Page 7 of Lost and Lassoed

And in Meadowlark, I shone. People loved me, and I loved to be loved. There was only one Teddy Andersen. Here, I was ahead of the game.

So how did I get so behind?

I’d always been happy in Meadowlark, but over the past few months, I had begun to wonder if I had started to resent it at the same time. It felt as if Meadowlark was taking care of everyone but me. Everyone I loved in Meadowlark seemed to be doing big things—getting married, renovating houses, having babies, falling in love. It was a silly thing to feel—like the place I lived didn’t care about me, even though I loved it so deeply—but I felt it anyway.

And then there were the smaller parts of these big feelings that I’d started to notice in real life. The other day, at Emmy’s house, I’d noticed she’d put a bunch of pictures in frames—nearly all of them of her and Brooks—hiking, on vacation, at Rebel Blue. I realized that the pictures I had framed in my room were of Emmy and me.

And that made me sad.

Life had begun to feel bittersweet, and I was getting all of the bitter and everyone else was getting the sweet.

I told myself not to cry. I didn’t like crying. I didn’t like seeing my world through watery and swollen eyes.

There’s nothing wrong with crying—I’ve spent a lot of timecomforting others, telling them it’s okay to cry—but for some reason I’ve never been able to allow myself that same courtesy.

Except for certain occasions, like right now.

No one else here. It was just me, my jacket, and a Bob Seger record. And so I let myself cry, head down on my sewing table, clutching the fringe of my suede jacket. I don’t know how long I stayed that way, but it wasn’t until I heard my dad making his way down the hall that I quickly lifted my head, took a deep breath, and hoped the small smile I was attempting didn’t look like a grimace.

He was using his cane today. That meant he felt good enough to be up and about, which lightened my heart a little. Both of his hands were gripping the top curve of his cane, which meant his knuckle tattoos were on display. On one hand, four fingers readTheo, and on the other,Dora.

I loved all my dad’s tattoos, but those were my favorites.

Hank Andersen was a badass in every sense of the word. His long hair, which used to be jet black but now was more salt-and-pepper than anything else, was pulled back into a ponytail. Today he was wearing a Thin Lizzy T-shirt, faded blue jeans, and light blue socks with wiener dogs on them.

“You okay, Teddy Bear?” he asked as he leaned against my doorframe. It took some weight off his right leg, which was the one that gave him the most trouble—probably from spending too much time behind a drum set. “Bob Seger stopped playing ten minutes ago.” He nodded toward my record player, where theNight Movesalbum was still turning and a crackling noise was coming from the speakers.

I hadn’t even noticed the record had finished, which was saying something because that album ends with “Mary Lou”—one of my favorite songs of all time.

“Yeah,” I said. I quickly got up and went to my record player, lifted the tone arm, and switched off the turntable. “Just a rough day.”

“Seems like you’ve had a few of those lately,” my dad responded. I just shrugged. “Scale of one to ten?” That’s how we talked about bad days, pain, sickness, and all the things in between.

I thought about it for a second. “It was a six.” My dad’s icy blue eyes flashed with concern. “But I think we’re closer to a five now that I’ve seen your socks.”

He looked down at his wiener dog socks and grinned. “And what if I told you VH1 is airing its Hundred Greatest Songs of the Eighties tonight?”

I sniffled a little but smiled back at him. “Down to a four.”

“Do you want to call Emmy? Is she around? We can order dinner.” I nodded. My dad made his way a little farther into my room until he was only a step and a half from me. He brought one of his old, weathered hands up to my face and used his thumb to wipe away one of the tears that was sitting at the corner of my eye. “I’m sorry you had a bad day.”

I shook my head. “Not for much longer,” I said. Hank smiled at that. “I can handle dinner, though.”

My dad shook his head. “It’s okay. Aggie’s coming over. That’s a lot of people to cook for.” Aggie was my friend Dusty’s mom and a very talented carpenter. She and Hank had become quite fond of each other over the past few years, and now Aggie was sharing the load of taking care of my dad without even trying—coming over on Friday nights or bringing him food while I was at work.

I loved Aggie; she was badass and funny and kind. But it also twisted the knife just a little bit more that even mydad—my sixtysomething dad—had a romantic prospect, something new in his life, something that was pushing him forward. I was grateful, of course, but I couldn’t help but sometimes feel a…twinge. My dad didn’t seem like he needed me as much anymore either.

And I thrived on being needed.

“Okay,” I said. “Sounds good.”

“I’ll order the food.” He turned and went back down the hallway toward the kitchen.

Once he was gone, I called Emmy. She picked up on the first ring.

“My sewing machine is broken and I can’t fix the rip in my fringe jacket,” I said as soon as she picked up. She might not need me the same way anymore, but I still needed her. “And the Hundred Greatest Songs of the Eighties is on VH1 tonight. Come over?”

“I wish I could,” she said, and I felt my entire body deflate. “Luke’s mom is coming to dinner tonight.”

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