More Than You Now

Ana

Don't get me wrong: I love my dad, but he is so literal all the time. Everything is so planned, practiced, and perfect that it's hard to get anywhere with him. He's the most selfless, giving, and hard-working person you'll meet, though, and he's the only person who I can honestly say is kind to every single person he sees.

Truly, though, I'm not stupid. I could tell that after my other dad died—

Um, yeah, about that. To a lot of people, that sounds really weird, the fact that I have two dads. It's just a part of my life. I don't think anything of it. I don't really remember that much about Pa, though, because he died when I was seven, just months after my adoption was official. I remember his laugh, I remember his face and his hugs, I remember his eyes. But the part that I remember most is how happy he made Dad. There was never a moment when Pa was alive that Dad's eyes weren't shining.

Anyways, getting back to the point: after Pa died, Dad's eyes lost their luster. He smiled, but the smile never made it to his pretty dark brown eyes. It was sad, really.

I knew, too, that I was a big part of why he didn't try to meet other men. I also knew that part of him was inhibited by his realism: it was hard enough for him to grasp that he had found real, honest-to-goodness love once. For him to really believe he could find it again would be near impossible. Yeah, I know, it's a bit ridiculous, but it makes sense, and that's how he thinks.

He's the best dad, though.

Other girls tell me about their fathers: they watch TV sports, drink beer, work all the time, sleep when they're not eating and working. That's when I can say that my dad does it all. He works, he cooks, he cleans, he does laundry, he irons, but most importantly, he takes time out of every single day to spend with me—it doesn't matter how busy he is. It can be as simple as having me help him make dinner, or watching a TV show that I want to see, or helping me with my homework, or taking me to the mall . . . you get the idea. Even when Pa was alive, it seemed like Dad poured all the love in the world into me.

Once I hit ten years old, though, I could start to see things I never saw before. Finally, when I crested into the beginning of my teenage years, I was able to figure it out: my dad was hiding. He is so realistic, but so afraid. Call it my woman's intuition kicking in when I got my period, call it whatever you like, but I could finally see that Dad was horrified. I couldn't tell, though, what scared him more: the chance of falling in love again, or the fear of being alone for the rest of his life.

It was that night, the one where he dropped his precious Beemer off at the shop, that I decided to drop the questions I had been formulating. He walked in, looking as dapper as usual, with a paper in his hand that he set on the counter with his neatly filed bills.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," I replied, shutting my notebook and textbook. I moved them off the table so we could eat.

"How was school?"

"You know, eighth grade dramadramadrama, when I'm not at the high school for classes."

"I see. How'd the English test go?"

"She made it sound so much harder than it actually was. I missed

one

."

"Out of?"

"Eighty-six."

"I suppose that's okay, then," he smiled, taking down a pan from the overhead hangers on the island and putting it on the stove. We worked in silence for a little while, me cutting up zucchini and red peppers while he seared the chicken. Did I mention the food I get at home is usually better than when we go out to eat? Chalk another one up for Dad. I always thank my grandma and grandpa for teaching him how to cook.

After dinner, I finished up my homework and Dad took care of some stuff he had to do for work. We met back up at eight for a TV show he enjoyed. I would never admit to him that I also liked it, but I have to say, it's an interesting program. After it was done, we sat on the cushy leather sofa, a big bowl of freshly-popped popcorn between us as another show came on. I decided it was better now than later to drop the bomb.

"Dad, why don't you date?"

As I expected, he stopped chewing and looked over to me, the shock clear in his eyes. "Why would you ask that, Ana?"

"Oh, gee, I don't know. I'm living with one of the world's most eligible bachelors, who chooses to shy away from people and attention so that he can blend into the woodwork. All of this, despite the fact that, yes, you can do just about everything—well, except plumbing repairs. I guess I just wonder that since you are so amazing why you don't let anyone else in on a little bit of that amazingness."

"Ana, what spawned this?"

Steven

To say that Ana shocked me that evening would've been an understatement. When I asked her what brought her questioning about, she answered me with the directness that was so like her.

