“What do you say, kid?” he asks. “You got time to play tour guide for your dad and stepmom?”

Miles shoots me a look, brow raised, waiting for me to signal, Leap over the coffee table and light something on fire while I climb out the window!

And maybe I should—maybe Dad’s just setting a box of cupcakes atop a trou-de-loup booby trap.

But he’s here. With a wife, and a room already booked, and for the first time I can remember, he’s asking whether I’m free, rather than assuming I’ll drop everything because he’s deigned to show up.

“Is there room for two more in our plans?” I ask Miles.

His head cocks. I can tell he’s waiting for more of a signal than that, so I add, “We could probably make it work, right?”

He holds my gaze for a second, giving me a chance to change my mind, to scream “Ryan Reynolds!” at the top of my lungs.

I don’t.

He turns a tamped-down version of his impishly charming smile toward them. “You all bring bathing suits?”

Julia pokes her head back into the room without a hint of shame that she’s obviously been eavesdropping from one foot out of sight. “I knew it! We’re going on the boat, aren’t we?”

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25

“The boat” is an old pontoon that belongs to a friend of Miles’s. The hardware store / barbershop owner where he gets his tools/haircuts. Miles has an open invitation to use the pontoon whenever it’s available. I drive and Dad rides up front, with Miles, Julia, and Starfire wedged in my backseat, Miles giving verbal directions rather than using a GPS, because he doesn’t remember the guy’s address.

I’d assumed we’d be boating on Lake Michigan, but there are dozens of smaller lakes further inland from the twenty-two-thousand square miles of Lake Michigan. We’re going to one of those, a lake in the more traditional sense of the word, with rustic cottages lining the water and reeds swaying in the shallows.

We park down a long wooded drive in front of a gorgeous A-frame that’s either halfway through being built or halfway through being renovated. My guess, based on the overgrown grass around a parked camper trailer and old truck, is the latter. That this place belongs to a do-it-yourselfer who’s taking their time. Exactly the kind of person who’d operate a hardware store / barbershop.

“You guys go ahead and get on the boat,” Miles tells us as we get out into the buggy heat. “I’ll grab the keys from inside.”

“I thought your friend wasn’t home,” I say, but he’s already bounding up to the back deck, sliding open a door that was, apparently, unlocked. Julia and I pull the cooler out of the trunk and carry it between us down the grassy hillside toward the water’s edge.

“What a gorgeous day for this!” Starfire says brightly. She’s said it seven times so far. I’ve been counting.

“Couldn’t have asked for better weather,” Julia agrees, for the fourth time. We’ve been taking turns, and by now, I think she’s caught on and is making a game out of it.

“Like Michigan rolled out the red-carpet treatment,” Dad says, clapping a hand on my shoulder right as Julia and I set foot on the short dock that juts into the reeds. I wobble, but luckily manage to regain my footing before falling off the narrow pier and taking the cooler and Julia with me.

It’s seen better days—one board is missing, with two others snapped in the middle—but the boat looks to be in good shape. Not that I know what makes a boat in good shape, but it’s not on fire or anything.

Dad kicks off his shoes, picks them up, and hops aboard, helping each of us down by the hand. He passes Starfire down last, and makes a big show of kissing her hand. She giggles and looks between me and Julia like, Are you seeing this? What a guy!

I try to look pleasant and vaguely encouraging: Yes, I saw my dad Gomez Addams you, and I think it’s great!

It is sweet, honestly. Again that weird mishmash of emotions swirls in my rib cage.

I like seeing him like this. I also resent it, wonder for the millionth time why Mom and I never inspired this kind of attention or commitment.

“Got it,” Miles calls, jogging down the dock. He unties the boat and jumps in, starting the engine, then pulling his shirt off.

Starfire gasps at the assortment of disjointed tattoos this reveals. My initial blush-and-avoid-looking tactic quickly dissolves into looking for a giant heart with Petra’s name in it, but apparently that’s not one of the many tattoo-related capital-C Choices he’s committed to.

I do, however, realize for the first time that in addition to his Popeye anchor, he also has a full-on Popeye on his calf. This does surprisingly little to dampen the impulse to cross the boat and run my tongue over his skin.

“What beautiful body art!” Starfire coos. “What’s this one mean?”

She touches his upper biceps as he’s starting to steer us deeper into the lake. He subdues his smile. “Well,” he says, “it’s a mermaid.”

She nods with wide-eyed intrigue. “And?”

“I liked how it looked,” he says.

“It’s gorgeous.” She gives it a firm pat.

The lake is surprisingly hopping. Over the roar of our motor, we catch snippets of radio hits blasting off the boats we pass: Taylor Swift’s “Cruel Summer” and Sheryl Crow’s “Soak Up the Sun” and Otis Redding’s “(Sittin’ On) The Dock of the Bay.”

After ten minutes of cruising, wind in our hair, motor rattling in our ears, we find a good spot to stop and relax. Miles turns on our radio, drops anchor, and passes out cans of seltzer and beer from the cooler to the rest of us. Julia and I slather ourselves in sunscreen, but Starfire wastes no time shucking her clothes off and jumping off the back of the boat, a blur of hot-pink one-piece and a whoop!

Dad whistles and applauds when she resurfaces. Julia peels off her shorts and jumps out after her.

“Is it cold?” I call to them.

“Sort of,” Julia shouts back, right as Starfire says joyfully, “It feels like rebirth!”

Within a few minutes of cajoling, Dad’s gotten in too, and then he’s badgering Miles and me from the water, while Starfire backstrokes with impressive grace.

“You getting in?” Miles asks me, shielding his eyes against the sun to peer at me. It makes the moment feel strangely private, intimate.

“How deep is it?” I ask him.

“Don’t be a chicken!” Dad calls, the illusion of privacy shattering.

Starfire makes a hyperrealistic chicken sound. She’s really in her element here.

“What exactly”—I step up to the gate at the back of the boat—“would I be afraid of in this scenario?”

“The fish!” Dad cries, like this should be obvious.

“The fish?” I repeat.

Dad affects a look of disbelief. “Are you kidding? You were terrified of them when you were a kid! Remember? I took you fishing and you had that meltdown?”

I don’t remember ever going fishing in my life, but if I did, I’m guessing the meltdown had less to do with the fish and more with having to pull a metal hook from its mouth. “Are you sure that was me?”

He laughs. “I think I remember my own daughter! I took you fishing, and we forgot sunscreen, and I knew your mom would be mad, so we went to the grocery store and I got you this bright yellow sun hat. Matched your bathing suit. You looked like Tweety Bird,” he says, shaking his head. “You were obsessed with that hat.”