Page 13 of Pity Play

“Let’s meet up at Pop’s some night,” I tell him. “Dinner is on me.” Little does he know I’ll probably be cooking it first, but I’m sure he’ll keep my secret if I ask.

Walking back into my dad’s room, I announce, “You’ll never guess who I ran into.”

My dad looks at me like he does not give a flying fig so instead of telling him, I say, “Your breakfast is on the way.”

Several moments pass before he asks, “Who did you run into?”

“Tony Hill,” I tell him.

“Your buddy from high school? I haven’t heard that name in a long time.”

“Tony came back to Elk Lake to raise his daughter.” I’m notsure if it’s worth mentioning that Tony is married to a man. I don’t think my dad would care, but it seems that I don’t know the man as well as I once thought I did.

“It’s nice that he came home.” My dad’s normally deep brown eyes narrow and appear to turn nearly black. “It’s refreshing that someone your age thinks enough of Elk Lake to want to stay here.”

I am not going to start fighting with him today. Hopefully not even tomorrow. I want my dad to get better and I don’t think riling him up is the way to accomplish that. Sitting down, I tell him, “The doctor says you’ll be here for a few days. Are you in any pain?”

He tips his graying head toward the IV next to the bed. “Not since they hooked me up. I don’t even feel like I’m in my body anymore.”

“Comfortably numb, then?” I reference my dad’s favorite Pink Floyd song.

“You could say that.” He lets his eyes close again and takes a cat nap. He doesn’t open them until his breakfast arrives and then he keeps busy eating, so he doesn’t have to carry on a conversation with me. When he’s done with his food, he tells me, “You can go now. I’ll be fine until your mom gets back.”

I’ve been dismissed. Standing up, I tell him, “I’ll see you later then.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to see you later.”Don’t fight me, old man, I am not in the mood.

“Suit yourself,” he says.

At this rate, I can’t see the light at the end of the tunnel for us, but being that I’m already in the tunnel, I might as well keep the course.

CHAPTER SEVEN

LORELAI

After leaving Rosemary’s, I drive over to the market to pick up a few things. I know Luke said he was going to stop as well, but I don’t expect him to buy all the food for the house. In addition to loading up my cart with necessities, I add a few extras. I saw an enticing recipe on social media for cinnamon rolls that I want to try out on Luke. It’s a definite step up from Toaster Strudel and it starts out with a tube of biscuit dough, so I’m pretty sure that even I can’t screw it up.

My next stop is the Yarn Barn. I go through their clearance bin at least twice a week hoping to get enough matching yarn for my baby blankets. When I can’t get all of one kind, I settle for a bunch of different skeins, and I donate those blankets to the Humane Society. Stray dogs are not picky, and they are extraordinarily grateful.

On my way into my house with my purchases, I notice that Luke’s bags are still at the foot of the stairs. I’m tempted to carry them up to my room for him, but I don’t want him to think I’m overstepping. Even though I would normally consider that beinga good hostess, my feelings for Luke leave me a bit conflicted and I don’t trust my instincts.

Going upstairs, I stop at my room to make sure everything is in order for my guest’s stay. The queen-size bed is covered in a frilly white duvet and decorated with piles of girly throw pillows. I take off the heart shaped one, the flower-shaped one, and the big red lips, which leaves the solid-colored pink square ones. Even though they’re pastel, the whole setting seems much more man-friendly this way.

After putting the pillows under the bed, I pull two of my homemade Afghans out of the cupboard in case he gets cold. Then I gather some towels from the linen closet and place them on my dresser. The bathroom is right across the hall, but I don’t want Luke wondering if the towels in there are for his use. While I’m in the closet, I grab a couple of scented candles that are still in the box. They’re pine, which ought to give the room more of a masculine vibe.

Once I’m done creating the best guest room I can, considering what I’ve started with, I go into my walk-in closet. Inside, I take a box down from the top shelf before placing it on the floor. Sitting next to it, I lift off the lid and start to go through the contents.

I pull out a photo album from my thirteenth birthday party. The cover says “My Teenage Years.” I feel the same thrill I did when my mom gave it to me. I was finally a teenager, which in my head somehow meant the gap between Luke’s and my age had narrowed. Even though thirteen and seventeen were still a big distance, it felt light years closer than twelve and sixteen. That’s what I told myself, anyway.

Opening the album, I’m greeted with a five by seven photo that causes me to shiver. My awkward phase didn’t end until twelfth grade. I blame that on the fact that my teeth refused to straighten, and I needed braces until the middle of my senior year. Add to that the very real problem that some redheads have finding the right color palette. I grew out of being carroty red, but my complexion was still so pale that any kind of bright colormade my skin look almost translucent. Too pale a shade washed me out completely. This left me wearing a lot of black, which subsequently made me look vampirish. And not in a coolTwilightkind of way either.

It wasn’t until I went to college that my hair started to darken to a deep auburn. With that change came the confidence I needed to experiment with my makeup and clothing. By the time I was nineteen, I was a different person entirely. And while the girl I was in my younger years wasn’t malformed or anything, the new me was finally appealing to the opposite sex.

Flipping through the pages of my thirteenth birthday party makes me sad for the girl I used to be. I always thought I was the perfect “before” picture from aSeventeenmagazinemakeover. The truth is I wasn’t horrible looking, I was just uncomfortable in my own skin.

On the third page of the album is the photo I was looking for. Allie and I are sitting at the dining room table with my birthday cake in front of me. I’m wearing a sweater I made for myself. I was so certain that sewing a bunch of potholders together would look great, that it never occurred to me that I could be mistaken for a Romanian refugee from another century.

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