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But I am nothing if not logical and methodical, so I can figure out what kind of flowers might be an acceptable choice for this moment. Process of elimination.
Roses are too romantic, so those are out.
Carnations seem cheap, so I’ll skip those too.
Lilies have a strong smell, so something milder might be safer.
An assorted bunch seems like the way to go. But which colors? Don’t flowers and their colors have some kind of special meaning? Maybe I should check the internet for that.
I’m mid-search when my phone rings. Now is not the best time to answer a call from my dad, but he doesn’t usually call without an objective, so I answer anyway, despite the gnawing in my stomach that I still haven’t picked any flowers and I’m on a time crunch.
“Hey, Dad.” I tuck the phone between my ear and my shoulder.
“How’s my favorite son?”
“I’m your only son.”
“And still my favorite.”
I’m the youngest child and only son in a family with three girls, so my dad was thrilled when I was born. The best part about him is that the thrill never expired. Not when I quit nearly every sport I started because I was an epic failure. Not when I joined theater and showed not just an interest but a talent for crew work. In fact, Dad joined right in. Every time I tried a sport or a hobby, so did he. He didn’t love being on the crew, but he found that he enjoyed acting. He’s still involved at the Red Barn Playhouse community theater.
“Everything okay?” I ask, trying to move the conversation to the point.
“I was just calling to see if you wouldn’t mind your old man coming up for homecoming weekend in November.”
Not only was this school and its theater program a top choice for me, but it was also my dad’s top choice for me, because this school is his alma mater—a fact that only made me more eager to attend. My dad has been my biggest role model my whole life. I love that we share this school too.
A smile steals my anxiety momentarily. “I don’t mind at all. You don’t need my permission to do alumni stuff.”
“I didn’t want to surprise you by just showing up.”
“I appreciate that.”
And I do. I don’t really like surprises. But I do like hanging out with my dad.
I check the time. 6:30 p.m. I’ve got to get going. I still have to go to the beer store since Pennsylvania doesn’t let you buy beer in grocery stores, and if I stand here any longer I’m going to be late.
“What are you up to tonight?” my dad asks, and I grab a random bouquet of pink and white flowers and head to the checkout.
“Uh . . .” I scan the condoms and the flowers, bagging them and hoping my dad doesn’t somehow know what I’m doing and this question is actually a test, not just curiosity. “Rehearsal.”
“Rehearsal? For what?”
“That one-act I told you I auditioned for.”
“That’s right! Did you meet your acting partner yet?”
I’m still trying to juggle the phone and pay for my groceries when a line starts to form behind me. For some reason, there’s only one working self-checkout station right now.
Can people see the condoms through the plastic bag? Does everyone in line behind me think they know what I’m doing tonight based on what I’m buying right now? The temptation to tell everyone I’m not actually going to have sex and overexplain the situation makes me feel hot and uncomfortable. My denim jacket feels too heavy and suffocating. I gotta get out of here.
“Hey, Dad? I’m gonna let you go. I’m sorry. I’ll call you next week, okay?”
I don’t know if he can hear how frazzled I sound, but if he can, he doesn’t mention it.
“Sure thing. Have fun at rehearsal tonight. Knock ’em dead.”
My face heats and my knees get a little weak. He doesn’t know what he just said, but I sure as hell do. I hang up and practically sprint to my car, clutching the bag to my chest.
