoying way that suggests he’s not taking a word I say seriously. “He’s a grown man, Cait, and he’s used to losing his best players to graduation. He’ll live, and you can stop playing lacrosse on a layer of frost.”
“In case you somehow forgot, I’m from Vermont; I could care less about the frost. And this isn’t about Brady; it’s about me and where I want to be.”
“You haven’t even given San Diego a shot.”
“Why would I?” I ask, jumping up from the couch, already getting sorry I came. “You—” The ringing of my phone cuts me off, then, and I think it’s probably for the best. I pull it from my pocket, and see that it’s Cammie. I flicker an annoyed glance at my father and then pick it up. “Hey, Cam.”
“Hey, you here yet? I just got to my motel.”
Shit, I should’ve known Cammie would stay at a motel. Without a backward glance at my dad, I let myself out of his house and take a seat on his cold stone stoop. “I’m at Dad’s house. Any chance of you coming over here?”
“Hell no. How’s it going?”
I glance back at the door I’ve closed behind me and sigh. “Not great.”
“Want me to come pick you up?”
I know I should say no, that I should stick around and talk things out with my father. But…man, I really don’t want to. And anyway, it’s not like I’ve seen my sister at all this semester either. I’ll see him later tonight. “Yes, please,” I say, wincing at how small my voice sounds.
She sighs, and in it I hear the world’s loudest “I told you this was a bad idea.” “I’ll see you in five.”
“Thanks, Cam.” I hang up and turn back to my dad. “Cammie’s coming to pick me up.”
I know the comment will bruise, and it does; I see it in the way his jaw tightens when I make no mention of her coming inside to say hi. Or maybe that’s a response to the fact that I’m leaving this conversation in the middle, the same way I have been for months. Either way, I don’t care; he chose this.
He wanted distance between him and his daughters, and he got it.
Cammie’d never actually been to Harborville, the tiny town my dad had moved to after the divorce to take over their paper's sports section. I’d gone for weekends a bunch during the off season, though, so I was able to direct us to the lone coffee shop with ease. To her credit, Cammie quietly sipped at her latte while I filled her in on my ongoing issues with Dad and Abigail, and then provided the welcome distraction of telling me about her work life in Brookline and the weird sexual tension between her and her boss.
After a couple of hours of talking about nothing at all, my dad called and asked to take us out to dinner—just the three of us—and we reluctantly agreed. Sitting with him and Cammie was painful, and I kept sneaking texts to Lizzie and Frankie under the table. Cammie went back to her motel after that, and I went back to my dad’s, grateful there was always sports on to keep our own awkwardness at bay.
Unfortunately, tonight is basketball, and watching the Knicks in stark silence just lets my mind drift to a certain center I haven’t allowed myself to think about in days. This could’ve been his life in a couple of years, if things had gone differently, if he hadn’t gotten hurt. This is where we’d always thought he’d be, where he seemed to belong.
March Madness starts next week, and instead of getting on the court with Indiana, he’ll be watching on the sidelines from Radleigh. Despite all my anger and my supposed apathy, at this moment my heart is breaking for him. I want to reach out, want to tell him that I get how sad and frustrated he must be. I want to make sure he’s okay, bring him Cheetos and Mountain Dew—his favorites—and curl up on the couch with him to watch the games and rant at every bad play, the way we used to do on the phone, before he stopped taking my calls.
I never stopped missing the sound of his voice in my ear during games. He’s not wrong that I’d rather be in my room watching ESPN Classic than doing most things, but the missing piece is how badly I miss—how badly I’ve missed for years—his enthusiastic whoops and gravelly laughs in my ear. The way he used to practice his announcer voice, cracking me up. The promises he used to make that we’d go to games together someday and give everyone something to see on kiss cams.
Thoughts and memories and half a beer lull me to sleep on the couch, and when I wake up, my dad is gone and I’m stretched out, covered in a blanket, the room around me silent and dark.
I slide my phone out of my pocket to check the time, and smile at the sight of a picture message from Lizzie of Connor and her two little brothers all passed out on the floor in front of the fireplace. It was sent a couple of hours ago, along with a text that says, How’s it going over there?
She’s probably asleep, but I type back, Not great. Fingers crossed tomorrow’s better. I hit Send, then add, Make that today.
