As Told By Paramours

chapter twenty-six

josie

THE FIRST TIME I TRULY understood what love was, I was 11, sitting on my porch with my Dad as he read his newspaper aloud to me; a game we played every evening back then.

"What was I like when I was born?" I asked him. My friends in school and I got to talking about it, and I had realized I didn't have an answer myself.

He laughed and his eyes crinkled at the corners. "You were quite odd. You know, as soon as you popped out, you didn't even cry. You just looked up at your Mother and I, blinking with the most unamused face I'd perhaps ever seen."

I tried to hit him playfully, but he dodged and set the newspaper down. I asked him what his favorite memory of me was.

"Oh, I can't pick one. I remember when you all were growing up, I was just so proud of you guys. You'd look up at me like I was a superhero or something, smiling, and you'd tell me you lost a tooth. I would go for long work trips and I'd come home, and you'd hang up banners and run and give me hugs. And I thought wow. This is what it's like to be the happiest person on earth. This is what it's like to be loved. I couldn't be more grateful I can say you're mine." And he looked at me like he was the happiest man ever, like with us, our family, he was satisfied. Like we were enough. And he smoothed my hair back and kissed my forehead, and told me: "I am so proud to call you my daughter. I am so proud to be a Father."

And I believed him.

He doesn't smooth my hair back anymore. I do that myself, as embarrassing as it is. I look for small things that can remind me of him— him before The Incident. The Him I thought he was. I hate that even after all of this, I still seek his comfort.

Talk to him, my Mother had told me a couple days ago.

I asses my situation currently: I'm sitting criss cross on my couch and my Dad is sitting on the one across from me, looking as tense as you would if someone asked you to lick their shoe or they'd tell the teacher you cheated on your physics final (which is all the more embarrassing because you failed that final anyway).

I'm enjoying this immensely; I link my fingers and let them rest where my ankles meet, and I smile at him.

He clears his throat.

"How's everything been?" he asks me, as if we're at a friendly BBQ and I'm not his daughter who literally lives with him.

"Fine, thank you. How's work?"

He grasps the subject like a lifeline. "Good. You know the road on 24th? They want my team to remodel it."

"Ah."

My Dad sighs and runs his hand down his face, already fatigued by the conversation. Quietly, tentatively, he starts: "Josephine... you know... you can talk to me."

I blink at him and nod vigorously. "You're so right. Thank you for the tip, sir."

He frowns. "Don't talk to me like that."

I don't reply.

Because it's on the tip of my tongue where I know it'll sizzle out, and I want to say it more than anything: I'm just so disappointed in you.

My Father looks worn and weary, and perhaps he is. His brows are graying, and though he's been balding for as long as I can remember, there's a new age and strain on the bald spot. His hands folded on his crossed legs, the way therapists do before they tap their pen on their notebook and ask you how have you been feeling lately?

"I love you, Josephine," he says, and it sounds eerily similar to please forgive me even though I didn't directly offend you.

"Yeah, I know," I reply, and it sounds eerily similar to stop talking to me, but I hate you and love you.

Because I do love him, too. Even after all he's done, even though he's a liar and a cheat and everything I hate, I still love my Father.

And the guilt of that alone eats me up inside.

● ● ●

Hailey crosses her arms and rests them on the staff kitchen counter.

"You still good for today?" she asks me, grinning. I promised to bake cookies for Elise's 100th birthday.

I nod. "Of course. Tell Elise I said happy birthday in the meantime?"

Her grin widens. "Sure thing. Be in the kitchen by 6, okay? The celebration starts at 7:30."

I salute with a "'Kay," and speed-walk to John's room.

"Hey, John," I say to him, then grab the note from the counter.

"Hello, Josie. How are you?"

I take a moment to respond, because there's one or two small CDs under it. "I'm fine, thanks."

Songs I would totally love to sing with you (even if you really are bad a singing),

Elijah :)

He burned CDs for me.

I read the titles, and they're titled Thing One, Thing Two, and Thing Three accordingly. It's so him.

"I heard you're making cookies for Elise's birthday," John speaks up with a surprised face, smiling.

"I am." I'm grinning widely, and my heart is beating really fast (disclaimer: it is not because of the conversation I am having right now). "My mom taught me to bake when I was really little, so I offered."

"Are you staying until then?" he asks me as I put the CDs in my bag, then nods to the clock that reads 4:02pm.

"No, I'll go back and get ready quickly. Tea?"

"Not today, no." He shifts where he's sitting and turns to me. "I'm fine here. If you want, you can leave and rest until then. Baking is hard work."

"It's okay," I say.

"Are you sure?"

"Well..."

● ● ●

As I leave a little too eagerly, a ridiculous idea comes to my head.

I stand in front of my car for a good four and a half minutes. He's probably busy, and honestly tired of me, because I would be too.

But a small part of me asks, Why not?

I grab my phone and dial his number before every ounce of courage leaves me.

"Hey," I say, and I feel like my heart is in my throat.

I hear shuffling, then a cool: "Hey. What's up?"

"Are you doing anything right now?"

He pauses. "Not really."

"Okay. Great. So. I saw your note, and the songs are of course, amazing. But I thought, it's lonely to listen to good music alone, and I remembered that I love baking with music. And today is Elise's 100th birthday."

"Oh, is it? Is that why you're baking something?"

"Yes!" I say. "Yeah, so I was wondering if you wanted to come help me bake, and I don't know, we could listen to those songs. Like, together."

"Ahhh."

"Sounds a bit boring? You don't have to c—"

"No, I want to," he rushes to say, and I smile slowly. "I'll be there in like, two hours. Okay?"

"Okay. See you then."