Dad sighed. “I don’t know about those girls, either. What happened to Pearl Utz? You girls used to be so close, playing with your Barbies for hours at a time.” A wistful expression crossed his face, and I knew we were straying dangerously close to reminiscent territory. “Feels like that was just yesterday, and now . . . Why don’t you give Pearl a call? She hasn’t been around lately.”
I rolled my eyes, exasperated. “That’s because she moved to LA with her family, Daddy. Eight years ago, when we were twelve. Remember?”
“That’s right, I remember now,” Dad crossed his arms and leaned against the garage wall. “You were devastated. You cried for weeks.”
“Don’t try to change the subject, Daddy,” I warned him. “We’re not talking about Pearl right now. We’re talking about my tour.”
“That’s right.” Dad shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his overalls, studying me closely. The lines of his face deepened, making him appear much older than his forty-four years. “You have a beautiful voice, Eleanor,” he said slowly. “You know I’ve always thought so. But I don’t understand this . . . Why do you need to go? Why can’t you just stay and sing in the church choir, like you always have? Why can’t that be enough?”
My heart cracked a little. Overprotective as he was, I loved my father dearly, and I hated hurting him. “It’s just . . . not,” I said. “I need more. I need to prove that I can handle it, that I’m capable of more than just the local church choir.”
Pain crossed my dad’s face, but he masked it quickly. “I still don’t know . . .” he said.
I played my final trump card. “I’ve already promised the band, Daddy,” I said. “I made a commitment, and you’re the one who always taught me to honor my commitments.”
Dad’s face twisted in wry amusement. He placed his hand over his heart in mock distress. “I can’t believe my daughter would use my own words against me,” he said, and I smiled despite myself. He sobered quickly. “I can see how serious you are about this,” he said. “And you’re right; you’re a grown woman now, and I can’t tell you what to do. I don’t like it, and I wish you would change your mind, but I’m not going to try to stop you.”
My heart swelled. “Thank you, Daddy,” I cried, launching myself into his arms for a hug, heedless of the grease that transferred from his skin to my T-shirt. It was only an old shirt, anyway.
He hugged me back a little awkwardly, never one for physical shows of affection. “Just promise me you’ll be careful, okay?” he asked.
“Of course, Daddy,” I said. “I’m always careful.”
“I know you are, Eleanor,” he said. “But there are people out there—men—who wouldn’t hesitate to take advantage of you.” He shifted uncomfortably, and I realized to my shock that his face was turning a deep shade of red. Was my father . . . blushing? “I just want you to be careful with your—with your purity. It’s precious. Don’t give it away to just anyone.”
I rolled my eyes. This wasn’t anything that I hadn’t heard a million times before in Sunday school. “Don’t worry about that, Daddy,” I said confidently. “I promise to be careful.” I had no intention of sleeping with anyone, anyway. I was saving myself—not necessarily for marriage, but for true love. The kind of love my parents had had, before my mother died. Having seen what love could be, I knew that I could never settle for anything less.
My father’s awkward warnings could do nothing to dull my excitement. I was really going! Twenty years old, and I was finally, finally going to have a real adventure. I practically skipped back to the house to text the band and start packing.
I opened my laptop to play some music while I packed, and the video I’d watched the night before filled the screen: Sexy blonde’s first group sex. I blushed furiously and quickly exited out of the screen. Hey, I may be a virgin, but I was still curious. When it happened, I wanted to be prepared. I told myself there was no harm in fantasizing a little.
I settled on a playlist and hit play, and the sound of my new favorite band, the Prince Charmings, erupted from my laptop’s tinny speakers. I danced a little as I packed, losing myself in the crooning tones of Grant Deacon, the band’s lead singer. Speaking of fantasies . . . I smiled to myself. I had watched countless videos of interviews with the band, and I still found it impossible to pick a favorite of all the members; they were all hot in their own way. Lately, the men in my fantasies had all borne a strong resemblance to each member of the band.