empty, I just stand there, all hunched over, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, feeling helpless, shaky, and humiliated as hell. And then Easton arrives with my purse in his hand, going, “Are you okay?” While looking at me with so much concern, it makes me feel even worse.
I just nod, even though I think it’s probably pretty obvious that I’m not.
And he says, “Here, let me take you home.”
But I shake my head and avoid his eyes. “Just get me a cab,” I mumble, gazing down at the ground, amazed at how the trip from “cool” to “loser” was a lot quicker than I would’ve thought.
He hails a taxi, and gets me safely inside, and when he closes the door between us, he goes, “Uh, you’re not gonna mention any of this to your dad, are you?”
But the cab pulls away from the curb before I can answer.
Nine
Even though I didn’t exactly tell my dad, it’s not like he didn’t know. I mean, remember the band, the Billboard hit, and the whole rock star thing? Well, trust me, I couldn’t have fooled him if I tried.
So the next morning, by the time I finally make it into the kitchen, there’s a big bottle of water along with two extra- strength aspirins, waiting patiently beside my coffee.
“So how bad was it?” he asks, peering at me from over the top of his folded in half newspaper.
But I just shrug, and drop my head in my hands. Because even though I have no other hangover stories to judge it by, I’m definitely convinced that it’s probably pretty bad.
“Should I have stopped you?” he asks, gazing at me with concern.
I swear that’s how he parents. Like everything is this thoroughly considered, nonpartisan, fairly voted on, democratic decision. And when it doesn’t work out? Well, that’s when itbecomes “a learning experience.” So obviously, it’s pretty tough to get in trouble around here.
I just look at him and shrug. “In retrospect? Maybe,” I tell him.
But he just laughs. “So?” He looks at me, waiting for all the dirty details.
Oh, yeah, that’s the other part of his parenting, he likes to be kept well-informed and in the loop. So full disclosure is the price you pay for not being put on restriction.
“Two Bacardi and Cokes, half a beer, and like, two or three pretend hits of pot,” I confess. “But that’s it. Scout’s honor,” I say, raising my right hand as though I’m solemnly swearing.
He just looks at me, eyebrows raised.
“What can I say? You raised a lightweight.” I shrug. “Oh, yeah, and then I deposited all of it in the bushes right outside of the most amazing loft you’ve ever seen.”
“You’re way better off, trust me,” he says, nodding his head while taking a swig of iced coffee.
“Funny, I don’t feel better off.” I shrug. “I mean, I have red eyes, dry mouth, a raging headache, a bad case of embarrassment, a world of regret, and a pretty heavy dose of much humbled humiliation.”
“And Easton?” He looks at me, waiting.
“He’s totally terrified that I’ll tell you,” I say, swallowing the aspirin, followed by a hearty chug of mineral water chaser.
“And did you learn anything?” he asks, still looking at me.
“Believe me, I learned plenty,” I assure him, grabbing the
New York Post
and searching for Page Six.
The rest of the day was pretty low-key. Partly because of my delicate condition, and partly because it was our last day together so we just wanted to be mellow. So after taking a leisurely stroll through the park, we went to a matinee, and then headed to one of my dad’s favorite haunts to enjoy an earlydinner. And even though I was still fending off a few residual shakes, I was mostly just thinking about how great it was to hang with my dad, one-on-one for a change, and not have to share him with Autumn, or one of his many girlfriends.
“How come you never got remarried?” I ask, taking a bite of the hamburger he made me order (swearing that the mixture of protein and grease would be
I just nod, even though I think it’s probably pretty obvious that I’m not.
And he says, “Here, let me take you home.”
But I shake my head and avoid his eyes. “Just get me a cab,” I mumble, gazing down at the ground, amazed at how the trip from “cool” to “loser” was a lot quicker than I would’ve thought.
He hails a taxi, and gets me safely inside, and when he closes the door between us, he goes, “Uh, you’re not gonna mention any of this to your dad, are you?”
But the cab pulls away from the curb before I can answer.
Nine
Even though I didn’t exactly tell my dad, it’s not like he didn’t know. I mean, remember the band, the Billboard hit, and the whole rock star thing? Well, trust me, I couldn’t have fooled him if I tried.
So the next morning, by the time I finally make it into the kitchen, there’s a big bottle of water along with two extra- strength aspirins, waiting patiently beside my coffee.
“So how bad was it?” he asks, peering at me from over the top of his folded in half newspaper.
But I just shrug, and drop my head in my hands. Because even though I have no other hangover stories to judge it by, I’m definitely convinced that it’s probably pretty bad.
“Should I have stopped you?” he asks, gazing at me with concern.
I swear that’s how he parents. Like everything is this thoroughly considered, nonpartisan, fairly voted on, democratic decision. And when it doesn’t work out? Well, that’s when itbecomes “a learning experience.” So obviously, it’s pretty tough to get in trouble around here.
I just look at him and shrug. “In retrospect? Maybe,” I tell him.
But he just laughs. “So?” He looks at me, waiting for all the dirty details.
Oh, yeah, that’s the other part of his parenting, he likes to be kept well-informed and in the loop. So full disclosure is the price you pay for not being put on restriction.
“Two Bacardi and Cokes, half a beer, and like, two or three pretend hits of pot,” I confess. “But that’s it. Scout’s honor,” I say, raising my right hand as though I’m solemnly swearing.
He just looks at me, eyebrows raised.
“What can I say? You raised a lightweight.” I shrug. “Oh, yeah, and then I deposited all of it in the bushes right outside of the most amazing loft you’ve ever seen.”
“You’re way better off, trust me,” he says, nodding his head while taking a swig of iced coffee.
“Funny, I don’t feel better off.” I shrug. “I mean, I have red eyes, dry mouth, a raging headache, a bad case of embarrassment, a world of regret, and a pretty heavy dose of much humbled humiliation.”
“And Easton?” He looks at me, waiting.
“He’s totally terrified that I’ll tell you,” I say, swallowing the aspirin, followed by a hearty chug of mineral water chaser.
“And did you learn anything?” he asks, still looking at me.
“Believe me, I learned plenty,” I assure him, grabbing the
New York Post
and searching for Page Six.
The rest of the day was pretty low-key. Partly because of my delicate condition, and partly because it was our last day together so we just wanted to be mellow. So after taking a leisurely stroll through the park, we went to a matinee, and then headed to one of my dad’s favorite haunts to enjoy an earlydinner. And even though I was still fending off a few residual shakes, I was mostly just thinking about how great it was to hang with my dad, one-on-one for a change, and not have to share him with Autumn, or one of his many girlfriends.
“How come you never got remarried?” I ask, taking a bite of the hamburger he made me order (swearing that the mixture of protein and grease would be
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