Page 9 of He Falls First

“I can go?”

“Please go before you share any more of your father’s medical history with me. I really don’t need to know.”

“Hey Mickey, you’re so fine, you’re so fine you blow my mind, hey Mickey!” Dad claps his hands offbeat to the radio, a goofy grin on his wrinkled face. I grip the steering wheel tighter, the leather’s texture imprinting on my palms as my eyes perform an Olympic-level roll.

“Hey Mickey!” he shouts again, smacking his hands together with gusto that suggests he’s trying to start a one-man wave in the confines of my Mazda.

“Really, Dad? This again?”

I used to love this song. I really did. In middle school, I played it on repeat enough to make the wallpaper peel to the beat. Then Dad started teasing me about it, adopting it as his favorite song. And there’s nothing more tortuous than having a dad—who’s older than all your friends’ dads—busting out “Hey Mickey” at any given moment.

“Ah, Lizzy, it’s all in good fun.” He chortles, bopping his head like he’s auditioning for a cheesy eighties’ music video.

“Fun is a bizarre word choice for today’s agenda,” I say, wincing internally.

I can’t believe this is my life. Driving my single, divorced, miracle-baby-making father to get a vasectomy. Samuel Summers has enough charisma to outshine a disco ball, and apparently, enough libido to call for medical intervention at seventy-five.

The irony isn’t lost on me. I was my parents’ “miracle baby,” born after they thought they couldn’t have any more kids. And now I’m chauffeuring him to get snipped. And as if the universe has a twisted sense of humor, it decides that along the way, the radio should provide his favorite torture track from my childhood as our soundtrack.

“Can we listen to something else? Like, literally anything else?” I plead, reaching for the dial.

“Aw, c’mon Lizzy, don’t be such a spoilsport!” He grins his most mischievous grin, his eyebrows doing a little dance of their own. “It’s a classic!”

“Tell me, how did I get roped into chauffeuring you to your snip-snip appointment? Normal families don’t do this, you know.” My face heats with embarrassment as I remember Hendrix’s face when I told him about this.

“Ha! If you’d been a boy like I’d hoped, this wouldn’t be weird at all. You’d be my wingman,” Dad says. He winks as “Hey Mickey” fades out and some modern pop song fills the car with its synthetic beats.

“If Marianne were here, she’d have none of this.” I’m maybe a little envious of my sister’s knack for being assertive. I bet her friends never staged an intervention to make her pledge to stand up for herself.

“True, but you’re not Marianne. You’re too nice, Lizzy. You need to grow a backbone, like your sister. Stand up for yourself,” he says, nodding like he’s bestowing sage wisdom instead of the same old criticism wrapped in a backhanded compliment.

“So, this is my fault? For being agreeable?” I take a turn off the freeway, pondering the ridiculousness of men and their demands.

“Exactly.” He nods, entirely missing—or ignoring—the incredulity in my voice. “Anyway, you’re helping your old man out. I appreciate it, kiddo.”

“Sure you do.”

As we pull into the clinic parking lot, I consider that maybe I should’ve pledged to stand up for myself with my family, too. It’s usually the last thing on my agenda, but there’s nothing like a trip like this to put the consequences of being “too nice” in perspective.

“Let’s get this over with,” I sigh.

The clinic’s automatic doors swish open with a whoosh, and Dad struts in like he’s entering a singles’ bar. The sterile scent of antiseptic hits my nose, along with the cologne cloud trailing behind him.

The receptionist—a redheaded woman with a name tag that reads ‘Jenny’—catches his eye, and I can almost hear the gears shifting in his mind from vasectomy patient to Casanova.

“Good morning, young lady.” Dad beams at Jenny, who looks fresh out of college and probably hasn’t encountered charm quite so... vintage. “Samuel Summers. I’ve got an eleven o’clock appointment to cut ties with my little swimmers. Here to ensure the only thing I’ll be fathering from now on are good times.” He chuckles at his own joke, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, mortified. Jenny giggles, her cheeks flushing a shade that’s definitely not in the clinic’s neutral color palette. It’s like watching a car crash—I want to look away, but I just can’t.

“Mr. Summers, you’re quite the character,” she says, tapping away at her keyboard. Probably making a note in his file: Flirt alert, handle with care. “Please fill out these forms.”

As Dad flirts his way through the paperwork, peppering the poor girl with compliments about her smile, I resist the urge to evaporate into the sterilized air. Dragging my attention away, my thoughts wander to Hendrix—no-nonsense, gruff Hendrix, who’d more likely scold than flirt. A grump with a capital ‘G.’ If I was going to get stuck entertaining an older man’s every demand, couldn’t he at least be someone who turns on the charm?

It’s ridiculous, really, to find myself attracted to him. He’s not only my boss, but also the epitome of no-nonsense wrapped in a tailored suit. If he knew about the schoolgirl-crush butterflies fluttering every time he looks at me, he’d probably deliver a lecture on professionalism that would make paint drying seem thrilling.

“Isn’t this place efficient?” Dad says, dropping into the seat beside me. “In and out in less than twenty minutes, according to Jenny over there!”

“Great,” I murmur, my knee bouncing up and down. Time is ticking, and Hendrix awaits.

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