out fine. Hearing her voice makes me miss her. And that pisses me off.
This moment’s additional awkwardness is brought to you by the fact that my dad is at the dining room table finishing the New York Times crossword puzzle. The level of difficulty of the crossword increases during the week. Monday is easy, Sunday is ruthless. The frustration is all over my dad’s face.
“How’s life, honey?”
“Good. Busy,” I say as I go back to cutting green peppers for the salad. My mom’s special-recipe lasagna is simmering in the oven. The irony of the call is not lost on me.
“Great. The team is good this year . . .” she says, then trails off.
“Totally,” I say through clenched teeth. Do I casually mention that I know she comes to the games? I don’t want to be having this buddy-buddy catch-up with my mom, who should be here cooking this lasagna, but left us for money. I start chopping the peppers harder.
“And are you dating anyone special?”
“No,” I say curtly. “Can we not do this?”
A couple seconds of silence pass.
“Georgie,” she says carefully, “I called to invite you to Thanksgiving. Wayne is taking me to Paris, and I was wondering if, maybe, you want to come with?”
“I can’t really afford the plane ticket,” I say.
“Wayne would pay, of course.”
I stop cutting the peppers. “My love isn’t for sale.”
“Georgie.”
I sneak a look at my dad. He has set his pencil down and is watching me. Obviously, that sounds like an amazing trip minus hanging out with Wayne. But my dad would be alone eating from Kentucky Fried Chicken. Just because she left him doesn’t mean I can, too.
“I can’t . . .”
“Leave Dad,” she says. “I know, sweetie, and that’s so nice of you. But he will be fine. I promise.”
That ticks me off. I feel a lump in my throat, the beginning of tears. I push it down and steady my voice. “Actually, I want to be here.”
“I understand,” she says. “OK. Then how about we have dinner? Just me and you?”
“Maybe,” I say.
The alarm on the stovetop rings.
“Whatcha cooking?” she asks.
“Your lasagna.”
“Don’t forget the nutmeg.”
“Already in,” I lie, heading over to the spice rack. “Bye, Mom.”
“Text me about dinner. I love you, babygirl.”
“You too,” I say, then remove my earpiece. I go back to searching through the spices, hoping my dad doesn’t bring it up.
“Was that Mom?” he asks.
I keep my head in the spices. “What’s the deal with paprika? I bet there’s a spicy story behind that name.” I’m trying to pun myself out of the conversation.
“What did she want?” he asks.
I look at my dad, sitting at the table in his favorite denim button-up shirt—a Sunday staple—and his glasses with frames that haven’t been in fashion for years. His hair has thinned, but it’s always neatly parted.
“She invited me to Thanksgiving.”
He takes off his glasses. “Planning ahead?” he asks.
“Well, they’re going to Paris,” I add.
“Oh.”
“I’m not going.”
“Maybe you should, Georgie. Paris is beautiful.”
I bring the salad bowl to the table and sit down. “Ugh, no, Dad. I’m going to have so many invites to Paris. Better yet, I’ll take myself to Paris one day. But this Turkey Day, I’ll be here with you watching the Cowboys lose.”
“That’s my girl,” he says just as the doorbell rings. “And that must be our dinner guest!”
I bounce over to the front door, grateful to be done with that conversation. I swing the door open wildly, and Pony laughs at my dramatics. He looks cute in a black hoodie and jeans. We enter the kitchen and Dad asks, “What’s an eight-letter word for heterosexual?”
“Straight,” Pony says, and then smiles at me.
“Aha!” Dad scribbles the word into the crossword, proud of his progress.
“Dad, this is my friend Pony.”
He looks up. “We met, I believe, on the porch?”
Crap. I forgot about that night. Well, I didn’t forget that night. More like I have worked hard to block it out. I grab the lasagna from the stovetop and let Pony handle that one.
“Hello again, Mr. Roberts,” he says, shaking hands with Dad. “Thanks for having me over for dinner.”
“This is all Georgia. And you have a school assignment to work on?”
“Yes, we are attempting to cure the water depletion in Africa.”
“No big deal,” I say, peeling off the foil to reveal the masterpiece of bubbling sauce, pasta, and melted cheese. The smell of Parmesan and Italian sausage fills the air. I’m so proud I could weep.
Before dishing out squares, I sprinkle nutmeg all over the