Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
I roll my eyes. “A male friend. Does it matter?”
“Yes, it matters, we’re trying to get you married off!” My father shouts so loudly that everyone around us can hear him, despite the horns and traffic.
“Married off?” Andy whispers, pressing himself against the side of the bus, pretending to get as far away from me as possible.
“Dad. Why are you yelling?” I roll my eyes again. “Did you need something? Or did you call to give me a hard time?” There’s no doubt in my mind that he had already checked my location before he called.
He is literally snooping into my business.
But when doesn’t he?
My dad’s favorite hobby is getting involved in my personal life.
Since my mom died ten years ago, he’s become a matchmaking, meddlesome snoop. Basically, he’s both my mom and my dad. Loves giving advice but will not take advice. Loves inviting himself to my house uninvited. Loves fixing things that aren’t broken.
“Just calling to give you a hard time.” He laughs. “You’ll be home tomorrow?”
I nod. “Yup. Tomorrow afternoon.”
“Need a ride from the airport?”
“Nope, I drove.”
“Why would you drive?” he begins, sounding indignant, always ready to lecture. “You should have had me drop you off, it’s cheaper. Those airport parking lots are a rip-off.”
I withhold my sigh. “I know they’re a rip-off, Dad.”
“It cost me sixty bucks the last time I flew out!”
“I know that, Dad.” He’s always reminding me about the time he and his buddies went to see the Packers playoffs in Detroit, and even though he carpooled, he’s the one who drove his three buddies, and none of them paid him for gas or for the parking.
Seven years ago.
He loves to bitch and bitch about it and still holds a grudge to this day.
Beside me, Andy is chomping away at his food—working on a Danish with raspberry filling—happily continuing to eavesdrop on my conversation. I mean, it’s not hard—Dad is speaking so freakin’ loud.
“I’m going to let you go, Dad. If you need anything, text me, okay? I’ll be home sometime tomorrow.” Depending on traffic.
“You need me to feed Kevin? I’ll be stopping by the house anyway.”
Kevin is my cowboy corgi and the coolest dog around. “No, Lydia is at the house to make sure he has food and water and cuddles.”
Lydia is the teenage neighbor girl and loves pet sitting Kevin, not that I blame her—he’s awesome.
“What are you paying her for when I could have given him food and water and cuddles?” he bellows. “Besides, I have to look at that pipe under your sink.”
“Dad. I don’t have a leaky pipe under my sink.”
He pauses. “You do now.”
“Ugh! Dad! What did you do?” I want to tell him to leave my crap alone and stay out of my house, but Andy is attentively listening, and I don’t want to come off sounding like an asshole—but for real, my dad creates problems where problems do not exist so he can feel needed.
It’s exhausting.
I know that if my mother were still alive—and my brother lived closer—Dad wouldn’t feel the need to spend so much time with me, and I would have a little more breathing space. And don’t get me started on what it’s been like since his accident.
That certainly does not help.
“What!” Dad laughs. “I was down there making sure everything was on the up-and-up, and now there’s a leak! I’ll swing by the hardware store and get some metal tape.”
Metal tape? “Dad, no.”
Andy’s shoulders begin to shake. He’s laughing.
Great.
“Okay. I’m hanging up. I love youuuu,” I singsong, punctuating the salutation with a few kisses into the phone.
Dad grunts. “Check in later so I know you’re alive.”
“I will.” I always do.
I disconnect the call. Turn to Andy. “Stop looking at me.”
“What?” He demurs. “That was cute.”
Yeah. So cute.
“He wants to get you married off? What are you, Greek?”
“No. Worse. We’re Polish. And he only wants me to have babies, he doesn’t necessarily need me to be married. He wants grandkids.” Dad always says he’s young at heart and identifies more with kids than adults—which has been the problem in many of his relationships. He hardly takes anything seriously, and some women hate that.
My dad is really . . . something.
And that’s putting it mildly.
Steven James is a character.
Let’s see, how do I explain my father? Let me count the ways.
Picture this: a short man with a Santa-style beard.
Big belly, also like Santa.
Raspy voice.
Larger-than-life personality.
Dad loves being the center of attention, which explains the high decibel at which he speaks. Booming voice, as some would describe it.
Constantly making bad jokes. Seriously horrible, bad jokes.
Also? He calls himself Big Steve—sort of like a short superhero?
He will literally introduce himself that way to new people. When I was a teenager, I was so embarrassed by it, but now I’m used to it. He really is larger than life: loud, boisterous—and lonely.