She shrugs and plucks a fry off the plate. “I guess. I finished last week and got another Sherman Alexie book. The rest of the class is still reading.”
“Atta girl.” I start to raise my hand for a high five but think better of it. Few things suck more than an unreciprocated palm slap. “How are things with your friends?”
“Okay, I guess.” She shrugs and sticks the fry in her mouth, then reaches for another. “There’s a sleepover this weekend with some girls from school.”
“That’s great. Are you going?” Belatedly, I realize she didn’t say she’s invited.
“I don’t know. Maybe.” She pauses to swirl a fry through ketchup. “Like, I’m not sure if they really want me there or if they’re just being polite to the new kid.”
“Soph. Of course they want you there. You’re funny and kind and smart and amazing. They’d be idiots not to want you around.”
It’s possible calling her friends idiots isn’t the right move. I wish Mari were here to tell me what to say.
Soph sighs. “Whatever.”
The universal pre-teen response.
I pause, trying to recall if Mari gave me any tips for broaching this subject. Thoughts of her send my brain zinging back to her kitchen table the other day, and it takes me a second to get my mind back on the conversation with my kid.
“If you ever want to talk with anyone—a psychologist or whatever—Mari recommended a guy who specializes in teenagers.”
Soph’s eyes widen. “You think I’m crazy?”
“That’s not what therapy is about.” I’m not sure what she remembers from when her mom and I tried counseling, so I settle for giving broad strokes. “It’s about having someone to talk to. Someone neutral who can listen and help you figure out things that are bothering you.”
“Dad, I know.” She grabs two fries and shoves both in her mouth. “When I’m a psychologist, I want to work with the really crazy people. Serial killers and cannibals and stuff.”
“Okay.” I choose my words carefully, not wanting to stifle her dreams. “A: I think psychologists don’t refer to patients as crazy people. And B: I’m not sure how I feel about my baby girl running around with cannibals and serial killers.”
That earns me a smile, albeit a small one. “Whatever.”
“Tell you what.” I lean back in the booth, ready to roll out the big guns. “You remember when we watched One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest with Jack Nicholson? And how I told you it was filmed in Oregon?”
“Yeah.” She draws the word out as she drags another sweet potato fry through a puddle of mayo.
“What if I told you we could visit the place it was filmed at the Oregon State Hospital Museum of Mental Health?” I’m crossing my fingers she finds this as cool as I do. “It’s in Salem, about three hours away. They have a whole exhibit dedicated to the movie, plus rooms filled with stuff from the late 1800s when it was the State Insane Asylum. They used to drag people against their will for things like syphilis and dementia.”
I’ve just said “syphilis” loudly in my workplace, but Soph lights up like it’s Christmas morning. “Seriously? That sounds cool.”
“We’ll go then.” I hesitate. “Maybe we could have Mari join us. As a friend who’s a psychologist, I mean.”
Soph’s smile turns coy. “Or as your girlfriend?” Her tone is teasing, but she’s smiling again, so I can’t be mad. “I went to her house yesterday to work on my crochet stuff. I got to see Leonard.”
“Oh?”
Please, God, don’t let the damn parrot spill dirty secrets to my kid.
“He kept saying your name.” She grins and grabs another fry. “Like maybe Mari’s been talking about you in a lovey way.”
I’m about to ask what she means by “lovey way” when the door opens, and Lana and Lauren stride through. Lauren spots me first and beelines to the table.
“Bad news,” she says without preamble. “Jen’s got major drama with her ex-boyfriend, and we’re pulling her from the show for a few days to deal with it.”
I blink, orienting myself to the conversation. “My bartender Jen?”
“Yep,” Lana confirms. “We’ll handle things gently, and she should be fine, but it means we need another bartender for the event.”
Crap. “It’s two days away,” I remind them. “Where are we going to get another bartender on short notice?”
The door opens again, and Mari rushes in with flushed cheeks. She spots me, and her cheeks go pinker, but she squares her shoulders and approaches the table. “I got your message,” she says to her sisters. “Soph, Griffin—good to see you.”
I nod and look from Lauren to Lana to Mari, wondering if Mari’s told them anything about us. We’ve laid low since the kitchen table incident, both busy as hell getting ready for the event. But we talked on the phone past midnight the other day, and this morning we sent a flurry of flirty texts.
“Griffin.” She clears her throat. “I’ve got a call in to a temp agency about securing another bartender. Maybe two or three, just to make sure we’ve got enough help.”
“Wow, that’s—thank you.” I fold my hands on the table and watch her cheeks flush darker as her gaze flicks over them. “Is Jen okay?”
Mari tucks a curl behind one ear, and I recall what it felt like to dot kisses in that warm, fragrant hollow. “I can’t discuss another community member with you, but she said to tell you she’s fine and that she’s sorry to leave you high and dry.”
“I’m just glad she’s okay,” I say. “We’ll figure out the rest of it.”
I glance at Lana, who’s pointing at a table across the room. “Hey, Mar—I told Lauren I’d introduce her to the wonder of tater tots dipped in maple syrup. Want to join us?”
Mari hesitates. “I’m just here to go over production details. If this is a social thing, I can come back another time.”
Lauren shrugs and starts toward the table. “It’s not some big formal deal, but suit yourself. Join us if you want.”
There’s nothing hurtful in Lauren’s words, but I hear them through a Mari filter. It’s Lauren and Lana acting as a unit, and Mari as an afterthought. I don’t think they mean it that way, and maybe what I’m witnessing is a result of Mari throwing up walls all these years.
As the sisters wander away, I study her face. “You okay?”
“Of course.” She gives me a smile that’s a little forced. “It’s not like I’m an integral part of the planning.”
She’s donning her armor, and part of me wants to take a sledgehammer to it. Instead, I try a softer touch. “Ever heard the one about the guy working as a bartender while going to grad school?”
Mari cocks her head. “Is this a joke?”
I ignore the question, hoping it’ll be obvious in a second. “A customer asks ‘what’s the usual tip?’ and the bartender says, ‘well, it’s my first day, but the other guys said I’d be doing great if I could squeeze five bucks out of you.’ The guy gets pretty annoyed by that and says, ‘Is that so? In that case, here’s twenty bucks. What are you studying, anyway?’ Bartender pockets the cash and says, ‘applied psychology.’”