The Number 7 by Jessica Lidh Page B

Dad and Rosemary sitting on the couch. “And sorry again about before.”
    â€œCome back anytime, Gabe,” Dad saluted happily to my friend.
    Rosemary waved with a giant smile. They sat with their socked feet propped up on the coffee table with two empty mugs on the table next to the couch. They seemed giddy with each other despite the late hour. For a moment, I felt like I had exchanged roles with my dad. He was acting like the love-struck teenager, and I, the responsible adult.
    As Gabe hopped back to the mudroom to put on his other boot, I wondered how this night could have gone any better.
    â€œThanks again for the cookies.” Gabe held up the mound of tinfoil.
    â€œThanks for helping.” And then there was the moment. That uncomfortable moment of new goodbyes. Should I hug him?
    Ironically, for once, Gabe didn’t come in for the type of personal touch we’d already shared at Weaver’s. He stayed in the mudroom while I stayed in the doorway.
    â€œI’ll see you on Monday, Louisa,” he smiled as he pulled on the gloves he’d promised he’d wear. And then he left, disappearing into the dark winter air.
    After Gabe had gone, I cleaned up the kitchen while trying to eavesdrop on the conversation in the living room, but I couldn’t hear anything over the clanking of dishes in the dishwasher. Once I’d finished, I went to say good night to Dad before retiring to my bedroom. I caught him and Rosemary sharing an afghan, laughing in unison at something Dad had just said, and I was sad to have missed the joke. If I were a betting woman, I would have bet anything that the two were holding hands under the blanket.
    â€œNight, Rosemary.”
    â€œNight,” she smiled.
    Climbing the stairs, I was consumed with excitement for new beginnings. Dad and Rosemary were a good match. Dad deserved companionship. The type of companionship neither Greta nor I could provide him. He’d been flying solo long enough: over five years. I closed my eyes and quietly hoped the relationship would blossom into something more permanent than chance encounters and late-night chats over coffee.
    â€œIt is getting late . . .” I heard Rosemary say as I reached the top of the stairs. To which Dad answered, “Are you free tomorrow?”
    I stayed up the rest of the night waiting anxiously to hear a ringing from above. But unlike other teenage girls, the phone call I was waiting for wasn’t coming from the boy I’d just spent my evening with. I was waiting to hear more about a man I’d never meet. But the old rotary never rang.

XIV.
    â€œGood night?” I teased Dad at the Saturday morning breakfast table.
    Greta rolled her eyes at my badgering; unlike me, she seemed completely indifferent toward Dad’s new love life. He reached across the cream-colored vintage tablecloth I’d found in the attic and grabbed one of my cookies from their plate on the kitchen table. Tossing the small morsel into his mouth, he squinted, making a face.
    â€œGabe was cute!” Greta exclaimed through spoonfuls of cereal. “Taller than I expected.”
    â€œI like his eyes,” I added.
    Greta agreed, lifting her eyebrows as she sipped her tea. “Absolutely!” she dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “Those lashes!”
    â€œHe was very nice ,” Dad interrupted, an emblematic plea for us to tone down our girlish musings.
    â€œRosemary stayed late, Dad,” Greta stated matter-of-factly.
    â€œShe and I are going into the city today. We can give you girls a ride if you want to check it out. I know we haven’t sufficiently explored Philly yet. I’m sorry about that,” he said, reaching for another cookie.
    â€œI’ve got plans,” Greta replied. Neither Dad nor I was surprised.
    â€œI’d like to go, but I don’t want to cramp your style, Dad,” I harassed while smugly taking a bite of breakfast.
    â€œI have no