Getting There

Why can I never find a fucking parking spot? Hands flexing around the steering wheel, Annie internally counters her growing irritation with other people’s existence and right to park their cars. Well, why did you agree to meet in the city, stupid?

The sky turns a flat purple, just a sliver of sunset still visible along the horizon, and the city in question, Philadelphia, heaves to life. Annie’s attention is jerked to the right by a whizzing bicyclist, to the front by the sudden flash of brake lights, and straight down to the GPS on her iPhone screen, which, god bless technology, is suddenly peppered with multiple parking garage icons.

*

The car slides through the darkened streets of her best friend Victoria’s upscale suburban neighborhood. The soundtrack: Fridays with Frank, and her father occasionally crooning along with Ol’ Blue Eyes. When the song changes to Fly Me to the Moon, he cuts his eyes from the road and grins at her because he knows it’s her favorite. Annie, 12 years old, is the only one of her friends with a favorite Frank Sinatra song. She’s also the only one who can quote full episodes from The Honeymooners and the entire Who’s On First routine from Abbott and Costello.

Annie feels heavy in her seat, her overnight bag wedged between her legs on the floor of the sedan. She catches her own reflection in the side view mirror and wishes her hair were thicker. Feels the pressure of the seat belt and wishes her bones were smaller. Hears her father tapping the steering wheel along with the music, loves him, wishes everything were different.

*

Ellen is out of her league. Annie knows this from the moment she fills the bar’s doorway. One consequence of dating women is inevitable and instant comparison, and right now Annie is hyperconscious of the thickness of her subtly gnarling hands, the small-but-admittedly noticeable pooch pressing against the waistband of her khakis, the smudge of eyeliner she can’t see but knows is resting above her eyelid where it does not belong.

It’s not that Ellen is a runway model, or even much younger. But for some women, Annie has learned, things just work. Ellen’s effortlessly casual white t-shirt hits exactly the right spot just above her jeans. Her hair isn’t exactly curly, but it rests in easy waves above her shoulders. She doesn’t appear to be wearing any makeup at all, which only means she’s an expert at applying it. And when she catches sight of Annie and pairs her bright, willing smile with a cute little wave, Annie’s heart leaps with hope, then sinks.

This will never work. But she already wants it to.

*

Circus-orange streetlights catch the growing bald spot on the back of her father’s head as he turns into Victoria’s cul-de-sac. “Have fun, Annie,” he says, pulling the car into Victoria’s driveway and shifting into park. “Tell Mr. and Mrs. Boyer I said hello.”

Annie reaches down to gather her things, and manages a smile. “I will, Dad.” She looks up at Victoria’s house, sprawling and proud, candles flickering in every one of the front windows. She knows Victoria and Kristin are already in the basement, probably sending instant messages to their cool guy friends from the public school down the road. We should hook Annie up with Matt, Victoria had squealed in their circle at recess earlier this week. The lump in her stomach hardens.

“I’ll pick you up around noon tomorrow. Don’t stay up too late,” her father cautions. He does not caution her about hooking up with strange boys. Maybe, she thinks—she hopes—somewhere inside he already knows he doesn’t need to.

*

Ellen is telling a story about chasing her rescue dog, a mischievous schnauzer, down the street and straight into a pack of runners training for the Philadelphia Marathon. Her face is as animated as her hand gestures, and she frequently locks eyes with Annie and smiles. When she nearly knocks over her glass of merlot—an odd and endearing choice, Annie thinks—Annie reaches across the table to slide it out of the way.

“Oh my God. Thank you,” Ellen laughs. “I’m like a bull in a china shop. Truly, my parents still love to tell the story about me as a five-year-old, breaking glass ornaments in Hallmark.” She looks warmly at Annie. “What’s your family like?”

Annie’s heart is hammering. She wonders if the other diners are wondering about them, this fun, cheerful, pretty woman sitting with her frumpy—aunt? Older sister? They look nothing alike, but Annie can’t imagine anyone actually assumes someone like Ellen would be on a date with someone like her. She swallows a sip of her own wine—a New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc, her go-to because it makes her sound like she knows what she’s talking about.

“They’re getting there,” she finally answers. Ellen cocks her head slightly to the right, genuine interest on her face.

Against the cedar of the bar, the deep merlot contrasts the blonde of the Sauvignon Blanc. The two wines sparkle against each other in the dim lighting, the uncertain moon set against a wide open sky.

“Go on,” Ellen urges.

And Annie does.

*

Getting out of the car, Annie shifts her overnight bag to one shoulder and turns to look back at her father. He raises one to wave goodbye, still in park, still tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. He will not leave the driveway, Annie knows, until she’s tucked away inside the Boyer’s home.

He won’t leave until she’s safe.