Triumphant, Desi reaches past me and grabs a bottle of pale shimmering blue-gray polish. “Like this.”
I shake the bottle a few times before flipping it and reading the name out loud. “Check Out the Old Geysirs.” I snort out a laugh, and so does Desi.
“Oh-em-gee!” she wheezes. “That is perfect. Because he’s so old and you’re not!”
“If you two could follow me,” an employee says before I can reply. But her words loop in my mind while we get situated. “Would you ladies like anything to drink?”
We both order a soda and tell our respective nail techs what we’d like. Once they get started, I turn to Desi and word vomit all over her. “Are you okay with me and your dad being together? I know he is a lot older, and it’s been just the two of y’all for a while. I really love your dad but your opinion matters, too, Desi. And I don’t want you to ever think or worry that I’m trying to or even want to replace your mother. I know she is important and special and I promise to always try and honor her memory. And—”
“Spazaphine, chill.”
“Did you just call me…Spaz…aphine?”
She snorts out a laugh, earning her a glare from her nail tech. “Stay still!”
“Sorry.” She ducks her head. “And yeah, I did. You just went all crazy on me.”
“Ugh.” If my nails weren’t being polished, I’d bury my face in my hands. “I guess I did.”
“You love my dad?”
“You caught that, huh?”
Desi nods.
“Yeah, I love him.”
“He loves you, too, you know?”
“What makes you so sure?”
“I just know. And I know you aren’t trying to replace my mom. I wasn’t ever worried about that. You’re good people and you make my dad happy. He deserves to be happy. And as for the age thing—I’ll tell you what I told him; it’s just a number.”
“You’re a wise kid.”
“Duh.”
“You wanna get coffee before we go to the pottery place?”
“I will never turn down coffee.”
“Same, girl. Same.”
I pay for both of us once our nails are dry and then we walk the block to Dream Beans, chatting mindlessly as we go. We place our order and retreat to a small table near the front window.
“Can I ask you something?” Desi asks, toying with the straw of her drink.
“Always, anything.”
She sucks down a sip of coffee. “Why did you leave the salon to work with my dad?”
“Well.” It takes me a minute to gather my thoughts. “Total honesty? I kind of went off the rails after my dad died. I wasn’t making very good choices.”
“Like that night at the fair?”
“Yeah, like that night.” A weary sigh leaves my lips. “You know, I don’t think I ever thanked you for stepping in and helping me. You calling your dad”—a full body shiver runs through me— “saved me, in more ways than one.”
Desi’s eyes slide around the coffee shop before returning to me. “I could tell you weren’t you. I couldn’t leave you with them.” She spits her last word with such acid, I can almost feel the burn.
“I mean it, Des. You and your dad saved me. I’ll be grateful forever.”
“There’s a way you could repay me,” she hedges.
“How’s that?” I’m almost scared to hear her answer.
“You can love my dad. Treat him right; make him happy.”
Tears cloud my vision. “I…I can definitely do that, Desi.”
Her solemn face transforms to one of pure happiness. “Good. Now, let’s go make some ugly vases.”
Side-eyeing her, I say, “I don’t know what you’re talking about; my vase will be gorgeous.”* * *I lied.
My vase looks more like an ashtray…that was left out in the sun and hit by a car…twice.
Desi’s on the other hand is perfectly formed and she’s not being a bit humble as she gloats.
“Look, don’t feel bad, Spaz”—yes, the nickname stuck— “you did your best.” She holds her department-store-worthy creation up like a trophy. “We can’t all be artists.”
“Yeah, yeah. Brag a little more.”
“Um, hello? Of course, I’m gonna brag.” She thrusts her vase toward me. “Look!”
“For real though, you’re really talented, Des.”
She beams. “Thanks. My mom was an artist, too. And Silvi! So, I guess it runs in the family, because what Dad does is art, too—just a different medium.”
“Do you want to pursue art as a career?”
“Maybe. Big goals, I wanna play for the WNBA. But if that doesn’t happen, I’d like to teach art or something. Or maybe run a place like this.”
We hand our pieces over to the employee on duty so they can be fired in the kiln, with instructions to pick them on Friday.
As we walk back to the truck, my mind wanders to Desi’s mom. She must have been a wonderful woman and while I’m not trying to replace her—not ever—I can’t help but feel I have big shoes to fill.
“What kind of art do you like the most?” I ask as we approach the truck.