LoveLines (11 page)

Erica lit up. “Oh
, wow. I call that the aligning of stars. Cute stars. No, no. Hot stars, ‘cause that guy is hot.” She paused. “Good kisser?”

“So good,” I sighed.

“Gentleman?”

“He bought all the snacks,” I replied.

Erica nodded her approval. “What happened after the movie?”

“Nothing. We went home. Separately.”

“Good girl,” Erica said. “No one likes a ho.”

I nodded. Erica turned on the compressor and shot a few practice sprays into the tanning tent.

“If you make me look like an Oompa Loompa, I swear to God . . .”

“Oh, shut up and relax,” Erica said.
“Now strip and put this hair cap on.”

I peeled off my clothes carefully and folded them neatly in a pile on the sink. I
tucked my hair under the cap and stepped into the tent facing my best friend, who immediately looked at my crotch and rolled her eyes.

“What?” I cried indignantly.

“Nothing. Just wish I had time for a wax,” she noted.

I smirked. “Jungle down there?”

“I don’t know how he can find anything in that mess,” she replied.

“I’ll watch your kids,” I offered.

“It’s an imposition.”

“Oh
, please. Stop complaining about how you don’t have time to take care of yourself if you’re gonna turn down help.”

Erica thought for a moment. “That makes sense. Fine. I’m making an appointment next Saturday, and you’re on kid duty.”

“Ugh. What about Noah?” I asked.

“Bailey!”

“I’m kidding!” I chuckled.

We continued our conversation about Reece while Erica sprayed tanning solution on me in circular motions.

“We’ll try this way first. You can do strokes or circles. I’m thinking circles is better coverage,” Erica said.

I gulped. “Remind me why I have to be your guinea pig.”

“Because you love me, and you want me to have a successful spray tanning business,” Erica replied. She finished my inner thigh then instructed me to stand in another awkward position. “I
am
slightly worried, though, about the whole working-in-the-same-office thing.”

“Me too,” I admitted.

“I have all the faith in the world that it’ll work out, but I’m—”

“—thinking of my track record,” I finished.

Erica frowned. “Be nice to my BFF,” she said.

“I know that
’s what you’re thinking,” I replied.

“Arms o
ut. Palms facing me,” Erica ordered. “And I’m only thinking that
if
, and that’s a huge
if
, it doesn’t work out, it could make things messy at work.”

“We haven’t established anything,” I argued.

“Bailey, you made out with him throughout a two-hour movie. That’s establishing something,” Erica pointed out.

I shrugged.

“Hey! Stand still!”

“
Oh, whoops.”

Erica finished my front, then turned me aro
und. “Do you get the sense he wants something more?”

I thought about that for a moment, and then Reece’s face flashed in my mind—particularly his smile as we stood outside saying goodbye a
fter the movie. He looked happy, his smile conveying to the world, “Yeah, so today was pretty good.” I liked the casualness of that smile. It helped me relax, calm the raging questions in my head about what’s next. I thought he wanted more—his smile suggested it—but I realized I didn’t have to worry about that just then. All I had to do was smile back. So I did.

“Well?” Erica asked. “You think he wants more?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“How do you know?”

“He smiled.”

Reece gave me his number. It felt sneaky and wrong, especially since we both knew better.
“Coworkers” equals “potential problems.” I confess that I fantasized more about the humiliation we’d feel being caught going at it in the copy room than what could happen to my fragile heart if our budding relationship fizzled out. I wasn’t sure I could take one more rejection and decided to come clean. I picked up my cell phone with the intention of calling Reece and explaining my OCD when my sister’s Crest-commercial smile and number popped up on the screen.

My sister never calls. S
he’s seven years younger than I am, lives thirty minutes away in Carolina Beach with her boyfriend, and works in retail. We see each other on holidays. That’s about it. We share nothing in common except for our parents.

“Hey, B!”
she squealed. I could feel her effervescence explode through the phone.

“Hi, Nicki,” I replied.

“I know this is last minute, but do you think you could come to Mom and Dad’s for dinner tonight? Seven?”

This was typical Nicki. Because she assumed I had no life—since I had no man—
she could invite me to events and family functions at the last minute like it was no big deal.

“
Talk about short notice,” I said, a little peeved.

“I know. Did you have plans?”

She knew I didn’t have plans. But I made some up.

“Well,
it
is
a Saturday night. I wasn’t sure if I was gonna get together with this guy I’m sort of seeing,” I lied.

“You’re seeing someone? That’s awesome!”

