Page 4 of Books and Hookups

It wasn’t because Dad’s research into the long-term effects of racism on society wasn’t valuable. It was. Politicians and activists wore out the cushions of his dining-room chairs as they begged for his advice on how to make the country a better place for citizens.

But I didn’t care for the sanitized type of research he did, with statistics and expert interviews. No, I wanted to dig deeper into people’s stories and help them share those narratives with a broader audience. Because people connect better with stories than with dry research. I’d blaze my trail and change the world my way.

So, I went to work at the newspaper, where as the new person, I took the assignments no one else wanted: city council meetings, school board meetings, the mayor’s press conference announcing the year’s budget. Until I was in the right place at the right time, when a reporter called in sick, and I got to cover the bust of a human trafficking ring. Then, I’d convinced the editor to let me do a follow-up piece on some of the victims. Even Dad had noticed when a national news magazine picked it up as a feature.

Too bad I’d done nothing noteworthy in the fifteen years since.

A burst of applause startled me, and I focused on the stage as my father stepped up to the podium. Another plaque for his wall of achievements was displayed on an easel beside him. Was there even space for it? He’d already annexed the wall in my old bedroom, the one that used to be covered in posters of Bono, Jane Goodall, and Nelson Mandela.

The speaker before him must have introduced his work because instead of talking about his research, Dad thanked the university for the honor and launched into a lengthy list of acknowledgments, from his editor at the university press to the graduate students who’d run the statistical analysis.

My eyebrows crept up my forehead. Normally, Dad wasn’t big on sharing credit. Some people probably thought he set the type on the printing press himself.

“…and most importantly, I’d like to thank the person who’s stood by me through it all, who’s supported me, who’s encouraged me, who’s been my partner in my journey.” He paused, still unsmiling.

He usually forgot to acknowledge my mother, but that’s what he was winding up to do. I reached for her hand and squeezed. She’d given up everything for him. For us. She’d been forced out of her graduate program when her relationship with my father, who happened to be her adviser, was exposed. Three months later I was born, and she gave up her promising career to become a full-time wife and mother. If anyone deserved his thanks, she did.

“Dr. LaToya Watts,” he said. I froze, still gripping my mother’s hand. “Without the support of our university president, my research wouldn’t have received the exposure it has. Thank you.” He lifted the plaque from its easel and posed next to Dr. Watts for photos as the audience applauded.

Had I somehow missed his thanks to her? Judging from the forced smile on her face, I hadn’t.

I leaned forward to whisper, “Are you okay?”

Her eyes crinkled at the corners. “Of course I am. This is a major achievement for your father. For us all.”

One glance at my father on the stage, shaking hands with the trustees, told me she was wrong. It was an achievement for one person only—him. I hated that he couldn’t love me for who I was, but ignoring the person who’d given up everything for him? And what was worse, my mother was fine with going unrecognized yet again. I couldn’t sit around and pretend to smile after that.

I kissed her cheek. “Bye, Mom. I’ve got to go.”

She blinked her blue eyes wide. “You’re not staying to talk to him after? Come to the house. I’ll whip you up a snack.”

“No, thanks. Early meeting tomorrow.” As much as I longed for one of my mother’s meals, listening to my father’s pompous speech had ruined my appetite. I needed another drink.

2

What Time Do You Get Off?

Valentine’s Day Manhattan

Shake 2 ounces bourbon, 3/4 ounce vanilla liqueur, and a dash of Angostura bitters with ice. Strain into a chilled martini glass. Garnish with a toothpick of Luxardo cherries and a ribbon of orange peel.

DANNY

He was late again. I glanced at my phone, then scanned the Wednesday-night crowd on the other side of the bar. Barb and I had managed so far, but once everyone’s desperate Valentine’s dates started to tank, people would head back here to Rincon Hill and pile into their neighborhood bar to drink away another lost chance at love.

Believe me, I’d been there.

Every Valentine’s Day, I turned into that guy, the one who saw love everywhere. My memories of shoeboxes decorated with red and white construction paper, cheesy puns on the cards, and enough chocolate to put me into a sugar coma always gave me hope that the right person was out there, wanting to be mysignificant otter.

And every Valentine’s Day, I was disappointed.

A lime wedge bounced off my forehead. “Look alive, Carbone.” Barb nodded at the woman with the sad eyes bellied up to my end of the bar.

“Sorry.” I leaped into action, tossing an extra cherry into her Manhattan. She’d need more than that to get through the rest of her date with Bud Light Guy, who couldn’t be bothered to fetch their drinks.

I swiped at the bar with a cloth and straightened the garnish tray, plucking a heart-shaped piece of confetti from the olive brine. I squinted at the door like I could make him appear through my power of will.

Barb rolled up beside me and threw the brake on her wheelchair. Her blue eyes crinkled. “Don’t worry. He’ll show. He’s never let us down yet.”

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