I sing at the top of my lungs to the radio on the way home.
I dance a little as I inform my parents I’ll be leaving early.
And by eight thirty in the morning, I’m meeting Molly on the curb of the departures terminal of the airport.
“You sure this is a good idea?” Dave asks me as he stops the car. “I know you’re happy but this is…” He pauses and I know he’s searching for a diplomatic word. “Sudden.”
I see my girl, hair glinting in the morning light, and wonder how he could think this is anything but the beginning of a fairy tale.
Still, his concern for me is touching. He was never a particularly doting older brother when we were kids, but no one is there faster or feistier when I need him. I love with my heart on my sleeve. He loves with his fists out.
“I’m positive,” I tell him. “Don’t worry about me.”
He nods and claps me on the shoulder. “All right. Well, call Mom when you get there. She’ll worry.”
“Will do. Thanks for the ride.”
I grab my suitcase from the trunk, wave goodbye at Dave, and all but run to Molly.
“Morning, beautiful,” I say, pulling her into my arms and smelling her delicious hair.
“Good morning to you,” she says. She lets me stand there and nuzzle her for longer than I expect.
I bury my face against her cheek to hide the pure glee of my smile. Because what I know from her standing here in public, snuggling me, is that she likes me.
I know she said she loved me, which is perhaps the highlight of my adult life, but sometimes affection is just as hard to earn as ardor. So it floods me with warmth that I can tell she’s happy to see me. That she enjoys my nearness and my company.
I have forgotten so many times in my string of relationships that like is just as necessary as love.
We check in for our flight and drop off our bags. We’re just past security, walking to our gate hand in hand, when Molly stops short. I almost trip.
I glance back at her, and she’s pale. Devoid of any of the lightness she exuded thirty-five seconds ago.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Oh. Nothing. Just…” She points to the line at the coffee kiosk.
There, standing with a very pretty redheaded woman, who looks to be about twenty-five, is Molly’s dad.
Roger Marks was always a striking man—tall and lanky with hollow cheeks and pale blue eyes. In his golden years, his thick snarl of hair has gone white, his face is craggier, and he’s cultivated a suntan so deep and leathery he looks like a Cuban cigar. You could imagine him robbing tombs in Egypt, or filming culinary adventure shows in Thailand—or, what he actually does, I imagine—writing lowbrow detective thrillers on a sailboat in Florida while drinking aged rum on the rocks.
He must sense our eyes on him, because he looks up and scans the terminal.
Molly waves. He squints, like he’s trying to place her.
In his defense there’s a glare from the skylights, but it still takes him a startling amount of time to clock that the Molly-size person walking toward him calling “Dad!” is his daughter.
You can tell the moment he recognizes her because his face goes totally slack. He looks pained. No. He looks caught.
He lifts up a hand but does not sacrifice his place in the line to greet her. Which tracks. He never inconvenienced himself to see her when she was a traumatized teenager. Why should he start now?
I hate him.
I’ve always hated him.
But I hate him more because I see the eagerness in her walk, and I see him just standing there with dread on his face.
I rush to catch up with Molly, clenching the handle of my bag like it’s a baseball bat. I will beat Roger Marks senseless in this airport if he is not kind to his daughter, my precious TSA-Pre status be damned.
“Well hi,” Molly says to her father. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Hey, toots,” he says, because he’s the kind of man who calls women “toots.” He leans forward to accept a kiss on the cheek, which he doesn’t reciprocate. “What a coincidence.”
“Yeah,” Molly says. “I thought you were out of town. Just getting back?”
“Just leaving, actually,” he says. “Quick jaunt to Barbados. Golf tournament.”
“Ah,” Molly says slowly. “And, um, who’s this?”
The young woman is staring down at the floor with wide, horrified eyes, as though she has just noticed a roach walking over her foot and can’t look away.
“Savannah,” Roger says to her, “this is my daughter, Molly.”
The girl looks up and very briefly glances at Molly’s eyes. “Nice to meet you, Molly.” She has a slight southern accent and a tremulous voice. She is either quite shy or quite terrified.
“Nice to meet you, too,” Molly says.
There is a very, very long pause.
