Heartbreaker by Maryse Meijer Page B

again.
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    He always arrives exactly fifteen minutes after my husband and son leave. I sit on the couch with the television on while he fumbles with the keys and the empty banged-up briefcase he always brings. Sweetheart! he says when he enters, and I yelp Daddy! and if I was maybe ten or twenty or, okay, thirty pounds lighter, I might run toward him, but as it is I wait on the couch for him to come over and kiss my hair. I’ll pour him a soda on the rocks and he’ll pour me some milk and we touch glasses and smile. If my husband calls I stand by the back door with my head down and say Uh-huh, yes, fine, all right, see you soon, no, nothing for me, thanks, I’m enjoying the leftovers, have fun, love you.
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    Richard lives with his mother but I never meet her or hear anything about her. I only know she exists because I Google Richard’s phone number and thanks to the white pages I know where he lives. She is seven years older than me and her name is Gayle. I imagine Richard when he is not Daddy, lurking unhappily beneath her thumb, still living in the room he grew up in. I wonder if he’s done his homework and discovered that I am a loser, too. Or maybe it’s obvious and he doesn’t care. So when I’m with him I don’t care either.
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    We never run out of things to talk about. There are dance recitals and music lessons and colds and heartbreaks to discuss and I am always the center of his attention. Sometimes he comes and crouches by the sink and pretends to fix a faulty pipe; I stand helpful at his side and listen to him slap and pull at the plastic tubes. Other times I refuse to do my homework or flaunt the fact that I’ve ignored my chores and he has to speak very sternly to me and point at the neglected essay assignment or the pile of dirty laundry in the middle of the floor until I melt with shame. He is patient and fair and my tantrums are mild, my rebellions quickly conquered. Sometimes, if I’m feeling low that week, I will cry for real, and he’ll say There are lots of other boys who will want to go to the dance with you, or You can always try out next year for the team, or—and this is by far my favorite—The school photo came out beautiful. And I sniff and say Really? It did? And he literally dries my tears with his hands and says Yes, of course it did.
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    Some girls are being mean to me, I complain one Thursday. Daddy whips his head up from his food like a hunting dog smelling blood. Excuse me? he says. Who exactly is being mean to you?
    Jennifer and Holly and Deborah, I say, using the names of women from work, women who aren’t mean to me but might as well be since they are not and never will be my friends.
    He shakes his head, wiping his fingers with his napkin before leaning back in his chair, his wrists on either side of his plate.
    That is unacceptable, he says. When did this start?
    I shrug. They’ve always had something against me.
    Do I need to call the school? Do I need to have a conference with their parents?
    Maybe, I say. It’s just not fair that they’re so stupid but everyone thinks they’re so cute.
    No one’s cuter than you.
    You’re just saying that.
    He puts his hand on mine. You are the most beautiful, wonderful, most talented girl I know.
    You must not know a lot of girls, I joke.
    I’m serious, Kathleen. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, okay?
    Okay, I say.
    Promise, he insists.
    I promise, I say, giggling.
    He isn’t laughing. Swear, he says, and I sober up, look into his eyes, and swear.
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    There are a few times when Daddy seems tired and we go out to eat and he sits there slushing his straw through his Diet Coke. Those Thursdays we’re alone with our private miseries, just like every father and daughter in the world, and the feeling is tender and beautiful.