P.S. I Still Love You (10 page)

17

I THINK MY DAD IS
on a date. tonight he said he had plans with a friend, and he shaved and put on a nice button-down shirt and not one of his ratty sweaters. He was in a hurry to leave, so I didn’t ask who the friend was. Someone from the hospital, probably. Daddy doesn’t exactly have wide social circles. He’s shy. Whoever it is, this sounds like a good thing.

As soon as he leaves, I turn to Kitty, who is lying on the couch watching TV and licking the sour off sour gummies. Jamie lies asleep next to her. “Kitty, do you think Daddy’s—”

“On a date? Duh.”

“And you’re okay with it?”

“Sure. Though I’d rather it was with someone I knew and already liked.”

“What if he got married again? Would you be okay with that?”

“Sure. So you can quit making your concerned-big-sister face at me, all right?”

I try to smooth my face out like a blank sheet of paper. Serenely I say, “So you’re saying you’re okay with Daddy getting married again.”

“It’s just a date, Lara Jean. People don’t get married off of one measly date.”

“But they do off of a lot of dates.”

A flash of worry crosses her face, and then she says, “We’ll just wait and see. There’s no point in getting all revved up yet.”

I wouldn’t say I’m revved up, exactly, but I am curious. When I told Grandma I wouldn’t mind if Daddy dated, I meant it, but I do want to know that she’s good enough for him, whoever she is. I change the subject. “What do you want for your birthday?” I ask her.

“I’ve got a list going,” she says. “A new collar for Jamie. Leather. With spikes. A treadmill.”

“A treadmill!”

“Yeah, I want to teach Jamie how to walk on one.”

“I doubt Daddy will go for a treadmill, Kitty. They’re really expensive, and besides, where would we even put it?”

“Okay fine. Scratch the treadmill. I also want night-vision goggles.”

“You should cc Margot on that.”

“What kinds of special things can I get only from Scotland?” she asks.

“Genuine Scottish shortbread. A tartan kilt. What else . . . golf balls. Loch Ness monster paraphernalia.”

“What’s paraphernalia?”

“A stuffed Loch Ness monster. A Loch Ness T-shirt. Maybe a glow-in-the-dark poster.”

“Stop right there. That’s a good idea. I’m gonna add that to my list.”

After Kitty goes to bed, I clean up the kitchen—I even scrub the stove with a Brillo pad and organize the refrigerator—so that I can give Daddy the third degree the second he gets home. I’m refilling the flour canister when Daddy walks through the door. Casually I say, “How was your date?”

He frowns in confusion. “Date? I went to the symphony with my colleague Marjorie. Her husband came down with the flu, and she didn’t want the ticket to go to waste.”

I deflate. “Oh.”

Humming, he pours himself a glass of water and says, “I should go to the symphony more often. Any interest, Lara Jean?”

“Um . . . maybe,” I say.

I make myself a stack of snickerdoodles, and I run up to my room and sit down at my desk. Munching on one, I open up my computer and type in “dating for dads,” and lo and behold I find a dating site for single parents.

I start drafting a profile. First things first, he’ll need a profile pic. I start going through the photos of him on my computer. There are hardly any of him alone. I finally settle on two, which I bookmark: one from last summer at the beach—a full-length shot, because that’s one of the tips on the website—and one of him from this past Christmas, wearing that Scandinavian sweater we got him. He’s carving a roast chicken, and he looks daddish in a wholesome coffee-commercial way but still vital. The dim dining room light makes him look hardly wrinkled at all, just some crinkles around the eyes. Which reminds me: I should get on him about wearing sunscreen every day. A men’s skin-care kit could be a good Father’s Day gift. I make a note of it in my Reminders.

Daddy is only in his early forties. That’s still plenty young enough to meet someone and fall in love, maybe two or three times over, even.

18

WHEN KITTY WAS BORN, I
said she looked like a kitten and not a Katherine, so that’s the name that stuck. After we came home from visiting her and Mommy at the hospital, Margot and I made a
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, KITTEN
banner to make the time go faster. We got out all the paints and craft supplies, and Grandma got annoyed because there was a big mess to clean in the kitchen, colors dripping all over the floor, handprints everywhere. We have a picture of Mommy standing underneath the sign holding Kitty that very first day, eyes tired but bright. Happy.

