More Than Maybe - Erin Hahn Page 0,26

improvement show?

VADA

Is this hypothetical?

LUKE

No. This is current events.

VADA

FLIP OR FLOP.

LUKE

Oooooh. What is it you don’t like? The awkward divorcees or the fake tans?

VADA

It’s all painful. The overblown dramatics are vomit-inducing. They are always just shy of missing their financial/time/creative budget.

VADA

Also, every house ends up looking the same. Too many bathrooms and taupe everywhere. And chevron pillows. And gross backyards that need sod.

LUKE

Wow. Don’t hold back.

VADA

Why do you ask?

LUKE

My dad’s on a This Old House kick. He hasn’t left the basement couch in three days. My mum just keeps bringing him meals.

LUKE

He’s taking notes, Vada. I’m worried he’s plotting a giant reno.

VADA

*snicker* I have so many questions. Is he handy? Do you live in an old home?

LUKE

Sort of. He’s far handier with a guitar, but he gets around a small project all right. And yeah, we live near Burns. Big, creaky old house, rickety garage, and a patch of grass.

VADA

Plenty to get into trouble with, is what you’re saying.

LUKE

Halp.

VADA

He needs a hobby.

LUKE

He needs a job.

VADA

What does a punk rocker do when he retires?

LUKE

I suggested he work at Trader Joe’s.

VADA

HAPPIEST PEOPLE EVER.

LUKE

ikr?

LUKE

He declined. He’s bored but a bit crusty. I can’t see him having a whole lot of patience for the clientele.

VADA

Maybe not.

LUKE

He keeps threatening to buy a club, but it’s been years and Ann Arbor’s not exactly lacking in sports bars.

VADA

Definitely not. At least twice a shift Phil grumbles about the “goddamn Bee Dubs conspiracy”

LUKE

Do I even want to know?

VADA

Not really. It’s tied into some “corporate conflagration of patriarchy and government funding” or something like that.

LUKE

That … doesn’t sound like a real thing. But Cull needs me. Gotta run anyway.

LUKE

YouTube: “Wish You Were Here” Pink Floyd

VADA

:) Me too.

10

VADA

I’m not a runner, but I can stroll for ages. Give me miles of quiet path and the newest Welshly Arms album and I won’t need to stop for hours. Particularly when the temperature is around freezing and most particularly after a phone call from my dad.

The man could motivate a marathon runner with his guilt trips and narcissism. But knowing that doesn’t help. Why do I even answer my phone when I see his number? It’s never good. It’s never “Hey, kiddo, just checking in.”

I was sitting at the library with Meg when his name lit up my screen. I could tell she could tell by my face it was him.

“Maybe it’s about missing dinner,” she offered. I packed up my things, promising to call her later, and was out the door before the librarians could get annoyed with my ringing phone.

Instead, it was a lot of “I miss you, you never come over” interspersed with a healthy serving of “one hundred facts about how having small children is harder than he could have ever imagined, and I couldn’t possibly understand.” Never mind that he has me, a person who was once a small child. That belonged to him.

My mom thinks he just doesn’t see me that way. I’m not his daughter. I’m his sometimes-parent, sometimes-babysitter, sometimes-conscience. But never his kid and never his responsibility.

I should have let him go to voicemail. (But that’s a whole other thing, because then I have to call him back.)

He wanted tickets. His wife, Jane, is burned out from the kiddos. So, he wanted to take her out and was thinking I might have a hookup through work, and also could I watch the babies?

Fucker. And what am I supposed to do? Be petty and go, “Sorry, Dad, but if you don’t have money for my tuition, I don’t have free tickets for you.”

Instead, I told him I didn’t know. I had to pick up more shifts for work to save for school. Which is true. And felt petty, until he said, “Oh. Great! That’s very responsible. Let me know when you find some tickets!”

That right there is how you know he’s not going to lend me one damn cent, because he rarely encourages me to work more at Phil’s club.

It’s fine. It’s just my life’s ambition, my one shot away from this place and him and a childhood of almost-but-not-quite. If only he would move away. If he’s not going to be my dad, he may as well leave. Cut out the complicated emotional roller coaster. Why doesn’t he have to answer for anything and I have to answer for everything? Why does he get to be my father when I’m not his daughter? He teases the idea of moving south—to warmer climates—but never does. He says it’s because of me, but as we all know,