But listen, I get angry with Siri when she willfully misunderstands me, and that doesn’t mean I should marry my phone. Sometimes people just argue and don’t want to make out with each other, because life isn’t a rom-com (unless you’re Annie and you’re marrying a literal movie star).
Nick shakes his head and points toward the back of the store. “I’ll be in my office. Think you can handle it up here?”
I gesture once more toward the mostly empty shop. Business isn’t due to pick up for another hour. “Somehow, I’ll manage.”
I lean over the counter and pull my phone out again, but between you and me . . . yes, I do look up to watch Nick walk to his office. It’s like that old saying, “I hate to see you go, but I love to watch you leave,” except that it’s, like, “I hate the depressing AF music you play, but I love to watch you leave because *fire emoji*.”
Although it pains me to admit it, Nick Velez is objectively good-looking. He’s tall and thin, with light brown skin, dark hair that’s not too long or too short, and the aforementioned persistent scruff on his face. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Nick clean-shaven, and I regularly see him at 5 A.M. That’s just how his face looks, apparently.
But, unlike my romance-obsessed BFF, I am not someone who gets carried away by fantasies of love. Sure, Nick is hot, and okay, maybe I’ve had a couple of daydreams where he pins me against the brick wall of the coffee shop and rubs my face raw with his stubble, but there are lots of hot people in the world who aren’t my boss. And since I kind of need this job, and I really need to keep my personal life as drama-free as possible, I think I’ll stick to dating people who aren’t intertwined in any other area of my life. Because taking care of my dad is messy enough, and I don’t really need anyone else’s feelings to worry about.
If only I could stop being so damn awkward around him.
My phone buzzes. It’s Tracey Liu, the receptionist at my dad’s care facility.
“Do you think you could check in for a minute when you get a chance? Your dad’s having an episode.”
Chapter Two
I find Nick in his office and tell him I’m going. Another reason why Nick is a great boss, despite his abysmal taste in music: he’s always okay with me leaving, on no notice, to take care of my dad.
“Let me know how it goes, okay?” he says, concern in his deep brown eyes as he places a hand on my arm. I jerk my arm back so fast that I bump into the shelf behind me and knock an entire box of pencils onto the floor.
“Um, I . . .” I stammer, trying my best to get my bearings. I was fine until Nick touched me, that jerk. Reason #8: Have you even seen the way he grabs Zoe before he kisses her in the rain?
“I’ll get them—you just get out of here,” he says, and I exit his office with a wave.
I don’t drive to work since Nick’s is just a couple of blocks from my place, so I briskly walk down the brick sidewalks of German Village. This is why I usually wear flats or brightly colored sneakers—brick sidewalks are death traps if you’re wearing heels. The early spring air is just slightly chilly, but the sun is hidden behind the perpetually cloudy Ohio skies, making it feel colder than it is. I wrap my mustard yellow pea coat more tightly around myself as I walk past the beautiful homes and businesses.
A short drive later, I buzz the door at Dad’s facility and wait to be let in. The potential bad mood is coming over me, so I take a deep breath. Inhale positivity. Exhale stress. I smile along with my exhale, willing myself to be Good Mood Chloe for my dad, regardless of what greets me on the other side of the door.
Because no matter what I find—no matter what condition my dad is in—this is my responsibility. It’s not my twin brother Milo’s, because he lives in Brooklyn in an apartment I’ve never visited, on account of I can’t fathom leaving my dad that long. And it sure as hell isn’t my mom’s, considering that she bounced right out of our lives when she left us for some dude she met on the Internet when Milo and I were ten.
It was the week before the fourth-grade Christmas pageant, aka the biggest event on my calendar at the time. Milo wasn’t involved, because even back then he was too cool for earnest performances, but I was an angel narrator who delivered a lengthy speech about the importance of the baby Jesus’s birth. (In retrospect, a public elementary school probably shouldn’t have put on such an explicitly religious production, but what can I say? It was the ’90s in Ohio, and anything went.) Mom was a fantastic seamstress who made most of her own clothing, and she promised to make me a costume that would leave all those donkeys and wise men in the dust, meaning that everyone in the audience would be unable to focus on anything but me, instead of the birth of our Lord and savior. Mom might not have said it that way, but that’s the way I interpreted it.
But then she left with some dude named Phil, and I wasn’t about to bother Dad or Milo by telling them I needed a costume. Dad was shell-shocked, staring at the TV for hours, and Milo was alternating between preteen anger and sobs. The worst part was that online dating as we know it didn’t even exist back then, which meant that her leaving us for a guy she met online was Super Bizarre and basically a schoolwide scandal. Everyone, even my teachers, looked at me with pity.
So I got shit done. I tore the white bedsheets off my bed and, using the most rudimentary of sewing skills, fashioned them into a sort-of-toga, sort-of-angel-robe. I’m not saying it was the best angel costume the elementary school had ever seen, but it worked, and it was the first time I realized two things: I can only count on myself if I want to get something done, and I’m capable of doing pretty much anything.
I’m still smiling and deep-breathing as the door clicks unlocked and I walk through, right to the reception desk where Tracey’s waiting for me.
“Everything’s okay,” she says, hands out to calm me. “But I thought you might want to come see him.”
Tracey covers the front desk at Brookwood Memory Care, but she’s more than any old employee. She’s sort of my ex—we went on a few dates, years ago, before it quickly became apparent that she was looking for a relationship and I was . . . well, not. But we stayed friends, and she was able to get my dad into Brookwood, which is a huge step up from his previous facility.
“What happened?” I ask, tugging on my tangled blond braid. When it comes to my dad, an “episode” can mean almost anything. There was the time he was convinced that the entire facility was being taken over by “the Amish” and wouldn’t stop yelling about it. Or the time he slapped another resident because he was certain he’d broken his television. Or the time he claimed to be “starving,” despite the fact that he’d eaten dinner half an hour before, and went on an hours-long rant about how “this hellhole” wasn’t feeding him.
Tracey sighs, clearly not wanting to be the one to break this news to me. But I’m glad she is; I’m glad I can count on her to give me the full story.