Page 126 of Cakes for the Grump
An amalgamation of vodka and gin fumes wafted from his mouth.
He rested his hand on Manjinder’s shoulder. “You are such a good man, son. I got emotional hearing about how much you love her. If a father has any wishes, it is that his daughter has someone she can count on. Thank you. Thank you so much.”
Manjinder introduced my father to his boss, unable to do anything else. Pleasantries were exchanged, and while my dad’s voice boomed louder than anyone else, no obvious disaster befell us. He merely kept repeating how happy and proud of me he was. That he’d hoped for a night like this his whole life.
Shortly, Uncle came and whisked him away, apologizing for having to go to the bathroom.
We talked some more with Manjinder’s boss, who promised good things were coming down the pipeline. There was a jolly wink at the topic of promotions.
His boss left. I told Manjinder he’s got it in the bag.
My serious boyfriend looked relieved first, then churlish. “I’ll be glad when we’re married.”
The pit in my stomach rolled around. “Why?”
“Then you don’t have to worry about him ruining your night.”
I didn’t see how marriage changed anything, but Manjinder explained it to me.
“We’ll be too busy with our own lives.”
“But he’ll always be my dad,” I said.
Manjinder cupped my cheek, his thumb caressing my skin. “Rita, I won’t let him drag you down. I won’t. You willfinally be free.”
“How do you mean?”
“When we’re officially together, he won’t be in the picture. Not when you have a husband and kids.” He regarded me, head tilting to the side. “We’re going to have such a beautiful family together.”
It was as if a tethering line was cut. I wasn’t pretending not to be anxious anymore. My life with him was an exploded kaleidoscope, and fragments of the future swept before me. Everything was a choice. Manjinder or my dad, but he only wanted me to make one. Him. Each time?
“H-he’s my dad,” I repeated.
Manjinder’s face hardened. “So?”
“I—”
“Look at him, Rita. He can barely stand.”
The cruelest laugh I had ever heard left his mouth.
I looked over to see Uncle helping Dad walk. Without conscious thought, as if I was being pulled myself, I got closer. Manjinder followed me.
Dad was apologizing over and over. The shame on his face was like a peach left outside its whole life that couldn’t seem to roll away from the harsh sun.
“It’s okay,” Uncle tried reassuring him.
My dad’s hands were clenched. “I don’t want to embarrass her. Please, let’s go before I ruin everything. I’m afraid I already have. I shouldn’t have come.”
“He shouldn’t have,” Manjinder confirmed, whispering in my ear. “See, he knows it. And if I talk to him about it, he’ll never bother you again. Tomorrow, I’ll do it man-to-man. He’ll understand the kind of upper-class society you’ll be with. How it hurts your image—ourimage—for him to be around.”
Dad and Uncle were by the door, but there was a change in the level of the flooring they didn’t anticipate. Already unbalanced, my dad tripped. He hit his leg. Uncle tried to get him to slow down, but he limped faster to the exit.
I pulled myself away from Manjinder.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Going to my family.”
