“Are you . . . exercising?”
My father doesn’t exercise. Not unless you count getting out of a golf cart eighteen times to whack a tiny ball with a stick as exercise.
“I most certainly am.” He pulls a napkin out of his pocket and pats his forehead as if to prove the point. “My doctor suggested that I try walking in the mornings to help get my heart rate up.”
“Did he also suggest that you walk to Dunkin’ Donuts?” I point to the napkin that has a dollop of jelly on the corner. “Because I feel like that might be counterproductive.”
“No, I suppose I came up with that one all on my own.” He shoves the napkin back in his pocket. “If you could not mention that part to your mother or grandmother, I’d appreciate it.”
“My lips are sealed.”
An awkward silence falls over us. Neither of us are quite sure what to do next. Do we acknowledge the argument from last night? Or do we sweep it under the rug like always? Historically, acknowledging an argument tends to lead to more arguing, and I never argue before coffee.
“Well, I guess I’ll see you—”
“Penelope, I want to talk to you about last night.” My father clears his throat. “Is now a good time?”
No. Now is the worst time. The only time more unpleasant would be later or sometime in the future.
“Well, I was going to grab some coffee,” I say, hoping to convey that never would actually be the best time to have this talk. “And then Nana Rosie has some big to-do list for me to work on this morning, and if I don’t get back in time, there’s a chance I’m going to be stuck fondling a turkey, so . . .”
“I could use some coffee to wash down the doughnut. I’ll go with you. My treat.”
Is it?
I force a clenched smile. “Yay!”
We look at each other, as if neither of us are sure who should lead the way or quite literally take the first step. Ozzie tugs at his leash and sighs impatiently as if he, too, is in need of a shot of caffeine to make it through the morning. It’s just enough of a gesture to get the two of us moving forward.
Dad points out some of the things that have changed around the neighborhood since I’ve been gone. Some businesses have closed, a few have modernized slightly, but the majority of the island—which is actually a peninsula—remains the same as it was when I left. I like that about Coronado. I’ve always liked the city. To be honest, if things were different with my family, I could see myself living here, raising a family, possibly along with Phoebe and Falon. I don’t truly think that’s in the cards for me, but it would be nice to get to a point where coming home for visits doesn’t feel like pulling teeth. I doubt it could ever be easy, but god, it’d be nice if it wasn’t so hard.
As we near Starbucks, I consider the possibility that my father might not bring up last night at all. Thanks to therapy, I know that sweeping things under the rug doesn’t create healthy communication patterns, but if I don’t screw up a little, my therapist will be out of a job. That would just be cruel. I resolve myself to not redirect the conversation.
“The weather is nice,” I say. “Doesn’t look like we should expect any more rain like yesterday.”
“Oh, speaking of yesterday.” My father taps his finger to his temple. “I wanted to talk about last night.”
Well, shit.
“I wanted to apologize for my behavior, Penelope.”
At first, I think I’ve misheard him. Maybe he was asking me to apologize for my behavior last night? Or maybe I’m way more hungover than I thought and am unable to follow the basics of a conversation. My dad doesn’t apologize to me. Not ever. I mean, there was that one time when he was teaching me how to ride a bike and he pushed me down a big hill before teaching me how to brake. I ended up with five stitches in my knee. But even then his apology was followed by an addendum of If you’d thrown yourself into the grass, this never would’ve happened. This apology doesn’t seem like it has an addendum. If it has anything attached to it at all, I’d say it is a hint of remorse.
Maybe it’s the bright morning light, but I’m shocked at how old he looks. His hair is almost completely white, except for a tiny sprinkling of pepper in his sideburns. The bags under his eyes are more pronounced, and there’s a frailness to his gait that I’ve never noticed before. I’ve always had the oldest dad out of my friends, but he seemed strong and formidable. Like an elegant old lion always at the ready to defend his pride.