by Piper Lennox
Don’t go, I want to tell him. I don’t care that it was never part of the deal. Neither was this, everything he’s doing right now. Neither was the Acre, or holding my hand. Neither were names and donuts and kisses on the forehead, right when I needed them most.
“You’re still shivering.” There’s worry in his voice. It’s so out of character, so incompatible with that cocky smile I always picture when I think of him.
“I’m cold,” I manage. My teeth won’t stop chattering.
The bed shifts. I feel Cohen’s chest against my back. His heartbeat is thunderous, a drum against my spine; his body heat crawls across my skin and soaks me to the bone.
Tonight, for the first time ever, Cohen stays.
16
“Will you chill? My dad’s the nicest guy around. And you already met him.” Juliet watches me straighten my tie for the twentieth time since we swung by my apartment so I could change. She insisted what I had on—jeans, tennis shoes, and a polo with Fairfield Party Suppliers emblazoned over the pocket—was fine, but I didn’t feel right about meeting her dad in my work uniform.
“I watched him light fireworks at your sister’s reception, while you told me, ‘Oh, that’s my dad.’ That’s not meeting him.”
Juliet smiles, stopping halfway up the driveway to stand on her tiptoes and kiss me. “It’s cute you’re so nervous,” she says, “but really, you don’t have to be. He’s a teddy bear. He’s always been really friendly to the guys we’ve brought home.”
“Yeah, but how many of them knocked up his daughter before he even learned their name?”
She stops, hand on the porch railing, and considers this. “Actually, besides you? Lionel. And that was kind of worse—he and Abby were technically still teenagers.”
“Huh.” I push back my hair and shake out my arms. “That actually does bode pretty well for me.”
Juliet laughs and pulls me up the steps.
Our transition from “all business” to official couple was low-key, but exactly what I wanted. When she turned over in my arms the morning after our dinner at the Acre, smiling and sighing into my chest, I said, “Just think: if I was your boyfriend, you could wake up to this face every day.”
“You’re so damn arrogant,” she giggled, arms tight around my stomach.
I reached down and lifted her face. The light from the warped, aging windows caught her eyes. All I could think about was how, the night before, I realized I’d never seen anyone look so beautiful while sleeping, even with sweat near their temples and paleness under their skin. The more she shivered, the tighter I held her against me. I didn’t sleep until it stopped.
“Will you be my girlfriend?” I asked. No jokes, no smirk. Just me. Just us.
Her mouth twitched into another smile. “Yes.”
It’s been about two weeks since that night. Hanging out with Juliet during the day, exchanging texts and calls about things other than sex (though the topic is still wildly popular), taking her on dates: the changes seem small. But what they amount to is incredible, just like I knew it would be.
I don’t have to tiptoe around the future as much, either. No more worrying she’ll kick me to the curb for saying we should shop for nursery furniture together. When I video chatted my mom one morning, Juliet actually seemed excited to join in. And, best of all: when I kiss her after sex, it’s goodnight. No more goodbyes.
After she met my mom via the internet, we agreed I should meet her father. “But only you, me, and him,” she grimaced, then shuddered like she’d seen a spider.
“What, you think your sisters are going to give me hell?”
“No, I know my sisters are going to give you hell. The way they grill men puts the CIA to shame. But my dad’s awesome. And he couldn’t be more excited about the baby, so—no worries.”
I nodded slowly, imagining it: a quiet meal, shaking her dad’s hand, ending the night with some jokes and a hug. “All right. What’s he into? Maybe I can bring him something. Get off on the right foot.”
“Dad’s...kind of a hobby hoarder. He’s into everything, at some point or another.” Juliet unfastened my watch to trace the tattoo. My pulse point was visible under her fingertips—the proof of what this woman could do to me, with so little effort.
“Okay. But is there anything in particular he really likes? Besides fireworks, obviously.”
She thought a moment, the crease in her brow slowly vanishing as she smiled. “Birds,” she said, and held up my wrist.
Juliet’s father calls me “son.”
