The Halo Effect

05 | guys with ties

By noon on Sunday, Dad and I had walked all eight blocks of Newbury Street. The bells at Old South Church were ringing out over the city traffic as we stepped into the diner on the corner. The cold still clung to my hair, but I started unzipping my parka as a rush of heat poured out from a vent above my head.

Stationed behind the front counter was Joan, a woman with snow-white hair and kind eyes, who beamed at us as we appeared in front of her. We were regular patrons.

"Your usual table just opened up, Dr. England," Joan informed, picking up two menus. "I can escort you over now."

"You're too kind to us, Joan," Dad replied and gestured for me to follow her over to a corner table by the front windows. It was an excellent spot for people-watching.

On days like this, when it was just my Dad and me, it was almost possible to trick myself into believing that everything in our family's tiny solar system was fine. Dad still lived in the brick townhouse in Beacon Hill that I grew up in. The cobblestone roads, ivy, and glass lamp posts always made me feel like I stepped into a time-machine or onto the set of a movie.

The Englands were New England old money, and that townhouse had been in the family for god knew how long. If you weren't from New England, the words 'old money' probably made you think of F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby. In New England today, old money usually meant owning a vacation home on Nantucket or Martha's Vineyard, having an Ivy League education, and maintaining that sensible and sophisticated attitude that said more than words ever could.

John Lancelot England received his undergraduate degree from Cornell, double majoring in history and film studies. He'd then traded in the east coast behind for Los Angeles, where he spent a year holed up in Hollywood's writers' rooms, attempting to pursue screenwriting. That was where he met Mom. That was the start of the love story that failed. That was something I rarely talked about anymore.

It all really should've been old news since my parents finalized the divorce last year, but it was only this past summer that I'd learned that Mom had been cheating on Dad long before that.

While we ordered and waited for our food, Dad listened intently as I rambled about my first week back at Cannondale. The captain's practice on Thursday was a highlight, but I didn't spend too much time on it. We'd run through shuttles and the star drill to warm up our stickwork before transitioning into 8-meter shooting with clears. Gianna hadn't dropped any passes and made nearly all of her shots. From a teammate's perspective, I couldn't refrain from being impressed.

"Winter Formal is also coming up, so I'll be ordering a dress soon," I said, envisioning the gowns in my Revolve shopping cart. I'd narrowed it down to two in navy and one in deep emerald green.

Dad hummed. "Do you have a date who I need to have a word with?"

"It's in the works, and I don't think having a word is necessary." A soft smile twisted my lips as I took a sip of my cappuccino. "I would like to believe he's one of the good ones."

Having always respected my privacy, Dad didn't press for me to specify who he was and I appreciated that.

Whether Dad had a word with my ex-boyfriend Henry, I didn't know or particularly care to know now. I'd dated Henry throughout my sophomore year when he was a senior with dark-blond hair and storm clouds for eyes. He was out in California now, a business student at Berkeley. In retrospect, I decided I liked the idea of dating someone older than me, drawn to the subtle edginess of it and the attention it brought my way. After all, it was infinitely better to give people something to gossip about than to let them decide what perceived aspect of you to tear apart.