Page 24 of The Friendship Study

The low timbre of my father’s voice is a soothing blanket that I want to wrap myself in; it’s the perfect end to what ended up being a really nice evening. I hold up a book Miranda recommended about European witchcraft in Tudor and Stuart England and the Colonies. My dad’s eyes travel over my face. “You seem peaceful tonight, Lu.”

I press my thumb into the sharp corner of the hardcover. I don’t know how he does that, how he knows exactly what I’m feeling underneath everything churning at the surface, but being so known is a warm hug and also makes me want to cry a little bit. The deckled edges of the library book blur as I smile.

One of the worst parts of being a departmental pariah is my father knowing all the details. He heard the gossip about the decline of my relationship with theillustriousDr. Brian Mason in the elevator, the breakup following me all the way across the Atlantic. He can’t ignore our colleagues’ whispers thatheis the only reason I am here and they’re not wrong. I’ve conducted groundbreaking research into the social impacts the witch craze had on a small English town between the mid-sixteenth to eighteenth centuries, but I’m still relatively new to the field and to my new area of focus. It’s undeniable that my name—our name—has helped me get this job, but there’s still nothing that could make me regret being his daughter. Not when my dad still looks at me like I have never done a thing wrong in my entire life.

“I’m excited to teach a seminar over the summer,” I say. Summer courses are always an eclectic mix of students who failed a credit during the regular year who have chosen the course they believe to be the easiest makeup and those who truly want to be there.

Dad drops his chin to peer at me over his glasses, his brow arched. “Is the university offering you another contract at the end of this one?” Non-tenured contract instructors are offered a maximum limit of three full credits, so my contract ends at the end of the summer term.

“I don’t know,” I say. I take a renewed and keen interest in my book. If the school does renew my contract, I’d rather not have Dad be a part of it this time, but there’s a pit in my stomach at the thought of telling him that. Like I’ll seem ungrateful for all of his past help, for how he still critiques my papers, and gives notes on my lectures, or how I wouldn’t be where I am without him, without his name.

He slides a piece of paper across his desk.

“What’s this?”

Dad nods at the paper, saying nothing. His mustache twitches as he fights his smile. In epic boomer fashion he has printed out an email rather than just forwarding it or CCing me on it like a normal person. The email is from his friend at Lancaster University, a woman I worked closely with during my undergrad and graduate work.

We’d love to have Dr. Banks (Jr.) back in a more permanent capacity. Our department is deep with military historians and we’re hiring new instructors to bring balance to the research on offer. Please share with Lulu to send me an email so we can set up a video chat at her earliest convenience.

Dr. Cecelia Lucas

Department Chair, Lancaster University

Heat rushes up my spine and it takes a moment to identify the hurt. Not only has my dad contacted Dr. Lucas without consulting me, but this means he’s seen how miserable I’ve been and has never acknowledged it.

“You want me to...leave?”

“I want you to be happy,” he says, his voice soft and purposefully kind.

My father loves me, and I believe him when he says he wants me to be happy. But I’ve been home for almost a year now and have yet to hear someone say to me,I’m happy you’re here, Lulu.

But then it sinks in. Not only does he not want me here, he used his clout to get me another opportunity. “Why did you go behind my back?” I ask. “Why couldn’t you have let me try for myself?”

“You had such a hard time finding a new position,” he says, and either he doesn’t notice my flush or he doesn’t care. “I was just trying to help.” My face is too hot. A headache blooms in the back of my head, throbbing with every beat of my pulse.

One summer, as a preteen, I became obsessed with word origins after reading some of my father’s texts and trying to translate the Latin and Anglo-Saxon. Humiliation comes from the Latin wordhumiliat-, meaning “made humble.” This is about as humbling as it gets.

“Lu?” His voice is tremulous, heavy with the concern that he’s done something wrong, and I’d rather fix this look on his face than admit this: I am surrounded by people all day and most of the night and yet I feel so very alone.

I smile, big enough my skin feels like it’s cracking. If I hold on to the warmth in my chest when I first walked in here, maybe I won’t lose it all completely. “I’ll think about it. Thanks, Dad.”

He watches me until he seems satisfied enough with my answer that he cocks his head to the side, as if listening to a far-off tune. After a moment, I hear it, too. The direction of Mom’s humming has changed, now coming from the sunroom where she’ll spend as much of her time as possible as the weather gets warmer. His lips twitch in the beginning of another smile. “Why don’t we pilfer some of Mummy’s cookies?”

Dad stands slowly and walks with a limp while his bad hip works out its kinks. Sitting on his desk behind him are the untouched gluten-free, sugar-free, vegan cookies Mom gave him after dinner, citing his cholesterol and general age as the reasons why he can’t eat Mom’s “special” cookies, which are really just chocolate chip made with lard. Mom charged me with making sure he drinks more water and takes a ten-minute walk every hour since we work together now. But she never counted on the fact that while our love of history is the only thing we have in common, my father and I will do anything to make each other happy.

Right now, that’s exactly what Dad is trying to do. He’s trying to make me happy. So, I smile again. For real this time. “Yes,” I say. “Let’s.”

Chapter Seven

Jesse

The only person who micromanages yard work more than Lulu is her father, Dr. Banks. Both of them take turns hovering nearby, offering to help dig holes or cut back bushes, despite being told repeatedly by the third Dr. Banks—Lulu’s mother—that, a) on the advice of his medical doctors, he should do neither and b) I’ve told them repeatedly I don’t need help. However, rather than offering criticism at my lawn mowing skills, Dr. Banks asks questions about everything from the placement of certain flowers in the garden to how I hold a trowel. He does it in such a gentle, thought-provoking way that half the time I end up doing it the way he would instead. Lulu does the same but most of her questions are about whether or not I have enough sunscreen and if I want to borrow a hat, or asking me to assess my level of dehydration.

If I were at George’s house, with his dad—if either of them bothered to care about their garden—I’d have told them both to back off and go inside by now. But it’s easier to say nothing and just let Lulu and her dad hover. Plus, Iwasfeeling a bit dehydrated earlier and Lulu brought me water and her mom’s homemade lemonade. That was nice.

“Dad, maybe you should go inside to cool off.” In the last fifteen minutes, as I’ve started the repair on her mom’s raised vegetable garden, Lulu has turned her micromanagement on her father. He isnotas patient as me.

“I’m fine, Lu,” he says firmly. I only met the man two hours ago but even I can tell, after Lulu’s third attempt to usher her father inside, that he’s fuming. Though she does have a point. Her dad is wearing pants, not shorts, his shirt is buttoned up at his wrists and under his chin. His mismatched Tilley hat is old and frayed on the brim, sweat stained around the temples, and while it keeps the sun off his face, it’s clear from the flush in his cheeks that he’s overheating.

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