It’s small, but one of those things that instantly relaxes me. Ditto on the fact he insists I call him Paul. It reminds me of Alvin, who basically scolded me any time I addressed him with a title.
A lot of things about Paul remind me of Al, in fact: he makes his own fruit wine, loves Seger, and tilts his head whenever Juliet speaks. You can tell he’s truly listening to her. Can’t be said for all parents, no matter how old their kids get. He thanks me for my suck-up gift, a bird feeder, and sets it up on the patio right away.
“You know what lingonberries are, Cohen?” Paul asks after dinner, and produces a bottle of bright red liquid from a wine rack on the counter. They’re all over the house, filled with bottles and dust.
“Uh...no, sir, can’t say I do.”
“Here. Juliet, pass me two of those glasses, would you?”
Juliet pivots from the island, where she’s slicing brownies for dessert, and daintily slides two wineglasses from an overhead rack. I love watching her here, the way she moves so graceful and comfortable compared to her rushing, business-like gait in her loft, or the cringing tiptoe she does in my apartment. You can always tell where people feel most at home.
While Paul pours some of the wine into each glass, Juliet clucks her tongue. “He won’t like it, Dad, I’m telling you. Cohen likes dry wine.”
“Hush. Let the man decide for himself.” Paul offers his to Juliet so she can dip her pinky in and taste it. Since she winces, I brace myself. This stuff looks sweeter than Kool-Aid.
When I take my glass, though, swirling it the way Paul does, I’m pleasantly surprised. The first sip is sweet, but has a mellow tartness behind it that reminds me of cranberries.
“It’s hell finding lingonberries in these parts,” Paul says, taking the seat across from me at the table, “and my online group told me to get some jam or something, make a fake batch?” He shakes his head. “I told them I don’t half-ass anything.”
“Even if,” Juliet pipes up, licking some chocolate from her finger, “it means doing so illegally.”
“Exactly.” Paul laughs. Juliet rolls her eyes. “Buddy of mine from the forums sent me some through the mail. Weren’t the freshest, obviously, but they got the job done, don’t you think?”
“Far as I can tell.” I take another sip and tap my glass against his when he holds it up. We toast to the health of the baby.
“You kids decided on a name yet?”
Juliet plates the brownies with a visible cringe. “Not yet,” I answer, before she even has to join the conversation. “We’re just going to wait until we know what it is. Save ourselves some trouble.”
“Not that you need my opinion, but you really can’t go wrong with Robert.”
“I didn’t even know Great-Grandpa, Dad.” Juliet passes him his brownie, then slides a plate to me. “Why would I name a kid after him?”
“What’s wrong with Robert?”
“Nothing, but—”
“Celia’s a good name, too. Your great-grandma wore it well.”
Juliet shoots me a pleading look: Please, for the love of God, change the subject.
“Uh, so, Paul, Juliet told me you were the pyrotechnician for that Fourth of July show at the stadium? I grew up near there. My brother and I would climb onto our roof and watch it, every year.”
“No kidding. You know, when I started there....”
While Paul launches into his story, Juliet mouths, “Thank you.” I wink at her.
After dessert, Paul pushes out from the table and beckons me to follow. “Come with me, I want to show you something.”
I finish my wine and stand. “Not a shotgun, I hope.” Paul’s laugh echoes down the hall.
He leads me to the basement. Against every wall is a metal shelf, floor-to-ceiling, loaded with fireworks.
“Whoa.” I run my hand along the rows: shells in every color, Roman Candles, and enough sparklers to exceed every wedding send-off Fairfield Party Suppliers has ever done. I point to one of the photo labels. “Are these the things that spell out words and make pictures?”
“Yep. Those are called patterned shells.” Paul puts his hand on another box. “Case of smiley faces in this one, and...I think those up there are hearts, but the label’s peeled off, so could be anything. And these right here are pink ribbons, for breast cancer awareness.”
Maybe I imagine it, but his hand seems to linger on that metal box a little longer than the rest. “Are those for....” I swallow, the taste of lingonberries clinging to my tongue. I can’t make myself ask if that’s how his wife died. It must be, for him to have so many of these. It’s probably as sensitive a topic for him as it is for Juliet, which is why I’ve never asked.
