Page 36 of Love You, Mean It

“Excuse me?”

“It’s a simple word.” His tone dripped condescension, and I could feel anger ballooning in my chest. “No, you don’t need to know every detail of my private life.”

“You’re the one who just said we need to convinceeveryonewe’re engaged. How am I supposed to do that if you won’t be honest with me?”

“There’s a difference between dishonesty and simply not disclosing something. Which I’m certain you, of all people, are aware of,” he spat, upper lip curling scornfully. The fact that he was right only made the sting of the words that much more irritating.

“I came clean with you as soon as I had the chance. If we’re going to be partners, you owe me at least that much in return.”

“This is a business arrangement, Ellie, nothing more. As mybusinesspartner, I owe you transparency on what affects our plan. Idon’towe you my life story.”

I stuck my tongue in my cheek, searching for some retort. I wasn’t that eager to learn whatever he was hiding anymore—the urgency had dimmed beneath the neon flare of annoyance at the return of his patronizingIt’s my world and you just live in itTrip Taylor arrogance.

But I couldn’t think of anything that would convince him totrust me with it. Besides, he was right. Reaching the same end goal didn’t require realintimacy.

For some reason that thought felt like a lead weight hooked to my sternum, tugging me down painfully for the rest of the silent drive home.

I’d just finished cooking the penne for the feta, olive, and sun-dried tomato salad that had been a staple of Greco’s for as long asI’dbeen there, when I heard the faint strains of the song coming through the speakers in the front room of the deli:

Do-dee-do-do-DEE-do-DEE-do, Do-dee-do-do-DEE-do-DEE-do…

That legendary opening guitar solo, tone high and wailing, that kicked off the Guns N’ Roses classic. I smiled softly, darting my head out to make sure the shop was empty before I turned my eyes to the ceiling and whispered“Dad and daughter dance party.”

I gave the pasta another quick stir under the cold water before turning off the tap and lifting the slotted spoon to my mouth to sing “my” line. Dad took the first half of every verse, I took the second.

Then I moved the spoon between myself and the ceiling for the chorus—wealwaysteamed up for the choruses—emphasizing the breaks between each of the however many syllables Axl managed to wring out of oneoh.

I couldn’t remember when the dance parties had started, or why my dad had latched on to “Sweet Child o’ Mine” as our song, but for as long as I could remember, they’d been a thing. Wheneverwe were together and the song came on—which was pretty damn often, my dad kept the radio at the deli tuned to the oldies station, and itwasGuns N’ Roses’ biggest banger—he’d grab hold of whatever utensil was close at hand and use it alternately as a guitar, baring his teeth as he “shredded” along with Slash, and as a microphone, keening into it in a way that was very un-Dad. As a Greco man he was usually soft-spoken, used to letting the women in his life be the stars of the show.

It had occurred to me in the years since his death that maybe that was the point of the sing-alongs (there wasn’t a lot of dancing, whatever Dad called them, unless you counted frantic hair whipping). Encouragingmeto make myself the center of attention, to belt out the lyrics without particularly good pitch but with excessive enthusiasm, had to have motivated his making a fool of himself with those nasal wails. He’d kept it up even through my teenage years, when the call-and-response of the song usually went something like followed by me groaning about how embarrassing he was, my drawn-out whine unwittingly Axlesque.

I made it through another verse “swapping” lines with Dad—I could hear him so clearly in my mind, it almost didn’t matter that he wasn’t there to sing them aloud—then dumped the pasta into the gigantic mixing bowl, whisking up the dressing and drizzling it over the top as I whistled along to the guitar solo, hips swaying to the beat.

I’d just made it through Axl’s triumphant postsoloOh-oh-oh-OH-OHwhen I heard it.

A slow, loud clapping.

My eyes whipped open as I poked my head through the door between the prep room and the deli proper.

Standing in the center of the tiled floor, once again dressed like an ad campaign come to life, lips twisted in amusement, was Theo.

I didn’t have to glance at the shiny surface of the paper towel dispenser to know my entire face and neck had gone a blazing red—I couldfeelthe heat emanating off the rapidly spreading wildfire of my mortification.

“Did you just…apparateor something?”

“I think the dulcet strains of your song might have covered the sound of the bell,” Theo said. “But please. You’re missing the bridge.”

I realized I was still holding the spoon near my mouth and dropped it to my side.

“Do youneedsomething?” I said, jaw jutting defiantly. Looking like an idiot didn’t bother me in theory—it wasn’t the first time I’d been caught belting out the oldies. But there was something about being caught out by Theo particularly, seeing him laugh at me when it was myDad song,that immediately raised my hackles. We’d exchanged a few texts since Saturday’s dinner-triumph-turned-ice-out, but despite the initial urgency of “getting the word out,” neither of us had gone so far as to plan a meetup.

“Aren’t I allowed to drop in on my fiancée? Share these truly adorable moments of joy with her?” His eyes went extra wide with feigned excitement. “Ooh, maybe this is where I encourage you to try out forSing. Other people might not think you could be the world’s next big pop star, but webelievein each other.”

“If you just came to make fun of me, Theo, I really don’t need it,” I snapped, the inside of my nose starting to prickle painfully. I hated that this was making me emotional, but I always felt a little smooshy when Dad’s song came on, even if it was quite possibly the single piece of musicleastconducive to producing surges of tenderness.

Theo’s smirk disappeared so fast it felt like some unseen fly operator had dropped a curtain over his face.

“I really wasn’t trying to make fun of you,” he said, voice low, any trace of mirth gone. “I didn’t…” Theo licked his upper lip, trying to find the words. “Does that song mean something special to you?”

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