“And that was January’s idea?”
She nods vigorously. “She’s just like that. It’s so her personality. We were drinking and toasting and mostly poking fun at Alva, and then January started tossing all the money at us, saying she was going to open a club and she was making it rain, making it rain,” Missy recounts, and I’m so ridiculously delighted with this story that I cannot wait to see January later and ask her all about her board game night.
That is all I want.
Plain and simple.
Since Mum invited us for supper that evening, Ethan and I pop home after school and work, then head to their place in Lucky Falls before I have a chance to give January grief about making it rain Monopoly money.
Over chicken enchiladas, my dad peppers me with questions. “And what about Kate Stevenson’s dog? How’s Freddie doing with his heart condition?”
I update my dad on the golden retriever he treated for eight years. He gives me some suggestions—they are exactly what I told the client, but I simply nod and say, “Yes, that’s great advice. I’ll tell her that.”
It makes him happy to stay involved like this. It keeps his brain fresh. I can only imagine that as his world is narrowing, becoming blurrier by the day, it must mean so much to him to still be able to use his mind.
But the thing is, I don’t actually need my father’s advice on how to handle a dog’s heart condition. Instead, I need his wisdom on the condition of mine.
After dinner, I pull him aside, setting a hand on his arm so that I can guide him through the living room toward the back deck. We step outside.
“There’s something else I want to talk to you about, Dad.”
He gives me a crisp nod, sliding into that fatherly zone that he’s so good at occupying. “What is it, Liam?”
I tell him a little bit about my dilemma, a little bit about how I’ve been feeling, a little bit about what I want.
He takes a deep breath, the kind that says, Wow, you’ve got quite a conundrum there.
But then the soft smile that draws up his lips, the thoughtful glint in his eyes, tells me that this impromptu bonding session is a riddle he wants to unravel. “I think the key is you should be honest. That’s what matters most. Be up-front with the woman you saw today. And be up-front with the other one too, even if it’s as complicated as you say it is,” he says.
We talk a little more, then I clap him on the shoulder. “You’ve always steered me in the right direction, Dad.”
He shakes his head. “No. You’ve always known what direction to go. All you needed was someone to remind you of what you’re already feeling here.” He taps my sternum.
When Ethan and I leave, I let his advice sink in, slide under my skin, invade my brain.
I let it roll around in my cells.
Be up-front.
Be honest.
I have been, but not all the way, not with every woman.
And I need to be. Because I know where I want to be, even though taking a chance isn’t part of my plan, or the great dating escapade, and it won’t likely align with my goals, my dreams, or my five-year plan.
But I can’t seem to want anything else.
And there’s a right way to do things, and a wrong way to do things. Whether this is a big town or a small town, there’s only one way to do the next thing.
Once I’m home, I don’t text Missy.
Texting a woman who unexpectedly fed you nuggets of information about another woman is for cowards.
Calling is the only way to do it. I ring her up.
“Hi, Liam. Good to hear from you.”
“Hi, Missy. I had a great time at lunch,” I say, pacing in my kitchen, readying myself to say something I didn’t plan to say, because I didn’t expect to feel it.
Or rather, I didn’t want to.
“I did too. You’re a hoot,” she says.
I swallow, then finish. “And one of the reasons I had such a great time is because you shared so many terrific details about January.”
“Oh.” That one syllable is laced with confusion.
And I’m about to unlace it.
“It seems I’ve developed a fondness for my next-door neighbor,” I say, opting for a little old-fashioned flare, just because Missy seems like someone who enjoys more of the story.
And it seems to work, because Missy is squealing.
“Yes! You’d be adorable together. I’m so excited. She deserves someone like you. I’m rooting for you two.”
I smile at her reaction—her very Missy, very enthusiastic reaction. “Thanks. I don’t have any idea what will happen, if anything. And nothing has.”
“Well, change that now, doc,” she says, in an over-the-top bawdy voice. “Make it rain, make it rain, make it rain.”
