Happily Ever After With My Dad's Best Friend

“Lia, it’s Jean. Your dad is taking me out for lunch at that Italian place you like. Do you want to join us? Our treat.”

Despite how well Jean and I have been getting along the past month, I am cautious to tip the balance. Besides, I don’t know if I can hide my post-orgasm glow from

them. “No thanks. Finance dropped off papers for Beck this morning, and I want to get them in order for him. He should be back today or tomorrow. Thank you though; I appreciate the invitation.” The thought of anything with red sauce turned my stomach anyway.

“Would you like us to bring you something back?” Jean’s voice is way too sweet, and I know part of it is she wants an excuse to be up here, but their white pizza does sound good to me.

I try to match her tone, if not for her sake, for my father’s. “If it’s not too much trouble, Jean, their alfredo deep dish pizza would be amazing. Otherwise, I can just grab something downstairs or have it sent up.”

She promises to bring back their personal size deep dish pizza and run it up on her way back to her office. “Maybe even an Italian soda? You like their grapefruit one, right?”

I agree and thank her before hanging up the phone. It’s so weird being nice to her, not referring to her as the Step-Monster. I move over to the guest seating area and call Tasha to tell her about the lunch plans. Putting my feet up on the glass coffee table, I lean back to look out the windows and soak up a bit of the sunshine. It’s been too many days since I last saw it.

“Hey, Lia. What’s up?” Tasha is busy driving but assures me she’s on her handsfree headset. She laughs as I tell her about Jean, and we joke about the research department secretly working on personality switching. “I should mention that to my dad.” Tasha swears, and I hear a car’s horn blare repeatedly. “Mother fucker! That ass wipe tried to cut me off, and I almost missed my exit.” She swears like a trucker when driving, and my dad blamed Tasha for most of my bad language slip-ups during high school.

“Dad’s plane is landing soon. He said he was going to call and let you know.” Tasha and Beck have a ritual of her picking him up at the airport, spending time together to catch up on their weeks apart. It surprised me at first to find out that he didn’t pay to leave a car there or have one of the company drivers pick him up. He has always been an amazing father. “Oh, he did call,” I answer. It was quite the call…

I’d be lying if I said knowing he’s near doesn’t make my heart race. No matter my intention of trying to play it cool, I still want Beck. Thoughts of seeing him, of what our reunion will be like, fill me with butterflies. It’s a different sort of nausea than what I’ve felt with his absence. I haven’t been sick enough to throw up, but I just feel funky. Emotions are a bitch. It could be the change in eating habits catching up to me. The cafeteria at work makes sure I eat lunch, and often supper too if I don’t get out the door in time to ride home with Jean. Jess is obnoxious about standing in the doorway until he sees that I’ve opened my meal and taken a bite. It’s as if Beck made sure they’re taking care of me in his absence. Not that anyone would admit to that…

The stress of the show is doing awful things to me too. I’m relieved that it will be over tonight. The gallery has been great at promoting my show—even having me talk to the local radio station about what it’s like as a local artist who has come home to make art here. I did throw up then thanks to my nerves. I promised my dad I would go to the doctor next week if I wasn’t sleeping better and feeling back to my old self. He threatened to complain to Beck that I was working too hard, thinking that two dads could keep me in line.

“You are still planning on coming tonight, right?” I ask Tasha. Despite staying over to keep her company often the past month, I know she requires constant reminders to get her there. “Chris is welcome, too.” I’ve met him a few times, and he is a nice guy. Tasha was right in thinking Chris isn’t exactly the type her father would want her dating, but I have faith that Beck would give him a chance. He wants his daughter to be happy, and anyone can see that Chris treats her well.

“Absolutely. I’ll be there when the doors open so I can make sure you don’t hide in the back corner until it’s all over. There’s my dad! I gotta help him load his luggage into the trunk. I’ll see you tonight. Love you lots!” The line goes dead before I can reply.

I swipe over to my messages and send Beck a quick welcome home text before going back to my desk and trying to focus on my work. There is not much of it, but I want everything perfect for his return. All I can think about is how I felt in his arms, not about the copies I know I should be organizing and meeting minutes I should file in the proper folders for Beck. My personal checklist for the week mocks me from its corner on my desk. I marked everything off before ten, and now as the clock nears one, it begs for my attention to reassure myself I’ve done all I can for the show.

I wasn’t this worried about my first public show at my own gallery, not even about my senior exhibit. Those were done with a sense of purpose and the excitement of “Look what I can do!” This one is proof that I haven’t wasted years of my life: proof to myself, to my Dad and Jean, and to Beck. He believes in me, and I want to prove to him that his faith in me is warranted.

