“I think nowadays I’m open to maybe getting married one day. Just not until I’ve gotten my career going. And certainly not before age thirty. I only want one kid, though, so I don’t need to be in any rush.”
Dad looks satisfied. Maybe even relieved. And I totally get it. It’s not that my father believes marriage and babies is the only endgame for a woman. Not at all. He’s a traditional guy in some ways, but not about that. No, I think in addition to him wanting me to experience a love like he had with my mother, and the love he has for me, he simply wants to feel confident I’ll be safe and protected, and loved unconditionally, my whole life, even after he’s gone, whether his departure from this earthly life comes way sooner than either of us would want, or, God willing, decades from now.
Dad takes my hand and gazes at it, perhaps thinking about the happy day, so many years ago, he married a nineteen-year-old spitfire who, tragically, wound up leaving this earth far too soon. He says, “She’s smiling down on you right now, you know.”
“I know,” I say. “I can feel her. She’s smiling down on you, too, Daddy. Always.”
I put my palm on my father’s face, letting my mother’s ring brush his stubbled cheek, and then kiss his other cheek tenderly.
I’m not lying about my mother always smiling down on him, by the way. Even when Dad stupidly married Paula, in the midst of his grief, I know my kind-hearted mother was in heaven, cheering him on. Wanting him to find love again. Wanting him to feel joy after so much sorrow. True, it wasn’t true love for Dad and Paula, to put it mildly, but I’m positive my mother didn’t hold it against my brokenhearted father for blindly stumbling through his pain in that way.
“Don’t worry about me, Daddy,” I whisper. “I’ll always be okay. I’m a fighter. A hustler.”
He chuckles. “A hustler?”
I wink. “All good things come to those who hustle.” My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, check the screen, and whoop. “This is the call I’ve been waiting for, Daddy! Oh my God!”
“I’ll give you some privacy,” Dad says excitedly. He beelines for the door of the kitchen. “Good luck!”
When he’s gone, I hastily answer the call, my hands shaking and my heart thrumming in my chest. “Hello, this is Georgina.”
“Hi, Georgina,” a woman says. “This is Margot, CeeCee Rafael’s personal assistant.”
Oh my God! This is it. The call I’ve been waiting for since I walked out of that coffee date with CeeCee. I collapse into a kitchen chair, praying this woman is calling with happy news.
“Hello, Margot. How are you?”
“Couldn’t be better. CeeCee was wondering if you might be able to come to the office tomorrow morning at ten? Sorry for the late notice, but she’s traveling internationally the following day, and she wants to personally give you some great news. It’s about a job opportunity she has for you. I think you’ll be pleased.”
I squeal, making Margot chuckle. But before Margot responds to my exuberance, a male voice in the background on her end says something to her. “I’m sorry, Georgina, can you hold for a minute? So sorry.”
“Sure.”
And she’s gone, leaving me on hold listening to Katy Perry tell me I’m a firework.
Okay, Georgie, I say to myself. Don’t get too excited. You might have to turn down whatever CeeCee offers you.
Sadly, it’s the truth. I’ve done my research, and therefore know Rock ‘n’ Roll never hires recent college grads for paid positions. Indeed, there’s a mandatory unpaid three-month internship for college grads, which the company uses as a proving ground. If it weren’t for Dad’s medical expenses, I’d take anything offered to me, whether paid or not. Anything to get my foot in the door. Hell, I’d be this assistant’s unpaid assistant, if that’s what was offered to me. But the reality remains, I can’t afford to take an unpaid job, for more than a few weeks, given Dad’s situation.
Of course, Dad always says it’s not my job to take care of him financially. “I’ll be able to pick up carpentry work again any day now,” he always says. But that seems like a gigantic stretch to me, given the lasting side effects Dad has been experiencing from his treatments.
Dad also likes to say he could sell the condo, if worse came to worst. But on that score, Dad’s equally full of shit. I’ve seen Dad’s bank statements. I know he’s upside down on this place—meaning any profit he might make from selling it would go straight to the bank.
“I’m back,” CeeCee’s assistant says. “Sorry about that. So, does ten o’clock tomorrow work for you?”
“Yes. It’s perfect. Thank you.”
“Please, don’t be late,” the woman says. “CeeCee’s schedule is jam-packed tomorrow, since she’s headed to Bali the following day. She’s moving things around to squeeze you in, simply because she’s so excited to talk to you in person about the job offer.”