Page 2 of Books and Hookups

A squall came from the booth next to where the couple was making out. A baby reached for the fold-out paper heart hanging over the table and screeched again. Its parents, a couple who looked way too young to be responsible for an entire human, laughed. One dad batted at the heart and set it swinging gently.

The tightness in my chest intensified. I’d never thought of a baby as anything but an annoyance before my thirty-ninth birthday, half a year ago. That’s when the weird feelings had started. It was FOMO. And I couldn’t really fear missing out on having children of my own, could I?

I had a career.

And a book to write.

And great friends. Nothing was lacking in my life.

Right?

“What are you two doing after happy hour?” I asked. “Want to try that new Ethiopian place across the street?”

Carly’s lips turned down. “Sorry, we’re doing takeout at Andrew’s. I have to head down to LA the day after tomorrow, and since it’s Valentine’s Day…”

“Valentine’s Day?” I looked up at the paper hearts. “Guess I lost track of the date.” Why did February 14thraise a flag in my brain? It had been a normal day at the paper, and I didn’t have any interviews scheduled for my book until March. I lifted my phone.

“Round two,” Tessa announced, setting down the four drinks like a pro. She raised her glass. “To…?”

“To love,” Carly said, her cheeks turning pink. “I love you all. And Savannah too.” She whispered something in Andrew’s ear that made him puff out his chest like he’d won an award.

Award.

“Shit!” I plunked down my drink and scraped back in my chair. “Gotta go. I’m late.”

“Need us to drive you?” Andrew asked.

That’d be just what I needed, to give my friends a glimpse of my cringeworthy family life. “No, thanks. I’ll get a rideshare.” I flicked open the app and headed toward the exit.

My friends were happily deluded that I was a moderately successful journalist. I wouldn’t reveal what my family never hesitated to toss in my face, that I was a disappointment, destined to be forgotten.

A fact that my next stop was sure to remind me of.

“Looks like they’ve already started,” the driver said as she cruised up the empty circular driveway in front of the campus union hall.

I didn’t have to glance at my phone to know how late I was. “Yeah.”

“Sorry about the traffic.” She waved a hand behind her as if she could still see the snarl we’d fought through on our way from San Francisco.

I shrugged. “It happens.” Especially when you leave late because you’re drinking with your friends.

One of my dad’s many mantras was that we make time for what’s important. It was the one he used when he caught me pulling an all-nighter to finish a paper in college and when I said I was busy at work and couldn’t make it to whatever university event he wanted to trot me out at like a show pony. But that was before my early promise had faded like old newspaper.

When I stayed in her Tesla, staring at the closed doors of the stucco building, the driver said, “Kind of late for a funeral, isn’t it?”

“Funeral?” I tilted my head.

She turned and pointed at my torso. “With that getup…”

I looked down at my black trench coat, which covered my black shirtdress. “Oh. No, it’s an award banquet.”

Her forehead scrunched, setting the barbell in her eyebrow sparkling in the building’s yellow security light. “I hope you’re not the one getting the award.”

I chuckled. “It’s for my father—as usual. Thanks for the ride.” I pushed out of the car but paused on the sidewalk to take a deep breath. Then another. Pasting a smile on my face because he expected it, I strode to the door, heaved it open, and flung myself into the lion’s den.

The room hummed with conversation, punctuated by the plinks of silverware against china. Round banquet tables filled the ballroom up to a stage at the far end. On the raised platform, a podium stood next to a row of uncomfortable-looking chairs. I smelled coffee and a muddle of foods. Potatoes, maybe? And fish. My stomach rumbled. How long ago was lunch? Oh, right. I’d skipped that, trying to hit my deadline. Maybe I could still scrounge a plate of something.

My father wasn’t particularly tall, and he wore a dark suit like all the other men in the room. Yet he had a presence that drew my attention. Everyone’s, really. His white hair and beard stood out against his brown skin. He didn’t break his perpetually serious expression as he spoke with a colleague, his focus unwavering as I approached.

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