There is a soft chime as the elevator opens down the hall, and I realize just how quiet it is during lunch when no one else is on the floor. I listen for footsteps, and I hear heels clicking against the flooring, nearing my door. I buzz the entrance for Jean as she sweeps into the lobby with a cartoon villainess smile and sashay of her hips. She only needs a fur coat and cigarette holder to complete the look.

“Here’s your pizza, Lia.” She sets down the box on my desk with a slight wrinkle of her nose. The garlic smells amazing to me. “They were out of to-go cups for your soda; sorry. Your dad sends his love and a promise that he’ll be back from work in time to make an appearance tonight.” In her words is the unspoken declaration that she won’t be there. I don’t mind; in fact, I’m happy she won’t have a chance to cast a shadow on my night. It’s one more chance at perfection.

“Thanks, Jean. I appreciate it.” I invite her to sit down, but she is already headed for the door. “And, Jean, thank you for getting me this job.” It was Beck who hired me, who asked for me, but it doesn’t hurt to stay on my step-mom’s less bad side. I’m still not convinced she has a good side.

“Anytime, Lia. And maybe we can have lunch together sometime this week. I can bring my food up here if you need me to…”

My cheeks ache as I fake a smile, and I know I probably look ready to puke instead of actually agreeing, but I try. “I’ll let you know what my schedule is once Mr. Huntsworth is back in the office. Things will probably be pretty busy as he catches up.”

Speaking of the devil, Beck’s text tone sounds from my drawer, and it’s an effort not to reach for it immediately. I wait until I see Jean disappear into the elevator before grabbing my phone. “You can welcome me properly tonight.” His texted words are followed by a wink, and my stomach tightens with lust and worry. It’s not altogether an unpleasant sensation, but I don’t know if I can make it through my art show while trying not to make Beck and me part of the presentation. I don’t reply to his text; there aren’t simple words for all that I feel. He’s going to make indifference hard to maintain.

My skirt hem tickles the back of my knee with each step, and only the coffee I’m holding keeps me from reaching down to scratch for the seventh time since I came into the room. The gallery owner is playing hostess like she has waited her entire life for this show. Honestly, I didn’t know there were this many people in town who would come on a Thursday night. The place is packed.

I know at least three pieces have sold: two paintings and a metal shadow sculpture that is meant for being part of a light show. The promise to help the purchaser set it up was part of the purchase price. Even after the gallery’s cut on the sales, I should clear enough to pay back the rest of Dad’s loan. Within two months, I might even be out on my own again. In six, maybe I’ll have enough to rent studio space. I know better than to over extend my resources this time. If I don’t have at least three months’ worth of studio rent in the bank, I can’t consider the venture. Given how it turned out last time…

Besides, could I really leave Huntsworth Industries? Even just one day with Beck followed by

five weeks of taking messages and keeping things organized left me not only with a pleasant bank account, but with a sense that I’m part of a place that makes a difference in the world. Beck has created a company that truly does good. As long as I can make art in my spare time, I can continue being his secretary.

My feet are sore from my high heels by the time I finish my third round of mingling with guests and answering questions. Tasha is in the corner, face pinched in concern as she plays with her phone. Any time I’ve gotten near, she finds someone to go talk to. She says she has a lot to do for an upcoming tournament, and after all our years of friendship, I try to give her the benefit of the doubt. I don’t think too much about it since I have so much to distract me.

Tomorrow will be all about Tasha. Despite her protests that everything is fine, I can tell she needs to talk. I just need to get her to open up to me.

“This all looks great, Lia.” My dad squeezes my shoulder as he looks at a mixed media piece that goes from floor to ceiling. It was one I brought back with me from my studio and put back together here at the gallery. “I knew you were a good artist, but I guess I hadn’t looked all that closely at anything you didn’t have at home. I’m so proud of you, honey.” I lean into his awkward hug. “Your mom would be proud, too.”

My eyes prickle with tears, and I admonish him for making me cry. “Dad! You’re going to ruin my makeup!” I shove my coffee into his hands and go over to where Tasha is guarding my purse. Despite having her eyes glued to her screen, she already has a tissue held outstretched.

“Thanks,” I mutter. I wipe at the smudges of eyeliner. “How bad?”

Her lips curve upwards into a half-smile. “You look gorgeous. And, Lia, if that pink painting in the other room doesn’t sell, I want it in my room.” I lose her to her phone again. This time she takes a call. She whispers and turns away, and if not for the sparkle in her eyes, I’d have assumed it was something bad. Tasha is shit at keeping secrets. That’s the only reason I know that her behavior isn’t leading up to some surprise party celebration of my show.