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“Excellent. Cher, please come downstairs so we can give you your to-do list.”
“Whoa. Cher doesn’t do lists. Cher lies in bed and waits to be served by men dressed in loincloths and bow ties.”
“If Cher doesn’t get her heinie down here right now, she’s going to get cleaning the turkey added to her to-do list.”
“Be down in ten,” I groan. “And by ten, I mean twenty.”
“Over and out.”
I throw on a pair of jeans and pull a gray knitted sweater over my Jessica Simpson concert tee. I slip on my trusty Birkenstocks over a pair of white fluffy socks because according to Gen Z, socks and sandals are all the rage ... and I’m also a giant wimp when the weather drops below seventy-five.
Ozzie scratches at the outside of my door, reminding me that he’s yet to take his morning pee. Apparently, taking her bedmate out isn’t on Nana Rosie’s to-do list. You’d think that I could simply open the door to the backyard and let him out to do his business, but Ozzie is a city dog. City dogs only pee after they’ve had the chance to smell at least ten spots where other dogs have peed, and they’ll only poop after twenty to thirty minutes of intense negotiation and threats. I buckle his tiny harness and leash, grab my phone, and sneak out through the garage before anyone has the chance to stop me. I don’t “people” well before coffee, so really I’m doing everyone a favor.
I text Martin that I’m on my way. The closest Starbucks is just three blocks away, so it shouldn’t take me long. I round the corner of Clementine Street and wait patiently as Ozzie sniffs three bushes and a fire hydrant before deciding to piss on the tire of a Prius. I think Ozzie was an oil tycoon in a past life.
We’re halfway down Orange Avenue when I recognize my father walking straight toward us in a teal-blue tracksuit. “Dad?”
“Penelope.” His eyes widen. “Good morning.”
“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.