It’s our tradition to put the sign on Kitty’s door so it’s the first thing she sees when she wakes up. I get up really early and hang the sign with care, so the edges don’t bend or rip. For breakfast I make her a muenster-cheese omelet. With a ketchup bottle I squeeze out a cat face with a heart around it. We have a “celebrations drawer,” which is birthday candles, paper hats, tablecloths, emergency birthday cards. I take out the paper hats and put one on my head, jauntily to the side. I set one each by Kitty and Daddy’s plate, and I put one on Jamie Fox-Pickle too. He is not into it, but I’m able to get a picture before he knocks the hat off.

Daddy’s prepared Kitty’s favorite lunch to take to school. A Brie sandwich and chips, plus a red velvet cupcake with cream cheese frosting.

Kitty delights in the place settings and in her cat face omelet. She claps and laughs like a hyena when the rubber band on Daddy’s hat snaps, and the hat springs off his head. Truly, there’s no happier birthday girl than our Kitty.

“Can I wear your sweater with the daisies on it?” she asks me, her mouth full of omelet.

I glance at the clock. “I’ll go get it, but you have to eat fast.” He’ll be here any minute.

When it’s time to leave, we put on our shoes, kiss Daddy good-bye, and tumble out the front door. Waiting for us on the street in front of his car is Peter with a bouquet of cellophane-wrapped pink carnations. “Happy birthday, kid,” he says.

Kitty’s eyes bulge. “Are those for me?”

He laughs. “Who else would they be for? Hurry and get in the car.”

Kitty turns to me, her eyes bright, her smile as wide as her face. I’m smiling too. “Are you coming too, Lara Jean?”

I shake my head. “No, there’s only room for two.”

“You’re my only girl today, kid,” Peter says, and Kitty runs to him and snatches the flowers out of his hand. Gallantly, he opens the door for her. He shuts it and turns and winks at me. “Don’t be jealous, Covey.”

I’ve never liked him more than in this moment.

Kitty’s birthday party with all her friends won’t be for a few weeks. She insisted on a sleepover, and Daddy’s on call for weekends in February. Tonight, we’ll celebrate with a family dinner.

One of Daddy’s most go-to dinners is roast chicken. He calls it the house specialty. He’ll slather it in butter, pop an onion and an apple inside, sprinkle some poultry seasoning, and stick it in the oven. Usually a potato in some form as the side. Tonight I’ve mashed sweet potatoes and sprinkled brown sugar and cinnamon on top, then put them under the broiler so the sugar burns like crème brûlée.

Kitty is in charge of setting the table and putting out the condiments: Texas Pete’s hot sauce for Daddy, mustard for Kitty, strawberry jam for me. Chutney for Margot if she were here. “What kind of sauce did Mommy like with her chicken?” Kitty asks me suddenly.

“I . . . can’t remember,” I say. We both look at Daddy, who is checking on the chicken.

“Did she like mustard like me?” she asks.

Closing the oven door, Daddy says, “Hmm. Well, I know she liked balsamic vinegar. A lot. A lot a lot.”

“Just on chicken?” Kitty asks.

“On everything, actually. Avocados, with butter on toast, tomatoes, steak.”

I file this away under Misc. Facts about M.

“Are you guys ready to eat?” Daddy asks. “I want to get this bird out while it’s still nice and juicy.”

“In a minute,” Kitty says, and literally a minute later the doorbell rings. Kitty springs into action. She comes back with Ms. Rothschild from across the street. She’s in skinny jeans and a black turtleneck sweater and high-heeled boots, a chunky black-and-gold necklace around her neck. Her mahogany brown hair is half up, half down. She’s carrying a wrapped present in her hands. Jamie Fox-Pickle’s puppy legs can’t get to her fast enough; he is sliding all over the place, wagging his little tail.

Laughing, she says, “Well, hello, Jamie.” She sets her gift on the counter and kneels down and pets him. “What’s up, everybody?”

“Hi, Ms. Rothschild,” I say.

“Trina!” Daddy says, surprised.

Ms. Rothschild lets out an awkward laugh. “Oh, did you not know I was coming? Kitty invited me when she was over with Jamie today. . . .” She reddens. “Kitty,” she chides.

“I did tell him—it’s just that Daddy’s absentminded,” Kitty says.

“Hm,” Ms. Rothschild says, giving her a look, which Kitty pretends not to see. “Well, thank you anyway!” Jamie starts jumping all over her, another of his bad habits. Ms. Rothschild sticks her knee out and Jamie settles down immediately. “Sit, Jamie.”

And then he actually sits! Daddy and I exchange an impressed look. Clearly Jamie needs to continue under Ms. Rothschild’s tutelage.

“Trina, what can I get you to drink?” Daddy asks her.

“I’ll have whatever’s open,” she says.

