“That’s something I loved about him right away,” Starfire says dreamily, looking up at Dad as if a halo floats above his head. I’ve seen that look on plenty of Girlfriends Past. “He never shows up empty-handed.”
As a kid, I loved that about him too.
Until I realized his gifts were consolation prizes: Yes, I canceled our spring break visit, but my buddy gave us tickets to an amusement park!
I missed your choir concert, but isn’t this candy my chocolatier girlfriend makes amazing?
I set the bouquet on the coffee table, and Julia jumps up. “I’ll put that in water,” she says, and flees the scene.
Miles, genius that he is, starts filling the wineglasses and asks, “So, how’d you two meet?” He sits back onto the other chair, mimicking my ready-to-run posture.
“Starfire is my life coach,” Dad says, after a gulp.
Starfire nods, a smile still stretched tight across her lips. “But we actually knew each other before that.”
“Apparently, we were married in a past life,” Dad says, like, Can you believe that coincidence?
Starfire nods. “Several times.”
“Oh,” Miles says. “Well. Congratulations.”
“I was an heiress on the Titanic,” Starfire explains. “And Jason was a handsome artist, but he was so, so poor. My social circles never would have approved. But we had a torrid affair, and he saved my life.” She goes back to nodding, a very earnest bobblehead.
Miles and I make eye contact. He looks like he’s trying so hard not to laugh he might throw up instead.
“So just,” I say, “exactly the plot of the movie, then.”
Starfire’s head cocks to one side. “What movie?”
“What brings you into town?” Miles, with the assist. “You live in California, right?”
“That’s right.” Dad relights his joint. “But we’re on our—”
“Excuse me,” Miles cuts in, smiling pleasantly. “Would you mind waiting to smoke until you’re outside?” He says it so warmly and naturally. He really does have a superpower.
Just as unflappably affable, Dad says, “Oh, sure! Of course,” and tucks the joint back in his T-shirt pocket.
“So, California?” Miles says.
“Right,” Dad says. “But we’re driving across the country to celebrate.”
“Celebrate what?” I ask.
“Oh, Daffy,” Starfire says, officially the first adult to ever abbreviate my two-syllable name that way. “Our union.”
Dad frowns, a vague look of hurt around his eyes. “Didn’t you get the card?”
“What card?” I say.
“The birthday card,” he says. “Where I told you we got married!”
“You told me in a birthday card?” I say.
“You didn’t see it?” he says again, still the injured party.
“When was your birthday?” Miles asks, brow furrowing.
“End of April,” I say.
He frowns at that, no doubt doing the math, realizing I was already living with him.
“I must’ve misplaced the card,” I tell Dad.
Actually, since his birthday cards rarely contain anything other than my name and his signature, when they come at all, I’d opted to put it exactly where I put the murder-house beanie he’d mailed me last year: in the trash.
The last thing I needed was another halfhearted gesture from a man who sort of loved me.
The other last thing I needed was a reminder that I was turning thirty-three and had no one at all to celebrate it with.
Starfire is still smiling like if she lets even the corners of her lips touch, the apocalypse might be triggered.
And after everything she endured on the Titanic, who can blame her for being so cautious?
“So you’re passing through,” I say. “Headed somewhere fun?”
“Well, eventually,” Dad says, “we’re going to Starfire’s family in Vermont. But we figured we’d stick around here until Monday, if you could stand to have us that long.”
My skin prickles. My blood runs cold. I wonder if this is how animals feel when a tornado is brewing.