Unsurprisingly, there’s no response—it’s after three and after driving five hours that day, I’m sure Lizzie�
�s zonked. I peel myself off the couch and head into the second bedroom with its two twin beds, covered in plaid sheets—my dad’s entire aesthetic—and drop onto one. I’m wide awake now, and I don’t know what to do with myself, which of course brings my thoughts back to the last place I want them to go.
I knew when Mase got his concussion; even though we’d been drifting before that, it was big news on the college sports grapevine. But I’d never wanted to know details, maybe because I’d always needed to believe it wasn’t that bad, that he’d go back when he was healed. Not to mention that I was hurt—I called him so many times after it happened, and never received a single response. Eventually I let it go. The futures we’d discussed so many times under the stars were only coming true for one of us, and I was so wrapped up in myself and so determined to forget him, it never occurred to me he wouldn’t eventually get back on his feet.
And I guess he did. Just not the way I would’ve thought.
I wonder if he likes coaching. We’d talked about it, in the past, if there was anything we could see ourselves doing on the field or court other than playing. Neither of us had been able to imagine a time past slamming the ball into the net, though. Not really. But here he is, at twenty, doing the thing we never wanted to believe we’d do before we were twice this age.
God, I want to talk to him. The urge to call him right now makes my fingers physically ache, and I’m relieved it’s an absurd enough hour of the night to talk me out of it. For all I know, he’s in my dorm room right now, curled up with Andi in post-coital slumber. And I’m here with Brandon, the stuffed poodle I’ve kept here since I was fourteen, just to have something to hug.
I fall asleep with Brandon squeezed tightly in my arms.
• • •
I feel like crap when I wake up in the morning, and my greasy hair and the circles under my eyes show it. Fortunately, Abigail’s bridal shower isn’t until noon, and my internal clock wakes me up at six, but it’s so fucking cold in my dad’s house that it takes half an hour before I can even squirm out from under the covers.
He’s still asleep when I get up, so I leave him a note before going for a run—only a fraction of the spring break training regimen Brady handed out, but it’s a start—and let the not-yet-spring chill wake me up. He’s awake when I get back, the smell of freshly brewed coffee just bordering on burning permeating the entire house. “Hey, Caity,” he greets me, overly sunny, as if it’ll put me in exactly the right frame of mind he wants me to be for the bridal shower. “I was just gonna run out and get some bagels. Still sesame with cream cheese?”
Bagels aren’t exactly on the Future Captain Diet, but he’s trying, and I appreciate it, so I say sure. Then he hesitates before asking, “What would your sister like?”
Not me, if I drag her here for breakfast. But I can’t say that, nor do I want to tell him that I’m pretty sure Cammie hasn’t touched a carb since the Bush administration, so I just tell him she’ll have the same. As soon as he leaves, I play the guilting game, promising her the moon and more just to get her to sit down to coffee. Then I jump into the shower and finish just in time for them to pull up to the house nearly simultaneously.
“Camille!” The already frigid air drops ten degrees as Cammie lets my dad kiss her on her tightening jaw. She doesn’t even hate her full name, but I know it bothers her that he uses it; she thinks it’s proprietary, like, “I gave you this name and don’t you forget it.” I wish I could’ve given him a primer—just some basic tips for not pissing off the daughter you haven’t spoken to in years—but our conversations have been otherwise occupied with enough bad feelings already.
“Hi,” she says stiffly, trying to paste a smile on her face, unquestionably for my benefit. The actual breakfast isn’t any more comfortable than dinner last night, with basic small talk about Cammie’s job and what we all hear from Matt. When Dad asks how Mom’s doing, I actually think Cammie’s gonna hiss, but she just says that Mom’s great and really happy with her boyfriend—a boyfriend Cammie has absolutely made up on the spot.
By the time my dad says, “I’m so glad you girls are here,” everyone at the table knows it’s a lie. Cammie just grunts in response, picking at the edges of her barely touched bagel, and I force a smile I hope gets across that I’m sorry for putting them both in this position. I’ve never felt this distant from my dad, but there’s only one reason I’m here, and if he has any interest in the conversation about bumping the wedding date, I’m not seeing even the slightest hint of it. In fact, he’s gone out of his way to avoid talking about lacrosse at all, despite the fact that it usually dominates at least the first hour of all of our conversations.
Or at least it did before Abigail.
