Page 43 of Perfect Playbook

I’m soglad Dad had a vet check, Nino had school, and Logan had practice, because at every empty moment I come across thoughts of Logan’s lips lurking in my mind. I try to keep busy, but along with the inability to think of anything but Logan is the stereotypical array of desire-related symptoms—butterflies, unexpected hot flushes, and way too much wondering when we will do it again.

Damn it.I knew this might happen. Not because it’s Logan. I’m over that. I really, really am… or at least I want to be. A sigh makes its way from my throat. Sadly, I’m wise enough now to know this isn’t the whole story, though whatever the tale is, it’s written in some other language. My heart speaks one way, my head another, and the truth lies in the translation which is in a mysterious tongue I’ve never learned.

I need therapy. I know I do. I’ve needed it for a very long time. But I’m not sure even a doctor could crack this nut. I was taught from day one to be strong. The high expectations of my immigrant parents and four older brothers are the source of my toughness. Those childhood lessons learned through survival of a five-sibling household morphed into me thinking strength was a lack of vulnerability. Only when I met Logan did I realize it takes a hell of a lot more courage to be vulnerable than it does to grit your teeth.

Back then, he made exposing myself bearable, a relief even. With him, showing him the girl behind the armor was putting down its heavy weight, and so many times in my life, so many moments in the years we parted I craved that safe space. I’ve had to be strong, all on my own, more times than I could count.

Now, in his presence again, I wonder if the same respite he gave me in the wake of my mom’s death could happen with all my new everyday struggles. Would I feel better admitting to him I don’t know if I’m any good at this mom thing? Would he want to hear about how even though I know I’m a hell of a baker, I really struggle with social media and even though my dyslexia isn’t as bad as some, it makes me so nervous about writing pitch emails. Would he still offer me that judgment-free, totally validating and compassionate gaze he did when our problem was the same? Or was that a once-in-a-lifetime crossroads?

We’ve gone in different directions. We’re not the same anymore. I try to even tell myself we never were the same, though it feels like a lie. Even with Logan becoming America’s most wanted playboy, when I tried my hardest to convince myself our college relationship was some illusion, those months are the least fleeting memory in my mind. Some memories cling like icing to a cake. You can try to take it off, but crumbs of your wholeness will go along with it.

I fall into my dad’s overstuffed sofa, with forty brown packing boxes stacked all around me, and hope mindless scrolling provides a distraction until the moving van gets here. I don’t like the idea of a stranger moving my boxes; few of them are important, but some of them are priceless.

I check emails, as is my new obsession. There’s one from Logan.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Contacts

Morning, Wife,

You might have guessed my contacts are a goddamn mess and my phone and inbox are about as organized as those wadded-up receipts in Vegas. I asked Tom to sift through my contacts today and make a spreadsheet of anyone who might want to hear about your cakes.

Once I have it, I’ll drop everyone a text or email and tell them about your business. You can work your magic after that, but at least they’ll be expecting you to contact them.

I’ll be home as soon as I can get there after practice. I hope Tom and I were able to get the place up to your standard (which apparently isn’t very high according to the little man).

We got this, pastelito.

Lo

“Wow, you got this done fast.”

I jump and clutch my chest, not realizing my dad entered the room. He has on his dirty jeans and Carhartt coat that he swears still keeps out the rain even though it’s threadbare. But I know better than to wish for upgrades. This is the dad I know and remember. The one I cannot believe I have lived with for all but almost two years of college. This man and I have been roomies for thirty-four years.

He sits on the couch with me and puts his hand on my thigh, giving it three affectionate taps, and with each one he says my name. “Shaylita. Shaylita. Shaylita.”

I drop my head to his shoulder. “I’m finally a grown-up, Dad. Moving out.”

“Oh,mija… you’ve done me proud.”

My heart withers when he says those words. Do I deserve them?

He snuggles his arm around me, and I keep my head on his shoulder, staring at the place where Nino used a magic marker on the skirting board.

He sighs. “You have your own business, you’re a wonderful daughter and a mother. And now… you’re a wife.”

He reaches a finger up to his eye and swipes away a tear.

“Dad… Are you getting sentimental on me?”

“You know I’m a crier.”

“We aren’t far away. You can come any time, and we’ll be here, too.”

He pats my leg again, but I’m not sure if he’s reassuring me or himself.

---