"Dad, I know that to all the world I'm just a thirteen-year-old, but let's put all crap aside and admit that I am not a typical thirteen-year-old girl." As if I didn't know this. Ever since she was younger, she had shown she had an aptitude for relating to people and an intelligence and mental maturity that was rare for people her age. However, just when I felt like I was ready to send her off to one of the Ivy League schools, she'd bring me back to reality by asking me to sign a paper for a field trip.

"Just because I'm young doesn't mean I don't see things. Dad, you're great, and you have so much to offer. I know that guys notice you: what's not to notice? You're an attractive man. So why don't

you

notice anyone? And why can't you see that they have so many reasons to notice you?"

I sat there, silent for a few moments. I had no idea what to tell her. Before I could even come up with how to start, she asked another very loaded question.

"Is it because of me?"

"Ana, no, it's—"

"Bullshit."

"Ana!"

"What? It's true, a little. Guess what, Dad. I'm not seven anymore. I'm not going to become so attached or so dependent on someone you date that if it doesn't work out, all stability in my life just crumbles and I end up a troubled soul for the rest of my life. I have

you

for stability. It makes me happy when you're happy, and guess what: I can see that you're not happy."

Did I mention that my daughter is thirteen going on fifty?

"Ana, I'm happy. I'm very happy where I am, and you make me happy."

"I know that, Dad, but you're not truly happy. I think I know why, too. Number one, you're such a loving person that you need someone to bestow that love upon . . . other than me," she said, adding that last part and holding her finger up to cut me off from my interruption. "Number two, I don't think you are able to grasp the idea that someone can love you as much as you love them."

My daughter, the psychologist. Did I miss the moment when a switch was flipped and she suddenly saw the world through her own eyes and gathered her own conclusions? Did that happen on a certain day, or did that just happen gradually over the past few years?

"Ana, I'm happy. I am. You make me so happy. You, daughter, are my pride and joy, and I would do anything for you. You know that. I'm content where I am. I like my life."

"You like it, but you don't love it. And you're not content where you are, Dad. You're

safe

. You're comfortable. You have security that no one can hurt you and you can't hurt anyone. You have a guarantee that you can't find yourself too in love, and that people can't get close enough to you to love you back. It's like Brinks, only for your soul. Sure, no risks, no failure, but no risks, no love."

I just stared at her. I had no idea what to say, because she was right. She hit the nail right on the head.

"Just to make things clear, I don't care what anyone says. Those kids and teachers at school that have a problem with your sexuality: they can suck it, because I know that I have the best dad."

"I know you feel that way. You've said that before. I just don't feel like I've reached a point where I'm ready."

That was a lie. I had been ready. I had felt the cold emptiness of being alone between the sheets in my bed, I missed the feeling of kissing someone who I know loves me more than life itself, I missed having fingers threaded between mine. It wasn't that I wasn't ready: it's that I felt guilty for being ready so soon. Ana did what I was now coming to expect: she called my bluff and pretty much read my mind.

"It's been six years!" she practically shouted. "It's okay to be ready. Six

years

. That's a long time, Dad. He'd want you to find someone that makes you happy. Pa would never want you to be alone or feel guilty, because just like his happiness was the most important thing to you when he was alive, yours was to him." She paused. "I know you're not going to, like, go to work tomorrow a new man, looking for a relationship, seeking out single men or anything like that. That's totally fine. I just want you to give a relationship a chance if it comes along. Mmkay?"

My daughter needed her own TV show. Oprah, Dr. Phil, Maury, move aside.

"Yeah, that sounds fair enough." I took a bite of popcorn before I continued. "Thank you for making yourself heard. I'm glad you feel like you can voice your opinions. Just don't ever forget that you can talk about anything with me."

"I know," she said after sighing dramatically, rolling her eyes. She was back to teenager mode. We sat in silence for a couple of minutes, a

Friends

rerun playing on the TV. "You're a great guy, Dad. Give it time. It'll happen. Good night."