“We are too, Dad,” I lie, because the part of me that wants to make him happy is still there.
The little fib seems to satisfy him, enough that he feels confident jumping into talk of San Diego, and the weather, and how much we’ll love the beach and the zoo and their little house. Cammie and I mostly nod, and I’m grateful she’s polite enough not to point out that considering this is her first time here, the odds of her ever seeing his San Diego abode aren’t likely.
On my fiftieth glance at my watch, I see it’s finally ten, and I announce it’s time for us to get ready for the shower.
“Since when do you girls need two hours to get ready for something?” Dad asks. “What happened to ‘Dad, we only need five minutes’?”
I claw Cammie’s thigh before she can provide the snarky response I already see forming on the tip of her tongue. “Important occasion,” I say weakly. “I’m wearing a dress.”
He nods as if that makes sense—maybe it does? I really don’t wear dresses often—and lets us go, and even though I’d fully planned to get ready at his house, it’s so easy and natural to escape by bringing my stuff with me to Cammie’s rental car and motel. So I do.
“This whole thing is ridiculous,” Cammie says as soon as we’re safely on the road and out of earshot. “You haven’t even said a word to him about moving the wedding since we got here, have you?”
“I thought I’d have a chance when lacrosse came up,” I admit, “but so far he’s avoided talking about it like the plague, even after I sent him those emails.”
“Yeah, because he’s a self-centered dick and always has been,” Cammie snaps, apparently at her end with patience for him. “Seriously, Cait, if you’re not gonna talk to him, then what the fuck am I even doing here?”
“I don’t think he’s going to listen to me as long as she’s set on it,” I say. “She’s the one I have to convince, which isn’t gonna happen unless we play super nice at this shower. That’s it. It’s the last thing, Cam. Can I count on you?”
She grumbles in response, but I know it’s as good as a yes.
We don’t talk about it anymore after that, instead taking turns doing each other’s hair while we laugh remembering what it was like when Mom tried to dress us in matching outfits and hairstyles. (It never worked, because I was always running around and making everything a mess, and Cammie was such a space cadet, she’d twirl her hair into knots and pull at threads without even realizing it.) Even with all our primping, we still have half an hour until we have to leave, so we sit back on the bed and watch an episode of House Hunters, miming taking shots every time someone says “open concept” or “I really wanted stainless steel.” And then there’s no more avoiding The Event, and off we go.
The shower is at a friend of Abigail’s cute bungalow. (Open concept, no less.) Said friend—Jillian, according to the invitation—swings the door open wide to greet us with a big smile, revealing an explosion of pink décor, helium balloons shaped like bottles and diapers, and, in the center of it all, our future stepmother.
“I’m…guessing it’s a girl?” Cammie murmurs to me as Jillian ushers us inside. I can only shrug, because I’d had no idea they knew the sex of the baby either. But I guess I shouldn’t be surprised at surprises anymore.
“So, you’
re the daughters!” A blonde who must be Abigail’s mom squeezes our arms, just enough distress in her eyes for me to know she’s still processing the fact that her daughter’s about to become a stepmother to women her own age. “Abigail didn’t mention how tall you are!”
I’ve never been good at clever responses to people marveling at my height, which I prove by saying, “Yup! Tall.” Next to me, Cammie chokes on a laugh, and I elbow her. Hard.
“Indeed. Well! Welcome. I’m Judy, and it’s so nice to meet you both…”
It’s clear then that if she ever knew our names, she doesn’t anymore. “Cait,” I fill in. “And this is Cammie,” I add, just in case my sister won’t.
“Ooh, both C names!” another woman chirps, this one Abigail’s age. “Is that gonna be a problem for Esme?”
“Who’s Esme?” I ask, at the same time Cammie says, “Our dad’s name is Steve.”
Abigail smiles serenely and rests her hands on her basketball belly. “Your future sister is Esme. We just decided on her name last week.”
Esme. My beer-swilling, cigar-smoking, sports-obsessed, flannel-wearing father is going to have a child named Esme. We’ve all heard from my mother numerous times what a struggle it was to get my father to agree to Camille because it was “too fancy.” And now he’s gonna have an Esme, which I suspect wasn’t a battle at all.
“Is she named after someone?” I ask, because that seems like the polite thing to do.
Judging by the way Abigail’s smile flickers, it was not. “Nope, we just love the name.”
