I THINK MY DAD IS on a date. tonight he said he had plans with a friend, and he shaved and put on a nice button-down shirt and not one of his ratty sweaters. He was in a hurry to leave, so I didn’t ask who the friend was. Someone from the hospital, probably. Daddy doesn’t exactly have wide social circles. He’s shy. Whoever it is, this sounds like a good thing.
As soon as he leaves, I turn to Kitty, who is lying on the couch watching TV and licking the sour off sour gummies. Jamie lies asleep next to her. “Kitty, do you think Daddy’s—”
“On a date? Duh.”
“And you’re okay with it?”
“Sure. Though I’d rather it was with someone I knew and already liked.” “What if he got married again? Would you be okay with that?”
“Sure. So you can quit making your concerned-big-sister face at me, all right?”
I try to smooth my face out like a blank sheet of paper. Serenely I say, “So you’re saying you’re okay with Daddy getting married again.”
“It’s just a date, Lara Jean. People don’t get married off of one measly date.”
“But they do off of a lot of dates.”
A flash of worry crosses her face, and then she says, “We’ll just wait and see. There’s no point in getting all revved up yet.”
I wouldn’t say I’m revved up, exactly, but I am curious. When I told Grandma I wouldn’t mind if Daddy dated, I meant it, but I do want to know that she’s good enough for him, whoever she is. I change the subject. “What do you want for your birthday?” I ask her.
“I’ve got a list going,” she says. “A new collar for Jamie. Leather. With spikes. A treadmill.”
“A treadmill!”
“Yeah, I want to teach Jamie how to walk on one.”
“I doubt Daddy will go for a treadmill, Kitty. They’re really expensive, and besides, where would we even put it?”
“Okay fine. Scratch the treadmill. I also want night-vision goggles.” “You should cc Margot on that.”
“What kinds of special things can I get only from Scotland?” she asks.
“Genuine Scottish shortbread. A tartan kilt. What else . . . golf balls.
Loch Ness monster paraphernalia.” “What’s paraphernalia?”
“A stuffed Loch Ness monster. A Loch Ness T-shirt. Maybe a glow-in- the-dark poster.”
“Stop right there. That’s a good idea. I’m gonna add that to my list.”
After Kitty goes to bed, I clean up the kitchen—I even scrub the stove with a Brillo pad and organize the refrigerator—so that I can give Daddy the third degree the second he gets home. I’m refilling the flour canister when Daddy walks through the door. Casually I say, “How was your date?”
He frowns in confusion. “Date? I went to the symphony with my colleague Marjorie. Her husband came down with the flu, and she didn’t want the ticket to go to waste.”
I deflate. “Oh.”
Humming, he pours himself a glass of water and says, “I should go to the symphony more often. Any interest, Lara Jean?”
“Um . . . maybe,” I say.
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I make myself a stack of snickerdoodles, and I run up to my room and sit down at my desk. Munching on one, I open up my computer and type in “dating for dads,” and lo and behold I find a dating site for single parents.
I start drafting a profile. First things first, he’ll need a profile pic. I start going through the photos of him on my computer. There are hardly any of him alone. I finally settle on two, which I bookmark: one from last summer at the beach—a full-length shot, because that’s one of the tips on the website—and one of him from this past Christmas, wearing that Scandinavian sweater we got him. He’s carving a roast chicken, and he looks daddish in a wholesome coffee-commercial way but still vital. The
dim dining room light makes him look hardly wrinkled at all, just some crinkles around the eyes. Which reminds me: I should get on him about wearing sunscreen every day. A men’s skin-care kit could be a good Father’s Day gift. I make a note of it in my Reminders.
Daddy is only in his early forties. That’s still plenty young enough to meet someone and fall in love, maybe two or three times over, even.
