Page 151 of The Doctors Will See You Now

“What?” I questioned. “I said I’m excited.”

“You’re not acting excited.”

“How many times do you think we’ve said excited in the past two minutes?” I asked, hoping that I could redirect the focus away from my lack of excitement to see yet another Broadway show with my father. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always loved them, but this was the third show in the span of three weeks that he’d begged—and all but forced—me to see with him.

And since my mother and Jean-Pierre had never been big fans of musicals, I was my Dad’s go-to gal for everything bright lights and show tunes.

My mother and father—a complete anomaly—were literally the happiest divorced couple on the planet. They’d thrown in the towel on their marriage when I was eight years old, and they’d been best buds ever since.

Hell, my father often tagged along on trips with my mother and her second husband of sixteen years.

My stepdad, Jean-Pierre, was an American transplant from Paris and the apple of my mother’s eye. Yes, he did have an accent. And, yes, it probably did sound extremely sexy to any American woman who wasn’t his stepdaughter.

The only downfall of my parents’ divorce and my mother’s marriage to Jean-Pierre was that they weren’t fans of musicals.

Thanks for nothing, guys.

“Don’t act so crabby, Low,” my dad remarked. “Kinky Boots has won every major Best Musical award, including a Tony. Anyone sitting in your seat right now would be excited.”

“Don’t forget the Laurence Olivier Award,” I added sarcastically. I’d heard more about Kinky Boots from Dad over the past week than most of the cast probably even knew, and they acted out the show six nights a fucking week.

“Exactly,” he agreed with a giant grin. It was safe to say his sarcasm radar was off-kilter. Blame it on the Kinky Boots, I guessed.

He glanced down at his watch, and his smile grew wider. “Only thirty minutes until show time.”

My dad had always been one of those people who arrived everywhere way ahead of schedule, and it was a serious pain in my ass, especially tonight. I understood getting somewhere on time, or even five to ten minutes early, but holy mother of egg rolls, no one needs to get anywhere with an hour’s worth of time to spare.

Mmm…egg rolls…those would be so perfect right now…

I glanced inside my giant purse—which probably wouldn’t fit the dimension requirements for carry-on luggage with Delta—and rummaged through my snack pocket. Fuck yes! A small bag of M&Ms and a snack-size bag of Lay’s potato chips. I knew exactly what I would be doing for the next thirty minutes. It definitely wasn’t egg rolls, but it would do.

My father glared the second my fingers touched the chip bag, the edgy rustle of plastic like a gunshot in the relatively quiet room. It sounded like heaven in the form of snack food to me, but obviously, my father thought otherwise. His gaze tracked down the source of the noise like a goddamn homing device.

“Low,” he chastised.

“What?” I whispered back. “I’m hungry, and it’s not like the show has started. We have at least another thirty minutes before the lights dim and someone starts belting out show tunes.”

“It’s not show tunes, Harlow. It’s Broadway,” he added on a sigh. “And do you remember who helped write this award-winning show?”

“Cyndi Lauper,” I answered. With the way my dad had beat that information into my brain, there was zero possibility of me forgetting it.

“Exactly.”

The words Girls Just Wanna Have Fun and Eat Potato Chips were on the tip of my tongue, but I decided to take it easy on him. The man enjoyed his Broadway shows, and even though I’d always had a tendency to bitch and moan when I got dragged along, I loved my dad. Seeing his smiling face during the shows and hearing his excited chatter afterward was always worth it.

I wasn’t always a hard-ass. Just on occasion. Most of the time I was a real fucking softie at heart, especially when it came to the important people in my life.

“No snacks until intermission.” My dad gave me the look. You know, the one parents give their eight-year-old kids when they meant business.

“You do realize that I’m twenty-nine, right?” I questioned, and he smirked.

“Yeah, but you’ll always be my little girl, Low,” he responded. “And right now, I refuse to sit by and watch you disgrace this theater with greasy potato chips.”

I bet Cyndi Lauper’s dad would let her eat potato chips before the show…

It was in moments like this I’d wished my parents would’ve stayed married longer and at least birthed me a sibling to share the brunt of their meddling. Some days, being the only child was a real pain in my ass. Other days, it was fantastic, but days like this, when all I wanted to do was eat potato chips before Kinky Boots, it was a real drag.

“Excuse me,” a sophisticated older woman whispered toward us. “Do you mind if I slide in?” she asked and held up her tickets. “My son and I have those two seats in the middle.”