Funny Story(86)

“Have you talked to Miles about it any more?” I say.

“What is there to talk about,” she says.

I hesitate. “Did something . . . happen in Chicago?”

She flops down on her mattress and pulls the quilt up to her chin, her face steely. “Can you turn off the overhead on your way out?”

“Sure,” I say. “Sleep tight.”

In the dark living room, I make a nest on the couch. The bathroom door creaks open, tendrils of light reaching toward me. Miles steps out in a cloud of steam, his hair damp, the little wet spots around the collar of his camel T-shirt making the fabric cling to him in a vaguely suggestive way.

“I could’ve made it myself,” he whispers, padding over.

I go back to tucking the blankets in. “Why would you make my bed?”

“Because it’s not your bed, it’s mine,” he says.

“Says who,” I say.

“Says the person who owns the couch,” he says.

I stop what I’m doing and face him. The bathroom light licks at the right side of his face while shadow covers the left. “Take my bed,” he says.

I grab a pillow and fluff it.

“You’d be doing me a favor,” he says. “Julia and I have never shared a room in our lives, and for all I know, she yodels in her sleep.”

He pulls the throw pillow out of my hands and steps closer. “Daphne,” he says, “would you please do me the honor of sleeping in my bed?”

Every single one of my nerve endings prickle. I know he didn’t mean it how it sounds.

So I respond, very naturally, “Starfire told me I could call her ‘Mom.’?”

Miles chokes over a laugh. “Does it make you feel better or worse that she said the same thing to me?”

“It makes me want to buy her a dictionary,” I say.

He swallows a snort of laughter.

When it settles, all that’s left is this pull between us, knitting us together.

Through the walls, Dad gives a hacking cough, the faint smell of weed seeping through the door, and the spell breaks.

Some invisible cloche lifts from around us. Reality rushes back in.

“Sleep well,” I tell him.

He holds an arm out, gesturing me toward his room. “You too.”

And I do.

I dream about fireworks, about cool hands, the rasp of a jaw, the taste of ginger and smell of woodsmoke.



* * *





?After work on Friday, I meet Dad and Starfire at a brewery Miles told them about.

With Ashleigh recovering from her trip to Sedona, Julia having flown back to Chicago earlier that afternoon, and her brother already clocked in at Cherry Hill, it’s just the three of us. I’m grateful that Miles recommended a place with giant Jenga and a bocce court on the patio so we have something to do other than stare directly into each other’s eyes.

They fill me in on their day exploring the dunes, for which Starfire has donned a gauzy, dramatically patterned maxidress that makes her look like one of the Real Housewives on a desert vacation.

She shows me roughly two hundred pictures of sand, before Dad gently turns the conversation toward my day.

“It was pretty standard stuff,” I say. “We had a Puzzle Swap this morning. One patron showed up with a custom puzzle she’d had made of her thirty-year-old boudoir shots, and another tried to walk out with three Star Wars puzzles hidden inside his trench coat.”

“Sounds like you’ve got quite a cast of characters,” Dad says, tossing his final bocce ball of the round down the sandy lane.

“The library is, like, the single best cross section of humanity,” I tell him. “You meet all kinds of interesting people.”

“And here I thought you were in it for the free books,” Dad teases.

I’m surprised how normal this feels. How nice it is to imagine this version of my father—the one who asks questions about my work, who not only shows up for my birthday, but thinks to tell the server to bring a cake with a sparkler stuck in it—sticking around.

And yes, the attention from paid strangers, forced to sing on my behalf, is fairly far from any gift I’d ever want, but it strikes me as the kind of thing normal dads do. Year-round fathers, who measure their kids on doorjambs and teach them to ride bikes and drive them to their first E.R. visit.

He’s still the dad I’ve always known too: the one who managed, today at the dunes, to just “bump into” someone who owns an entire hotel on Mackinac Island and bond over a shared love of the Grateful Dead to the extent that the hotelier gave Dad his phone number and promised to hook him and Starfire up with free rooms anytime they wanted.

But he’s also asking, “What’s your favorite thing you do at the library?”

And he’s listening with interest as I tell him about the Read-a-thon, about the sponsorships I’ve gotten, about how happy Harvey was about the cash donations Miles has helped me rack up.

“Your passion!” Starfire says, hand to her heart. “Just like your father’s!”

And he’s giving her hand a squeeze, saying, “No, she’s way better than her old man. She’s always had direction.”

I don’t totally understand it, why his pride in me matters. But it does. It matters.

After dinner, he suggests we visit Miles at Cherry Hill, so we leave our car at the brewery to pick up later and take a cab up the peninsula.