Puddin'(42)

We sit there in silence for a little while.

“We can talk if you want,” she finally says. “I can even send you down to the counselor. Or I can play mah-jongg and we can wait for your ride.”

I sniff. “That last option is good.”

About thirty minutes pass before there’s a light knock on the door. A freshman student aide sticks her head in the door. She focuses on me, my tearstained face, dirty clothes, and Oreos stuck in my teeth. “Um, her dad is here.”

The aide steps back and in walks my dad. Not Keith. For some reason, I’d just assumed that the aide meant Keith. But no. My dad is here.

“I was working a job just outside of town,” he says.

But I barely even hear him, because all I can do is fall into his arms. He squeezes me tight. The thick black stubble peppering his chin tickles against my neck, and I let the whole weight of my body relax against him. It feels like falling into bed after a long day. He wears his everyday self-imposed uniform of a plaid button-up shirt and the same style of Levi jeans he’s worn since he and my mom started dating.

“Should we talk?” he asks Principal Armstrong.

“Tomorrow. I’ll talk to her and her mom first thing in the morning. And you too, if work permits. But I think it might be best to get out of here before the last bell rings.”

He nods once and takes my hand. With his other arm, he hoists my backpack onto his shoulder.

He doesn’t speak until we’re out in the fresh air. “Made quite a scene, did ya?” He tries to swallow a chuckle as he slides on his signature Ray-Ban aviators. “Your mother liked having an audience for our fights, too.”

“Dad.”

“Brian had it coming.” He opens the passenger door of his truck for me and tucks my backpack at my feet before slamming the door shut.

“His name was Bryce!” I say, loud enough for him to hear as he walks around to the other side.

He hops in and turns the engine on. “Guess it doesn’t much matter anymore.”

I sigh.

“Do I need to give you the whole he-never-deserved-you pep talk?”

“No,” I tell him. “He was never in my league.” But for the first time the confidence I’ve always put on display for the world to see feels like a complete and total sham.

“You know you’ll find something better out there.”

“But maybe I won’t,” I say, my voice tiny.

He pulls into the Harpy’s drive-through without even stopping to ask if I want something.

The speaker crackles as we approach the drive-through. “Welcome to Harpy’s,” the deadpan voice says. “What’ll it be?”

“You never found someone better than Mom,” I say.

“Two vanilla cones,” he says. “One dipped in strawberry and one in chocolate.” He pulls forward, but not all the way up to the window, and steadies his gaze on me. “With your mom and me, it wasn’t about needing something better. Not for either of us. It was about finding something that worked. We loved each other, but we didn’t work. That wasn’t fair to you or Claudia. And besides, she snored too much.”

“Well, you never found something that worked.” I huff and cross my arms. “And she still snores, by the way.” A smirk tickles at my lips.

He says nothing as he pulls up to the window and hands the grumbly woman with a name tag reading LYDIA a few bucks before passing me my strawberry-dipped cone and digging into his chocolate one.

But I let the ice cream drip onto my fingers for a moment. Partly because I shouldn’t eat it, especially after all that junk I ate this afternoon. I haven’t been working out like I did when I was on the team, and thinking about how many calories and how much sugar are in this thing makes me cringe.

But the real reason I’m sitting here with this uneaten cone is because—“Oh my God! Dad, you’re seeing someone.” I gasp. “Does Claudia know?”

He freezes midbite and then proceeds to wipe his mouth with the inside of his elbow. “I’m not seeing someone in particular,” he says. “Not yet. But I am starting to see people.”

I grin and smack the dashboard. “It’s about damn time!”

He pulls the paper off his cone and shoves the rest in his mouth. “Well, with your abuela retired from the university, she’s starting to travel more.”

“So basically you’re not hanging out with your mom every night?” I ask.

He winces. “Damn, you know how to make it sting.”

“Well, if I’m still living with Mama when I’m your age, be sure to make fun of me too.” I smile. Even though I give him a hard time, Dad actually lives with Abuela to help her take care of her land, which is her second greatest love outside of my abuelo. She’s always been fiercely independent. My dad’s never said so, but I know he could never bear to rob her of that and my abuelo at the same time. “We need to get you on some dating apps,” I tell him.

“Yeah. No, thank you. I’ll try the old-fashioned way.”

“I could fill out your bio and help you take a good selfie,” I offer. I deepen my voice. “My name is Marco Reyes. I like watching TV with my mom. I have two daughters. The younger one is my favorite. I’m obsessed with purchasing gadgets from infomercials and then kicking the shit out of them when they don’t work.”