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah. It is pretty awesome.”

“Well, bring him along,” she offered.

“Nicki, I’m not bringing a guy I’m sort of seeing to our parents’ house. Are you insane? Dad I’m not worried about. But Mom?”

Nicki huffed. “You’re always too hard on Mom, Bailey. She’s not that bad.”

“Whatever. Why am I coming to dinner?”

Nicki giggled. “It’s a surprise,” she sang.

“Super.”

“So you’ll be there?” she asked.

“You know I will.”

I pulled up to my parents’ house at 6:40. I noticed Nicki’s car and assumed she’d already told our mother about the guy I’m sort of seeing. I wish I’d said nothing to her about it, especially since it wasn’t true. We shared a kiss—a
damn good kiss—but that didn’t mean a relationship would follow.

I walked to the front door then changed my mind. I made my way around the side of the house and to the end of the sloping back yard.
I had a feeling he’d be there.

“Daddy!”
I yelled down to him. He turned around and waved.

“
Puddin’ Pop!” he called from the edge of the lake.

Don’t ask, okay? My father thinks I’
m still four years old. I’ve given up trying to convince him I’m thirty-one. And truthfully, a part of me likes the name, mostly because he doesn’t have a special one for Nicki.

I smiled and gingerly descended the sandy hill
.

“Is it me, or is that hill getting steeper?” I said when I was safely by Dad’s side.

He gave me a side hug. I noticed his slightly rotund belly had gotten a bit bigger. Still the same soft gray eyes and gray-speckled hair, though.

“Erosion,” he said. “The whole world’s going to pot.”

“Why don’t you just build some steps or something?” I asked, looking out on the lake.

“Too busy fishing,” he replied. He sank into his chair and pulled his pole from its holder.

“Hasn’t Mom yelled at you already for still being down here?” I asked.

“Eh. A few times,” he replied.

I chuckled and moseyed over to Dad’s cooler where he had seven fishing lures lined up in a row. Smallest to largest. Every color of the rainbow, in that order: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. I could never tell the difference between blue and indigo.

I love Dad’s fishing lures. He’s got a bazillion, and I would play with them all the time when I was younger. I liked the way they felt in my hands—that pliable squishy rubber material—and I loved their shapes and colors. I also appreciated the way Dad organized his lures in his tackle box, especially when I discovered that I liked organizing my little treasures and knickknacks the same way.

We’re kindred spirits, my Dad and I, and I think that’s why Mom had Nicki. My parents were only planning to have one child, but as soon as it was evident that I had a closer bond with my father, Mom decided she wanted another kid. I was diagnosed with OCD at six years old. Nicki came along a year later. I always joke that she’s the redo. Well, I joke to myself, not to my parents.

I squatted beside the cooler and fingered the lures.

“She’ll want you to take a shower,” I said.

Dad grunted. “Didn’t catch anything.”

“You still smell like the lake,” I pointed out.

Dad grunted again.

“Dinner’s in a few minutes,” I went on.

“They’re having cocktails
or something. And I can’t drink, so what’s the point?”

I laughed. “Oh, I don’t know, Dad. To hang out with family, perhaps?”

“I was waiting for you,” he said. He reeled in his line slowly. There was nothing on the end of it. That was evident by the stillness of the water. He was just stalling.

“Dad? It’s not us against them, you know,” I said softly.

“Your mother won’t let me have any alcohol anymore on account of my liver. My liver is just fine, thank you very much,” he huffed.

“Well, Nicki thinks I live a pathetic life when my life’s just fine
, thank you very much, so we can both sulk,” I replied. “Inside.”

He cracked a smile. “You
gonna stay over tonight? I could use some help on my model boat.” He looked at me expectantly.

“Dad . . .”

“Just think about it,” he said. “Just think about it.”

I knew Dad was rather lonely.
And fearful. He’d just recently retired from a management position at an engineering plant and had only my mother for companionship. And there was no security in a relationship with my mom. Considering she’d wanted to leave Dad at least twenty times during the course of their marriage, I could understand his trepidation. So he spent most of his time alone, fishing. I think it was a way for him to get accustomed to being by himself in the event that my mother actually acted on one of her threats of separation or divorce.

I helped him pack his tackle box then carried his chai
r up the hill to a shed near the sunroom. The petunias and bee balm surrounding the little structure were still holding out, though the seasons were starting to change. Fall was coming. Sticky, heavy summer air still blanketed the seaside town, but you could feel autumn from afar. Like a whisper.
I’m coming
, it breathed on the ocean breeze. A promise of change.

