Page 15 of Connor

“You know your father. He’ll get it, eventually.” She sighs, and I smile before I look at the side table he made for Mom’s crystals. It’s on a little lean and is a bit wobbly, but she wouldn't change it for the world. He’s great with numbers, not so great with tools.

“Will there be enough for me to take home?” I ask, remembering Trisha wanted some.

“I’ll have a container for Trisha, don't worry,” she says with a smile.

“Smells good in here,” my dad says, announcing his entrance.

“Hey, Dad.” I push off the counter to go to him.

“Hey, Sparkie.” He says my nickname, something he’s called me since I was a kid, because with red hair and a fiery personality, he always thought of me as a bit of a firecracker. I’m calmer now as I’m older, or so I thought. My interactions with Connor these past few days have uncovered my old traits and tested my limits of civility.

Dad wraps me up in a hug so big and so warm there’s no safer place in the world. In his weekend uniform of slacks with trainers, he’s the average suburban father, who works with numbers, is a little overweight, a little balding, and I’m pretty sure he’s a member of the neighborhood watch committee. I think he was a nerd in school. He and Mom really shouldn’t be together. They are complete opposites, as she is crazy and carefree and makes decisions based on the moon cycle, whereas Dad is straitlaced and focused on data. Yet when he was out driving one day, coming home from a conference, he picked up a beautiful hitchhiker, and they’ve been together ever since.

“No luck with the gate?” my mom asks him as I move around them and set the table. Sunday lunch is our weekly get-together.

“No. I need a different tool, I think,” he says, and I grin before a small yawn filters through my lips.

“You seem a bit tired today, honey. Did you meditate this morning?” Mom asks me as we all take a seat and start to dig in.

“No. I had a late night,” I tell her, my body soothing as the first bite hits my taste buds and the spices clear my nostrils immediately.

“Oh, anything exciting?” she asks.

“I covered Trisha’s shift at the stadium. She had a date,” I tell them, my dad quietly observing.

“Oh, with Graham?” she asks innocently.

“No.” I shake my head.

“Oh, Christian.”

“Nope.” I shake my head, and she frowns, trying to recall.

“That girl…” My dad sighs, shaking his head, but otherwise remains quiet.

“His name is Tom,” I say, and they both nod with knowing smiles. This is just how Trisha is. I can’t wait to meet the guy she actually marries one day, since she thinks each person she goes on a date with is it for her.

“What about you, Daisy? Any man on the horizon?” Dad asks, and I give him a small smile. Because my parents met and married young, I think they expect the same of me.

“No. Still footloose and fancy-free,” I tell him, pulling at my sweater, the mere thought of dating making my skin itch. My mind flicks to Connor last night and the buxom blond date he had. She was rude, completely horrible, but when I heard Connor admonish her for her horrible comments about me, and then tell her to leave, a part of my frustration and anger with him fell away. I haven’t really had many people stick up for me before, and certainly not a man I barely know. It made me think that there’s more to him than I first thought, and if he was willing to have my back in a situation like last night, then in business, I know he would be supportive too.

“Stop pulling at your sweater. Here, let me get the clear quartz,” Mom says quickly, jumping up and going to the table of crystals she has nearby and passing one to me while holding one herself.

“I am strong. I am capable. I am enough,” Mom chants, and I look at my dad, who gives me a soft, encouraging smile. He isn’t into all this woo-woo, but he never dampens her shine. I hope I find a man just like him.

I close my eyes and grip on to the crystal, then take a few deep breaths.

“I am strong. I am capable. I am enough.” I repeat her words of affirmation and keep my eyes closed a little longer, taking another few deep breaths.

“Thanks, Mom,” I say, opening my eyes, feeling a little more relaxed, but hanging on to the crystal in my lap as she sits again.

“So how was it? The Jets had a hell of a game,” my father says, grinning. He’s a Jets fan. Has been all my life. I sometimes think if he had a son, he would be more involved in the sport, because he has only been to a few games. He says he doesn’t like all the people and prefers to have some space. Hence why he and Mom live here in the outer suburbs, with more grass, more room. But he does love watching them on TV.

“I wouldn’t even know. I just served drinks all night,” I say, clenching the crystal in my lap tighter.

“Whose suite did you manage last night?” Dad asks, apparently more aware of the work that Trisha does than I am.

“Connor Whiteman,” I say, my eyes flicking to Mom. Her eyebrows rise.

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