Paul bends down and slides a box from the bottom shelf, passing me one of the shells. I heft it from hand to hand while he hunts for more.
“Dad? Cohen?”
“Down here, Julie,” Paul shouts.
Juliet eases down the stairs like a blindfolded man on a plank. I hold out my hand to help her.
“Just showing Cohen the collection you hate so much. Nice to have somebody visit who appreciates it.”
“You hate fireworks?” I ask her.
“No: I hate this basement. Dad’s going to explode his house and at least half the block, one of these days.”
“Hey, hey, that’s not nice. I might not do everything the ‘legal’ way,” Paul chides, “but you know I always do things safely.” As proof, he points to the smoke alarm overhead and the fire extinguisher at the top of the steps.
Slowly, Juliet lets a smile break through. “I know.” She looks between the shell in his hand and the one in mine. “Oh, Dad, no—”
“Just two, Julie. Cohen wants to see. Don’t you, son?”
I nod, somewhat apologetic. But not much. “I really do.”
“Mrs. Bridgewood will call the cops, Dad. And they always know it’s you.”
“Just one, then.” Paul puts his shell back in its box, shuts the lid, and nods at mine. “We’ll let Cohen set it off.”
Cohen practically trips up the plank stairs ahead of us, grinning like a little kid waking up on Christmas to the ultimate present. Dad puts his hand on my shoulder as we start up after him. “I like this one.”
“You like all of them.”
“Nah, I just told you that to make you feel better. This time, I mean it.”
In the backyard, Dad catches me staring at his leg. He’s been limping more lately, and tonight it seems more noticeable than ever.
“Will you stop giving me that look?”
“Your hip and knee have been messed up since Viola got engaged,” I remind him. “Why haven’t you seen someone yet?”
“Fine, I’ll go to the doctor. Don’t give me grief about it right now, though. We’ve got a show to put on.”
While he leads Cohen to the concrete pad at the back of the yard, I brush the spider webs off a lawn chair and listen. Dad gives Cohen his fireproof gloves and some goggles—“Just in case”—before showing him how to use the mini blowtorch. When the flame forms, I can see Cohen’s smile all the way from my seat.
Through the quiet night, nothing but crickets and an owl in the distance, I hear Dad teach Cohen about the charges and fuses. I find it weirdly comforting. When my sisters and I were little, he’d break open dampened fireworks to show us the insides, telling us all about them in this same sure, teaching voice.
When I was nine, he let me help with a show. It was a small one, for a country club’s grand opening. We spent days planning. I wanted to open with all the big, impressive ones, but Dad shook his head. “You build up to it,” he said. “Start with the basics. Which are...?”
I shut my eyes, thinking. “Peony shells?”
“That’s my girl. Tell you what—you can put the smiley face wherever you want.”
“But that’s one of the special ones. Shouldn’t it go at the end?”
“It is special,” he said, “but it’s also just simple enough that it can fit anywhere.” He got out the scraps of paper he’d made for me. Each had the name of a firework, with a ballpoint illustration of what it looked like after detonating. He put two peony shell scraps in a line on his workbench, then a willow. “Besides, everyone likes seeing a nice smile where they don’t expect it. Right?”
I’d giggled and stuck my scrap into the lineup: “Patterned Shell: Smile” written in his neat, block handwriting.
When Mom found out, she forbade me from attending, let alone helping.
“You’re going to get yourself or one of my babies burned alive,” she yelled, the night before the show. I was crying and eavesdropping from my bedroom closet, which shared a wall with theirs. Even through the wood and clothes, I could hear my mother’s Louisiana accent, setting her words just a little askew. It got stronger when she was upset.
“She’ll be safe, DeeAnn, I promise. I won’t have her anywhere near the switches. That’d be illegal. And insane. She’s just coming to watch me set up—from a safe distance—and then she’ll sit at the club to watch the show. What’s the issue?”
