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“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.
“I wasn’t at my best,” he says as we turn down Main Street. “I had a few too many scotches, not that that’s excusable, and I acted poorly as a result.”
“It’s fine,” I start to say, but he shakes his head no and cuts me off. “OK, it’s not fine.”
“Let me finish. There comes a point in a man’s life when he realizes that he has more road behind him than ahead of him. It makes him look back at the life he’s lived and the mistakes he’s made versus the time he has left to make amends. Believe it or not, I carry a lot of guilt with me. A lot of regret.”
The thing is, he’s right. I don’t believe it. My entire life, my dad has made his life—our whole family’s life—look so intentional and engineered. My mother and Phoebe followed his plan perfectly. Mom volunteered for all the right charities. She used her Southern charm to win over international clients and their wives at the elaborate dinner parties she hosted. Phoebe graduated top of her class at Princeton and immediately went to work at his company, before pursuing her master’s. I’m the only piece of the family puzzle that never quite fell into place.
Is my father going to tell me that he regrets the pressure he put on me when I so clearly wanted no part in the plans he imagined for me? Is he going to tell me that he wants us to build a better relationship or that he’s proud of me for making it on my own for the last ten years? Are we going to have this long-awaited sentimental moment, all while I’m waiting for Ozzie to poop?
“I just felt like I needed to make things right with Smith,” he says. “The way I treated him when he was just a kid was terrible. I never gave him a fair shot because of his parents.”
OK. This isn’t the direction I thought this conversation would take. Call me petty, but I kind of assumed that my position on the list of people to apologize to came before Smith’s. Maybe he’s structured this speech like an award show, starting with supporting actors and building up to leading roles?
We stop at the crosswalk opposite Starbucks. The line wraps around the front of the building and pours onto the sidewalk. I scan the crowd for Martin, but it’s impossible to place anyone from this far away.
“I was proud to hear him talk about his accomplishments last night,” he says. “He’s carved out quite the life for himself, with very little help at all from his parents. It’s not easy being self-made anymore. It’s a hell of a lot harder now than it was when I was his age. He was right about that digital magazine. It’s worth a hell of a lot of money.”
The crosswalk signal flashes that it’s safe to cross, but my body is wound so tight with anger that I can barely breathe, let alone walk. He’s proud of Smith. The guy who’s going to give my engagement ring to someone he barely knows?
My father moves ahead of me, likely still talking about Smith, but I’m no longer paying attention. Ozzie gives his leash a little tug, and somehow my legs start to move, despite my brain’s efforts to completely disassociate from my body.
Maybe Smith is a genius businessman, but he’s a garbage human if he thinks regifting his ex-wife’s engagement ring is OK. And if we’re talking about being self-made, I’m self-made. I made a life for myself alone in San Francisco after the divorce, and I didn’t take a dime from my parents. I used the trust that Nana Rosie established for me to buy my home. I worked shitty hours in even shittier bars to make ends meet because I couldn’t live off my trust forever. I worked in coffee shops that let me drink my weight in caffeine. I even worked two Christmases as a damn elf in a mall so I could buy myself a used computer after mine finally bit the dust.
I am self-made too, and it wasn’t easy for me. Smith at least always had his family on his side. I had nobody. How does he not see that? Why doesn’t he feel proud of and impressed by me? And why can’t I say anything? Why can’t I speak up? Why am I just letting him go on and on instead of telling him to listen to me?
“Penelope.” My father’s voice snaps me back into the present. “Did you hear me?”
“Huh?” I manage to say.
“I said there’s Smith up ahead in line. He’s waving to us.”
Sure enough, there he is. Smith motions for us to join him. Cutting in front of a line of twenty-five caffeine-addicted folks looking for their morning fix sounds mutinous, but I don’t think I can survive any more of my father’s apologies. God, I’d give anything to have my hand shoved up a turkey butt right now.
“Why don’t you go save a spot in line with him while I find a copy of the Times at that little newsstand on the corner?”
I’m on the verge of coming up with an excuse to go back home when it occurs to me that I wouldn’t mind giving Smith a piece of my mind about him regifting my engagement ring.
“Hey, you made it.” Smith scratches Ozzie behind the ears. “And you brought your dad.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. “Were you waiting for me?”
“Um, yeah.” He furrows his brow. “Because of our texts this morning.”
“Oh shit. I didn’t realize that was you.”
“Who else would it be?”
“Oh my god, is that her, babe?” A woman with red curly hair pushes past Smith and locks me in the sort of hug that only seems appropriate for serious mud wrestlers. Ozzie yips, which is probably the only thing that keeps her from choking me out. “Penny, I’m so excited to finally meet you. I’m Sarah. Smith’s girlfriend.”
There’s something a little familiar about her. I know that we’ve never met, but I can’t seem to stop staring at her, which doesn’t go unnoticed.
“You OK?” Smith rests his arm around her. “You look a little pale.”
