“Who pissed in your Corn Flakes?” she asks with a smile after I’ve grumped my way through our initial greetings and the obligatory “How was your day?” query.
The old high school line prompts a grudging grin of my own. “Who the hell thought up that dumbass expression?”
“The world floats on a sea of stupid sayings,” she replies with a nonchalant shrug. She’s got a point.
“Where’s Britts?” I ask.
“Upstairs in the midst of the shower-and-hair ritual.”
I know Brittany has plans tonight and so won’t be joining us for dinner, but she’s been a little cagey about what those plans are. I mention this to Pat and ask, “What’s the mystery?”
“No mystery. Just boyfriend stuff.”
“Argh.”
Pat greets my little outburst with a look of exasperation. “She’ll tell you all about this stuff as soon as you stop saying dumb shit like that, Valenti.”
After we perch ourselves on a pair of barstools at the breakfast counter, I explain how Windy City Sky Tours shit in my Corn Flakes today by filing a lawsuit against Billy and Rick. Her sunny disposition evaporates before I conclude, “The only upside is that it took my mind off Michelle’s latest stunt.”
Mention of my ex-wife never sits well with Pat. Is that simply because Michelle is a bitch, or is there something more lurking beneath the surface of my complicated relationship with Pat? Having now admitted to a mutual high school attraction that neither of us had acted on, we’ve danced a little do-si-do square dance around each other for the past several months. It’s something we’re going to have to come to terms with sometime soon. But not today.
“What’s Michelle up to now?” she asks.
“I was served with a court order stating that, as Brittany’s guardian, I’m to ensure that she doesn’t come within a thousand yards of Forty-Seven Liberty Street.”
Pat tilts her head to one side and frowns. “Lots of legal papers flying around today, huh? Actually, I can’t blame her for doing that. It’s a pretty good idea.”
“I suppose. Of course, we’re way ahead of her. Your place is many thousands of yards from Liberty Street.”
Pat smiles. “True.”
“How’s it going with her here?”
“Pretty good. We talked before school this morning about the prospect of her going to live with her mother again. I guess Michelle pitched the idea over the phone last weekend.”
My entire being sags: face, slumping shoulders, plummeting spirits. Even my eyes follow until I’m staring down into my lap.
Pat reaches over to touch my arm. “You’ll be happy to hear that Brittany says she isn’t interested.”
I look up. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Did she say why?”
Pat crosses her legs and pulls her coffee mug closer, tapping her fingernails on the rim while she considers her answer.
“Well?” I ask impatiently. “It’s a simple enough question.”
“If you’ll shut up long enough to let me talk, I’ll tell you.”
I drag my thumb and index finger across my lips in a zipping motion.
Her eye dances. “How frigging cool would it be to actually sew a zipper on that yap of yours?”
I give her the mock stink eye.
“It’s mostly girlfriend talk, but I can tell you a little,” she says. “Brittany doesn’t like her mother’s boyfriend and wasn’t thrilled to be left alone in Brussels as much as she was last year. She did like the other kids and getting around Europe a bit.” She smiles. “Bobby the boyfriend also factors into wanting to stay in Cedar Heights.”
I restrain myself from uttering another “argh” or anything else similarly “stupid.”
Pat grins in approval of my impressive show of restraint. “There may be hope for you yet, Valenti.”
“Thanks.”
She pauses and rests her chin on the backs of her knuckles in a show of deep thought, then smiles brightly. “Oh, and Brittany may have mentioned something along the lines of enjoying life in Cedar Heights with her boorish old man.”
“You didn’t have to tell him that!” Brittany protests as she sweeps into the kitchen, plants a kiss on each of our cheeks, then settles a hip on the side of the counter while she eyes Pat suspiciously. “What else have you told him?”
“Nothing much,” Pat replies with a laugh. “When’s Bobby coming?”
Brittany’s face lights up as her eyes cut to the clock on the microwave. “Any time now.”
I give her a stern look and say, “This boyfriend of yours better be a good kid.”
Pat chucks me on the arm. “This is exactly the kind of dumb shit you say that keeps Brittany from trying to talk to you as if you’re an adult.”
A smile plays on my daughter’s lips as she points at Pat. “What she said.”
Well, color me infantile. I’m spared further humiliation when the doorbell rings.
“Bring him in here,” Pat orders Brittany, who looks skeptical when she turns her eyes to me.
“To borrow Pat’s words, can we please do this without you saying any dumb shit, Dad?”
“I’m actually going to meet the beefcake?” dies on my lips. I nod instead. I do so solemnly. I do so under pain of death if I’m properly interpreting Pat’s warning stare.
While I had a glimpse of him and we exchanged a few words at Ed’s funeral, this is my first up-close-and-personal encounter with Brittany’s boyfriend. Bobby Harland is a bitter disappointment. He’s close to six feet tall. Well put together. Open smile. Good-looking kid. Why couldn’t Brittany pick a spindly, acne-faced boy with zero sex appeal but an appealing
