?”
“Luke…”
“I know, I know. I see what you’re saying,” he said. “Okay. I can play it that way.”
“So we have a deal?” I asked, glancing at my watch. “Because Santino is going to flay me if I don’t let my ass back in the kitchen.”
“Deal,” he said and held out his hand, the one I’d held a thousand times and the one that had brought me so much pleasure when he ran it over my body under the moonlight.
Not allowing my mind to drift any farther into those intimate moments we’d once shared, I shook his hand swiftly, then stalked back to the restaurant. I wiped my hand on my jacket, as if to still the tingling of my nerves, the zing of recognition I felt from even his slightest, most formal touch. He had billions to make, and I had olives to count.
As I worked, I considered the notion that maybe we had never really been compatible. I distributed more olives and mentally cataloged the indignities I’d just signed on for: talk show appearances set against a backdrop of photos of our younger, happier selves; telling the heartbreaking story of my dad’s diagnosis again and again; and my name popping up in universal Tweets, right alongside Luke’s. For an instance, I wished I had just told him to fuck off, because I had plenty of family and real friends who could help me, and I’d already secured a damn free cookie cake, so I didn’t need him. Of course, I didn’t have the nerve to tell him that.
As I thought about that stupid, corny cookie cake, I let every little girl’s fantasies get the better of me. I imagined a tiered cake, a frilly garter, an ice sculpture, bowers of roses and beautiful pink tablecloths, linen rather than the plastic ones I always had. I felt a spark of excitement that made me feel instantly guilty. I knew it wasn’t right for me to take any enjoyment in the whole ordeal, as it was really just the prelude to my father’s death. Then again, I was sure that was also part of what he wanted, for his heartbroken daughter, the would-be orphan, to enjoy a little happy distraction before she was all alone.
* * *
The next morning, I stopped by my dad’s house to tell him the good news. I told my two aunts and uncle hello, since they were also there visiting, and then I blurted, “Well, I found a groom.”
“Tell me it isn’t that man from the underwear ad on the city buses,” my Aunt Edith said.
“No, it’s Luke. Remember him? The guy I used to date in high school?”
“He called me last night,” my dad said.
“He did?”
“Yes. It was very thoughtful of him. He asked my permission to fake marry you.”
“Well, I guess he’s always been pretty classy, even if it is pretend.”
“He said he wants me to experience the whole process of seeing my daughter settled, and giving my blessing is part of it.”
“So did you?”
“Of course! I’ve always liked that boy, even if he does wear a suit to work.”
“I wish he hadn’t called you,” I said, sighing and plopping down beside him on the sofa. “I wish he’d stay out of it. I told him all he has to do is show up, but he keeps butting in. He wants to do all this crazy stuff, make a big production out of it.”
“He said he has to do PR and be on television. He asked my blessing for that as well. He said I’ll see you on Good Morning America and that one your mother liked, that one with the pretty blonde on it.”
“ Live with Kelly and Michael . Actually, that was planned before he even got involved. You and I both agreed to do that one. And I can tell you all of this myself. Luke doesn’t have to be your go to man.”
“Luke wanted me to know what was going on.”
“I can tell you.”
“I’m your father, and I like to hear about what’s going on with you.”
“I know you do, Daddy. I just want—”
“To protect me? I know, honey, but until you have a child of your own, you won’t realize how backward that is. Since the day the doctors piled that red, squawking, bawling little
“Luke…”
“I know, I know. I see what you’re saying,” he said. “Okay. I can play it that way.”
“So we have a deal?” I asked, glancing at my watch. “Because Santino is going to flay me if I don’t let my ass back in the kitchen.”
“Deal,” he said and held out his hand, the one I’d held a thousand times and the one that had brought me so much pleasure when he ran it over my body under the moonlight.
Not allowing my mind to drift any farther into those intimate moments we’d once shared, I shook his hand swiftly, then stalked back to the restaurant. I wiped my hand on my jacket, as if to still the tingling of my nerves, the zing of recognition I felt from even his slightest, most formal touch. He had billions to make, and I had olives to count.
As I worked, I considered the notion that maybe we had never really been compatible. I distributed more olives and mentally cataloged the indignities I’d just signed on for: talk show appearances set against a backdrop of photos of our younger, happier selves; telling the heartbreaking story of my dad’s diagnosis again and again; and my name popping up in universal Tweets, right alongside Luke’s. For an instance, I wished I had just told him to fuck off, because I had plenty of family and real friends who could help me, and I’d already secured a damn free cookie cake, so I didn’t need him. Of course, I didn’t have the nerve to tell him that.
As I thought about that stupid, corny cookie cake, I let every little girl’s fantasies get the better of me. I imagined a tiered cake, a frilly garter, an ice sculpture, bowers of roses and beautiful pink tablecloths, linen rather than the plastic ones I always had. I felt a spark of excitement that made me feel instantly guilty. I knew it wasn’t right for me to take any enjoyment in the whole ordeal, as it was really just the prelude to my father’s death. Then again, I was sure that was also part of what he wanted, for his heartbroken daughter, the would-be orphan, to enjoy a little happy distraction before she was all alone.
* * *
The next morning, I stopped by my dad’s house to tell him the good news. I told my two aunts and uncle hello, since they were also there visiting, and then I blurted, “Well, I found a groom.”
“Tell me it isn’t that man from the underwear ad on the city buses,” my Aunt Edith said.
“No, it’s Luke. Remember him? The guy I used to date in high school?”
“He called me last night,” my dad said.
“He did?”
“Yes. It was very thoughtful of him. He asked my permission to fake marry you.”
“Well, I guess he’s always been pretty classy, even if it is pretend.”
“He said he wants me to experience the whole process of seeing my daughter settled, and giving my blessing is part of it.”
“So did you?”
“Of course! I’ve always liked that boy, even if he does wear a suit to work.”
“I wish he hadn’t called you,” I said, sighing and plopping down beside him on the sofa. “I wish he’d stay out of it. I told him all he has to do is show up, but he keeps butting in. He wants to do all this crazy stuff, make a big production out of it.”
“He said he has to do PR and be on television. He asked my blessing for that as well. He said I’ll see you on Good Morning America and that one your mother liked, that one with the pretty blonde on it.”
“ Live with Kelly and Michael . Actually, that was planned before he even got involved. You and I both agreed to do that one. And I can tell you all of this myself. Luke doesn’t have to be your go to man.”
“Luke wanted me to know what was going on.”
“I can tell you.”
“I’m your father, and I like to hear about what’s going on with you.”
“I know you do, Daddy. I just want—”
“To protect me? I know, honey, but until you have a child of your own, you won’t realize how backward that is. Since the day the doctors piled that red, squawking, bawling little
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