Mom didn’t say anything, but I knew she was shaking her head. I could practically see it: her knotted hair, three days from its last wash, swishing lazily as she moved her head back and forth. That was that. No show for me.
“You all right?”
I blink as Dad limps back to me. It takes so much energy to pretend it doesn’t bother me, not knowing what’s wrong with him. Not knowing how to help. “Surprised you aren’t digging out the ignition system for him,” I call.
“Thought about it. More fun to light it yourself, though, isn’t it?”
“More dangerous, too.”
Dad laughs as he takes the chair by mine, but I know what he’s thinking. I sound like Mom.
“Hey, he got it,” Dad grins, as the fuse catches and Cohen scrambles across the yard. He trips over his own feet a couple times, but keeps going. His gloves are streaked with mud by the time he reaches me.
“You ran pretty damn fast. Scared?”
His breath is rapid and hoarse. “Um, it’s a firework. Why wouldn’t I run?”
“I’m teasing. You were right to run. You just looked ridiculous.”
Cohen smiles, but he isn’t listening: his eyes are trained on the concrete, where a flutter of sparks form just before the shell launches.
It’s a small one, so it detonates slightly higher than the house: a pink smiley face, just a little off-center.
Before the glow of the stars can fade, I look at them. Dad, I can tell, is thinking of his days at the stadium. In the off-season, he constructed and sold fireworks in beach towns all up and down the coast. Made much better money doing that, too. But it was obvious he loved doing shows so much more. There’s a marked difference between building what you love, and getting to witness it in action. Seeing people enjoy it—making them smile.
Cohen has an awed look on his face, his grin muted, chest heaving from the breath he can’t catch. The wash of pink light makes his skin look like tinted porcelain, delicate and smooth. His eyes, behind the goggles, don’t blink until it’s over.
“Yeah?” Dad asks, laughing and whooping when Cohen jumps up and down, cheering.
“That was so fucking cool!” he shouts. I hear his echo roll all the way down the hill and across the creek...right before Mrs. Bridgewood’s light clicks on.
“Inside, inside,” I order, pushing on their shoulders. Dad ignores me and grabs a big bucket by the deck stai
rs, telling Cohen to run and grab the hose. He gives me a look like it’s out of his control and does as he’s told.
While they set up the overnight soak for the shell, I head inside and eye Mrs. Bridgewood’s house. Paranoia is her norm—she once called the police on her own grandson, all because he pulled up for a family barbecue in a car she didn’t recognize—but she usually doesn’t call the cops unless Dad sets off multiple fireworks in one go, or if it’s really late. One shell, at ten-thirty p.m. We might be okay.
Still, I consider us lucky when I see her light click off. Dad and Cohen finally come back inside. They laugh like old friends, mouths red from wine, clothes painted with the scent of smoke and gunpowder.
17
“He loved you. I told you there was nothing to worry about.”
I nod and readjust the mirror in Juliet’s coupe as we leave her Dad’s house. It’s almost midnight, and both of us can’t stop yawning. After a loud one that rocks my entire body, I sip the Coke I left in the cupholder and admit, “You were right. Your dad is, like, the coolest guy I’ve ever met.”
“He thinks so, too.”
“He said I was cool?”
“No—he thinks he’s the coolest guy you’ll ever meet,” Juliet says, laughing her way through. When we’ve both stopped, she adds seriously, “He said he likes you. He let you use the blowtorch. You’re golden.”
“That’s a huge relief. I know I’ve still got to officially meet your sisters, but I feel good. Checking one off the list.”
“Yeah,” she yawns, “I’ll feel better when I meet your family officially, too. The anticipation is the worst part.”
“They’ll all be thrilled I’ve landed myself such a beautiful, sweet woman. And baffled as to how I pulled it off.” I hit the turn signal for the exit ramp to downtown. “Then we’ll announce the pregnancy, and they’ll say, ‘Oh, mystery solved.’”
Juliet waves off my joke. In the silence, I sense tension.
“Have you...given any thought to that? When I’ll meet everyone?” She pauses. “When we’ll tell them?”