“I don’t have anything open, but I’m happy to open whatever you like—”

“Ms. Rothschild likes pinot grigio,” Kitty says. “With an ice cube.”

She turns even redder. “God, Kitty, I’m not a lush!” She turns to us and says, “I’ll have a small glass after work, but not every night.”

Daddy laughs. “I’ll put some white wine in the freezer. It’ll get cold soon.”

Kitty looks pleased as punch, and when Daddy and Ms. Rothschild go into the living room, I grab her by the collar and whisper, “What are you up to?”

“Nothing,” she says, trying to squirm away.

“Is this a setup?” I hiss.

“So what if it is? They’d be a good match.”

Huh! “What makes you say that?”

Kitty ticks off her fingers. “She loves animals, she’s hot, she makes her own money, and I like her.”

Hmm. All of that does sound good. Plus she lives across the street, which is convenient.

“Do you think Ms. Rothschild watches documentaries?”

“Who cares about dusty old documentaries? He can watch them with you or Margot. The important thing is chemistry.” Kitty tries to jerk loose from my grip. “Let go of me so I can see if they have any!”

I release her collar. “No, don’t go in yet.” Kitty huffs and flounces away and I say meaningfully, “Let’s let it
simmer
for a minute.”

She stops short and then gives me an appreciative nod. “Let’s let it simmer,” she repeats, savoring the words.

Kitty is sawing her way through a piece of white meat, the only kind she’ll eat—she likes it sliced thin like deli meat, and Daddy tries but it always ends up kind of shredded and sad-looking. I think maybe I’ll get him an electric carving knife for this birthday. Personally, I like the thigh. I honestly don’t know why anyone would bother eating anything but thigh if they had the choice.

When Ms. Rothschild shakes some hot sauce on her chicken, Kitty’s eyes glow like a lightning bug. I make note of the way Ms. Rothschild laughs at Daddy’s corny jokes with sincerity. I also appreciate the way she goes wild for my snickerdoodles. I threw some frozen ones in the oven when Daddy put the coffee on.

“I love how this cookie is crunchy but also soft. You’re telling me you made this from scratch?”

“Always,” I tell her.

“Well, give me the recipe, girl.” Then she laughs. “Wait, don’t bother. I know my strengths, and baking is not one of them.”

“We’ll share with you anytime—we always have lots of cakes and cookies,” Kitty says, which is rich coming from her, because it’s not like Kitty ever helps. She only shows up for the fun parts, the decorating and eating.

I sneak a look at Daddy, who is placidly sipping his coffee. I sigh. He’s completely oblivious.

We all do the washing up and wrapping up of leftovers together, and it feels very natural. Without anyone telling her, Ms. Rothschild knows to hand-wash the wineglasses and not put them in the dishwasher, and on the first try she finds the aluminum foil and plastic wrap drawer. Which might say more about Margot’s organizational skills than Ms. Rothschild’s intuition, but still. I think I could see her fitting in with us pretty seamlessly. And, as I said, she does live across the street, which is convenient. People say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but I think they’re wrong:
Proximity
makes the heart grow fonder.

As soon as Ms. Rothschild’s gone home and Daddy’s in his study, Kitty pounces on me in my room, where I’m setting out school clothes. Navy sweater with a fox on it that I’ve been saving for a rainy day, mustard-yellow skirt, knee socks.

“Well?” she demands. She has Jamie Fox-Pickle in her arms.

“I like the way she started Saran-wrapping things; that was some good initiative,” I say, pinning a tortoiseshell bow in my hair and checking it out in the mirror. “She also complimented my snickerdoodles a lot, which I appreciated. But I don’t know if I necessarily saw any sparks with Daddy. I mean, did you think he seemed interested?”

“I think he could be if she gave him a chance. She was dating a guy from her office, but it didn’t work out because he reminded her of her ex-husband.”

I raise my eyebrows. “It sounds like you guys have had some serious talks.”

Proudly Kitty says, “She doesn’t treat me like a little kid.”

If Kitty’s that crazy about her, that says a lot. “Well, she might not be Daddy’s type, but if we keep throwing them together, who knows?”

“What do you mean she might not be Daddy’s type?”

“Her style seems really different than Mommy’s. Doesn’t she smoke? Daddy hates that.”

“She’s trying to quit. She’s got an electronic cigarette now.”

“Let’s keep inviting her to things and see what happens,” I say, picking up my hairbrush. “Hey, do you think if you watched a video, you could give me a little side cornrow?”

“I could give it a shot,” Kitty says. “Curl the ends first and then check with me after I watch my shows.”

“Got it.”