Page 1 of Crushing On Dad's Best Friend
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Katherine
My sister is getting marriedthisweekend.
She will no longer be a damsel, which I learned recently simply means “an unmarriedwoman.”
For some reason, I always thought this term meant something different. Something more romantic,maybe?
I’ve never been called a damsel before despite being very single, but don’t get me wrong: I am definitely in distress rightnow.
Frank Sinatra’s “Summer Wind” is blaring ironically from a speaker somewhere. It’s summer, and there’s wind, but it’s not the breezy, nostalgickind.
The train station is hot, my garment bag and suitcase are heavy, and rain is pouring down in sheets outside. I pull up my ride share app, but the screen doesn’t show any available cars insight.
I feel a profound sense of relief as I see a yellow taxi pull up to the curb and let someoneout.
“Hold the car, please!” I shout, running to grab the door. The woman stepping out opens an umbrella in elegant fashion and shoots me a look as my eye nearly gets poked by one of thespokes.
I finally squeeze my way into the back of the old, dusty cab and give the driver theaddress.
“Damn,” he says, adjusting his rearview mirror. We make eye contact and I smile. “That’s a nice place. What are you in townfor?”
“My sister’s wedding,” I say, unable to stop myself from clapping my hands a few times. I don’t usually get overly excited, but I am so excited for this weekend that I am barely able to keep myself together. The dresses, the dancing, the drinking, the love in the air…and thevenue!
It is, indeed, a nice place. I’ve seen the pictures on Instagram and I created a mood board based on it and my sister, Anna, let me pick out my own gown. Of course I have the specs of the place my parents rented memorized, even though I never had the chance to come out here before today. It’s a small wedding, so the ceremony and reception will take place at this amazing estate, and that means less traveling and morepartying.
By the time we’re pulling onto the street where the estate is — I can’t see the street sign but I do recognize my surroundings from Google Earth — I send a text to my dad to let him know I’m almost there. I let out a huff of breath an inch away from the window to fog it up, tracing a heart with the tip of my freshly-manicuredfinger.
When we pull up to the old, beautiful house, with tall oak trees dotted along the circular driveway and broad, plush hedges lining the property, I feel my heart kick up intooverdrive.
I thank the driver, clutch my things, and haul myself out of the cab. The door to the house swings open and a huge umbrella appears, footsteps following close behindit.
“Here, Katherine, let me help you,” the mansays.
I can only see his feet and I can’t discern who it is. It must be someone on the staff helping out this weekend, or maybe it’s one of the groomsmen. Either way, I’m happy to hand him my heavy suitcase as I throw my garment bag over myarm.
He puts the umbrella over us, giving me an instant feeling of warmth and relief as he huddles me toward the door. He smellssogood — an intoxicating combination of male energy and fresh, crisp rain — andnotthe kind that’s beating down on ourumbrella.
That’s when I turn to see who’s helpingme.
It’s Liam, my dad’s bestfriend.
He looks different than he did the last time I sawhim.
Oh, he’s always been handsome, with his thick black hair that’s a little curly in the front, his slight graying at the temples, his short beard, neatly trimmed but still a little scruffy, and his designer suits that he wears so well, but that’s all he’s ever been to mebefore.
Handsome. The object of an innocent little crush. A man I admired for his work ethic, for the way he was on good terms with his ex-wife, the way he’d tried, as best he could manage, to be a good father to his son, even though he never got to spend as much time with him as he’d wanted to. He’s a skilled litigator, and I’ve wanted to go to law school forever. He was never too busy or too self-important to crash the kids table and get in the mix with the future lawyers in our socialgroup.
Butnow…
Now he’s drop-deadgorgeous. And I’m gawking at him, watching as he wraps his firm, muscular arm around my shoulder, opening his jacket to put over me and give me double the shelter from the storm, and escorting me toward the house with the determined look of a horsejockey.
Except horse jockeys generally need to beundera certainheight.
Liam feels larger than life right now. My mind flicks to a roller-coaster with the height requirement nailed to the entrance:must be *this tall* toride.
I don’t have a lot of time to gawk, because once inside, we’re transported to another world of excited energy and all of the stress of having twenty people getting ready for a wedding and all the activities surrounding it for the next few days, with the added annoyance of not being able to fully partake in the outdoor activities because of unpredictableweather.