After she walked up the stairs to go to bed, I sat on the couch, staring straight ahead. For better or for worse, my daughter was clearly able to read me like an open book, and it was only bound to get even more honed as she got older.

Oh, goody.

Ana

Three days later, a Friday, I was sitting in AP biology being admired by my classmates who were two to four years ahead of me, all because they wanted a piece of gum. If you've ever gone to a high school, you know that kids will say just about anything to get a piece of chewing gum. Needless to say, my just-opened pack was gone within thirty seconds.

I took quite a few classes at the high school, because after testing, it was clear that I didn't belong in my grade in any of my classes except history and geography. What can I say? Those two classes aren't worth my full effort: they're boring. If I wanted to sit through six years of learning the same thing over and over again about American history, I'd sign up for it. But there lies the catch in public schooling—classes and courseloads can't be customized. I didn't mind, though: it will give me time as a high school student to take as many transferrable college credits as possible, so when I go to a university, all of my crap courses will be done. That way, I'll be able to dive right in to a schedule that's actually relevant to my major, and maybe even graduate early. Yes, I'm a planner. I think I got that from my dad.

It was the last period of the day, the teacher was done teaching, and everyone was antsy and ready to go. I pulled my cell phone out of my bag to turn it on, and I saw that Dad had called. After the bell rang, I listened to the voice mail.

"Hey, sweetie. I'll be waiting outside today, so don't take the bus. I figure we can walk to pick up my Beemer after we get some ice cream on Second street. See you soon."

I know, I know. If I've said it once, I've said it a million times, but I really do have the best father ever. It's the unexpected stuff that he does that makes him special. He doesn't do it too much, so that he doesn't intrude on my schedule and so he can still surprise me, but he does it enough to let me know he cares.

I walked out of the five sets of double doors with about 3,000 other high schoolers, but despite the crowd of people, my father stood out. He wore a black suit with fine pin-striping, tailored to fit perfectly, a blue shirt, and a loosened yellow and white tie. Despite the fact that he's just as masculine as every other father, that's the thing about having a gay dad: he dresses so much better.

"How was your day?" he asked as we started walking down the sidewalk.

"Alright. What about you?"

"It was okay. I'm ready some for ice cream," he said, grinning down at me.

"So am I," I smiled back.

We had a delightful time, talking and laughing over ice cream and water before we walked over to the repair shop where Dad's BMW was ready. We walked in, and the distinctive smell of every car shop across the nation mixed with a faint smell of perfume and bubble gum. The source of the latter two was sitting at the counter, cracking her gum while whisking back her platinum blonde hair and offering my father a megawatt smile.

Sorry, honey,

I wanted to say.

He bats for the other team.

"Hello, Mr. Abernathy."

"Hello, Miss . . . Miss . . ."

"Just call me Candi."

"Candi. How are you?"

"I'm great, and so is your M3. She's all fixed up. It was just a minor transmission problem causing all that trouble for you. Let's see: the total is—"

"Don't worry about it." I looked over to the man whose voice interrupted Candi. Oh, my. He was a small piece of perfection. Even though his dark blond hair was messed up, and he was dirty, the man was

fine.

. . . for an old guy.

I looked to my dad's face, which was fixed on the repairman. It was then that I saw a look on Dad's face that I had never seen before: interest. My dad was checking this guy out! I couldn't help the smile that spread across my face.

"Whatever you say, Luke," Candi said, typing in the computer and sliding a piece of paper across the counter. "You're all set to go, Mr. Abernathy."

"Wait, what?" he inquired, looking between Candi and the man.

"Don't worry about it. It was a minor repair. The only reason it took so long was because I had other cars to tend to."

"I can't let you do that—"

"Listen, Mr. Abernathy, it's alright. I do it for people that need it, and just to be nice sometimes. Don't worry about it."

You have to love local business owners. They really are the people who keep the world decent.

"No," Dad persisted. "I can pay. Save it for someone who needs the break, like you said."

"Is he always this stubborn?"

