Page 43 of How to Get Lucky
He slams the ball. “Oh, that’s right—that was you. Didn’t realize you were there, since you yell like an ant.”
“An ant?” I shoot back, puzzled, as he cracks another ball all the way to the fencing.
My mother tsks me. “Yes, sweetheart, don’t you know? You have to cheer incredibly loud for your father. He needs a lot of praise at his age.”
My dad gives her a smile. “I’ve needed a lot of praise at every age.”
“Duly noted,” I say. “So we’ve reached the stage in our relationship where I’m now the parent and you’re the millennials yearning for participation trophies?”
My dad seems to consider this, then nods. “Sounds about right.”
Another ball arcs toward Dad, but this time he overswings and it’s a rare miss. We both laugh, and he takes a deep breath and settles back into the box.
After a few more cuts, we finish and pack up, heading to the café next to the cages, my parents holding hands as we walk. We order lunch, then my mom sets her hands on the table. “How was the wedding? I want to hear all about it.”
“The bride was incredibly happy. I checked this morning on Yelp, and she already left me a five-star review, which was definitely not something I thought she’d take care of on her wedding night, but hey, she did,” I say, spreading my napkin on my lap. “Plus, I’ve already had one person reach out to me after seeing the review, asking to book me for an upcoming gig.”
Dad pumps a fist. “This is good. This is exactly what you’ve been wanting. You’ve been a little lost for the last year.”
That’s my dad—not one to mince words. “True. And I think this is going to help me focus on growing my new business, building it from the ground up. I won’t be distracted now.”
But that’s not entirely honest. When I got home from tennis and got in the shower, I was 100 percent focused on London again.
My dad gives me a warm grin. “It’s good to see you moving on after Tracy. You were in a funk for a while after things fell apart with her.”
“And that’s understandable,” my mom weighs in. “But speaking of moving on from Tracy . . .” She trails off in that inviting sort of tone that warns the next question is coming in three, two, one . . . “Have you met anybody else?”
“Since you asked me a few days ago?” I counter, deflecting.
She nods earnestly. “Yes, love can happen quickly.” She snaps her fingers. “Just like that.”
This is the moment of truth. I like my parents. I’ve been pretty open with them my entire life. I told them when I had my first kiss my freshman year of high school. I told them about the girl I took to senior prom. I’ve discussed sex with them. They bought me my first box of condoms and took me out for pizza after my first breakup. They raised me in a household without any shame.
They kissed in front of my sister and me. They went out together and made it clear that date nights were important for a couple.
They’ve always talked openly about intimacy and the power of love. I’ve always believed in love because of them.
A part of me desperately wants to continue down that path of truth and say, Yes, I’m seeing this awesome woman.
But am I seeing her? Are we dating?
No, you dumbass, you’re not fucking dating; you’re messing around with her. She’s your boss’s little sister, and you’re hooking up with her on the side, which feels entirely wrong.
And entirely what I can’t say to my parents.
“There’s not really anyone,” I say with a smile and a shrug.
And as our food arrives, I feel shitty about lying.
But not so shitty that it stops me from seeing London that night.
25
That evening, I settle into one of my happy places—behind the soundboard at the public radio station, putting tracks together for my Monday night show.
I’m trying to keep my mind focused on my work project with London, but if my set list tonight is any indication, my brain is not cooperating. The show is packed with soulful R & B. Seems that some part of me thinks this work meeting is a good excuse to chill to some vocalists who know how to tell a woman how they feel.
And Al Green can do just that.
Should I follow his lead? Tell London I’m a little crazy for her?
Wait.
What the . . .?
Snap out of it.
I am not feeling Al Green levels of hearts fluttering over my head.
Nope. Just enjoying some tunes. That’s all. Like William Bell. I switch to him next, then lean back in the chair and enjoy the song along with my listeners.
I turn my mic on as the track fades out. “And now, because music, like sex, is better with a partner, here’s Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell singing ‘Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.’”