I broke out in goose bumps. I wasn’t willing to be so hopeful yet. But as Reece’s face flashed in my brain, I couldn’t suppress it. That’s the great thing about hope—no matter your past, no matter your mistakes, hope is the constant force in your heart driving you forward. You fall down. You cry about it for a little while. And then you stand up again. You push forward. You never g
ive up because you believe something good will come. I’m lonely now, but something good will come.

Hope is my one healthy compulsion.

“Dad?” I said suddenly.

“Hmm?” He hung up his fishing rod and turned to me.

“There may be someone.”

He smiled.

“I don’t know if it’ll pan out. I mean, none of them have so far, but this guy seems different,” I said.

“Where did you meet him?”

I wanted to lie, but I’ve never lied to my dad. Ever. “At work.”

He drew in a sharp breath. “You think that’s smart?”

“No.”

“So then tell me why,” he said.

“Because he’s different.”

“Does he know about
your . . .” Even after all these years, all my tests, all the therapy, all the coping mechanisms my father and I were supposed to practice together, he still couldn’t say it out loud.

“My OCD, Dad?” I helped him out.

He nodded.

“Doesn’t know yet. But I’m
gonna tell him. I promise I will. It’s only fair. Like telling someone up front if you have a kid. Some people don’t wanna deal with that, you know?”

He chuckled. “I like how you compare OCD to having a child.”

“You know what I mean,” I said quickly.

“I have a feeling Nicki is going to share the news that she’s having a kid,”
Dad said.

My eyes went wide. “You think? She’s only been dating Brad for eight months.”

“Who the hell knows, but she’s got stars in her eyes,” Dad replied.

“And how would you know that?” I asked. “You’ve been hiding by the lake all evening.”

“Fine. She’s got stars in her voice. I answered the phone a few days ago when she called about setting up dinner.”

I bristled. “She had this planned for a few days?”

Dad nodded and shooed me out of the shed. He closed and locked the door. “A week. Give or take a few days.”

“What the hell?”

“What?” he asked. We made our way to the backdoor.

“She just called me this afternoon,” I said.

Dad laughed. “That’s our Nicki.”

“It’s not funny, Dad. She has zero regard for me and my life! I should have told her no,” I griped.

“Honey, that’s not you to say no. And I’m glad for it,” Dad said. He pulled me close and kissed my forehead. “Please don’t make me go in there,” he pleaded, lips still pressed to my skin.

“Come on,” I said, pulling away and taking his
hand. “We’ll survive together.”

Nicki’s boyfriend was there. I wasn’t expecting that. Dad and I walked into the kitchen and found Mom by the oven taking out the roast, Nicki by the sink tossing salad, and Brad by the
cupboard grabbing plates.

“Samuel, go take a shower,” Mom ordered. “Dinner will be ready in ten minutes.”

I nudged Dad encouragingly, and he disappeared up the stairs.

“You could have come inside to help,” Mom said to me.

“Well, I’m here now. What would you like me to do?” I asked.

“Set the table with Brad, please,” Mom replied.

Mom never said please first. It was never, “Bailey, will you please set the table?” Hear the difference? Her “pleases” always came at the end of her terse demands, like she tagged them on out of a sense of duty and not because she was actually trying to be nice.

“Right-o,” I said. I felt like she needed to be saluted like my boss. Some people just have those overbearing, choleric personalities that make you think they served as commanders in the military. During WWII.

I glimpsed Nicki observing my outfit.

“Yes?” I asked testily.

“Huh?” she replied.

“What are you looking at?”

“I was just looking at what you’re wearing. It’s cute.” When Nicki described anything as “cute,” it really meant she secretly hated it and thought it was hideous.

I thought I was stylish—not her type of stylish, but stylish nonetheless. I liked delicate, feminine clothing. My closet was filled with little lace blouses, floral spring dresses,
bejeweled ballet flats and sandals. Tonight I wore a short, vintage-inspired dress with rickrack sown onto the cap sleeves. I thought it was whimsical.

I walked around the kitchen island and past Nicki to collect the dinner napkins.

“What’s that smell?” she asked.

“Huh?”

She leaned in my direction and sniffed.

“Bailey,” she said under her breath, “you kind of stink.”

“Oh, Erica spray tanned me earlier today,” I replied. I smelled my forearm. “I don’t think it’s that bad.”

“That stuff will rub off all over your clothes. If it smells like that, it’s probably cheap. And cheap means clothes get ruined,” Nicki replied.