I was surprised to see the man looking at me. For once, I actually wasn't invisible to an adult. I liked this guy already. "Actually, no," I answered, smiling. "But he has determination that he pulls out when he needs it. It comes in handy for him when we're arguing about my eight-o'-clock curfew." That made him smile. His teeth were the definition of white. You could tell they weren't bleached, but he took great care of them. He had one dimple on his left cheek when he smiled. I needed to hook him up with Dad. He held out his hand to me as I assessed his face.

"Luke Worthington. Miss Abernathy, your wit exceeds your age."

"And how would you know how old I am?"

"I don't."

"So you're assuming?"

"I think I am, yes."

"So first you assume, and now you think? That can get you in some trouble. You know what they say about assume, don't you?"

"Touché, Miss Abernathy." He smiled those pearly-whites at me again.

"It's Ana, with one 'n'."

"Well, Ana-with-one-'n', how about you use some of that savvy to persuade your father to forget about the cost of this repair."

With that, he walked out. I heard the familiar sound of Dad's Beemer starting, and saw it pull into a parking place outside as Dad conversed with Candi.

"Candi, here," he said, sliding a check across the counter.

"Mr. Aberna—"

"Thank you, Candi. You have a nice day, too," my dad interrupted cheekily, walking out the door. I followed, grinning and shaking my head. My dad certainly wasn't one to let anyone one-up him.

Luke

He truly was a beautiful, beautiful man. He walked in again, looking as dashing as ever, this time with a young girl with him. She was Asian, and judging by her facial features, I guessed Korean. What can I say? I was a classical violinist when I was younger, and at the competitions, you learn very quickly how to identify the different races. It was just one thing that set me apart from many ignorant people who automatically assume that anyone who appears to be of Asian descent is Chinese.

This girl, though, she was a smart one. I guessed her to be in her early teens, but her eloquence and astuteness shattered her young physical appearance. She was clever. It was also obvious that she and her father were very close.

So what was wrong with him? He was obviously intelligent, had a good job, was seemingly a great father, and was extremely attractive to back it up. The answer was obvious: Candi was right. He had to be straight.

I can't say I wasn't disappointed. Candi always told me all the good ones are gay or taken. I always shot back at her that all the good ones are straight or taken. Once again, my little motto appeared true.

I told Candi to drop the charges. There was nothing wrong with his car. I basically just tightened a few things up and it was as good as new. It was obvious he took impeccably good care of it. There was no point in me charging my normal amount, so I just waived the cost all the way. Hey, what can I say? He was gorgeous and his car was truly the definition of "no trouble at all". He kept arguing, though, and didn't let me get away with it.

That ass.

I went outside and pulled the car around. I had no idea why he walked out of my shop smiling like the cat that had just caught the canary. "Thank you," he said jovially.

"My pleasure, Mr. Abernathy," I said, my confusion at his smugness coming through on my face, I'm sure.

"Call me Steven," he smiled. I looked at his daughter, the perplexed look still on my visage.

"You'll understand," she mouthed silently to me, pointing to Candi inside the shop, then she spoke aloud. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Worthington."

"You, too, Ana." I watched them get in the car and drive off, then walked back inside. Candi was sitting there, looking at me with an amused look on her face.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" She spun the computer monitor around to face me. Displayed was the consumer appointment number, the price I had charged—or lack thereof—below that, and the amount paid underneath showing an absurd amount.

That ass. That strong-willed, stubborn ass. The ass with a gorgeous ass.

"He has a daughter," Candi gloated.

"Yes, thank you, I saw that."

"You can say those magical three words anytime now."

"I love you," I replied.

"Yeah, yeah, wrong three word phrase. Try again."

"Forget it. You still don't have concrete evidence. Still no ring. Still no wife. Presumably an adopted child."

"Stop being a sore loser and just say the words," Candi grinned.

"You were right," I said grudgingly. "Don't get a big head. Lord knows your boobs are big enough for that."

"Yeah, har-dee-har-har. You're so clever. Get back to work!"

"Who owns this place, me or you?" Candi shot me her look of death. I laughed and headed back to the garage.