The Starter Boyfriend by Tina Ferraro

it might as well be Don’tGoThere because I’m not.”
    He uttered a husky laugh.
    Zipping up the tuxedo bag, I brought Phillip up to speed on the woman’s plans to get the tux comped, just in case I wasn’t in the store when she returned.
    “Well done.” He flicked his head toward the wall clock. “Now look, I know it’s a big weekend for you. If you want to take off early...”
    I felt my brow furrow. Sure, I wanted to leave. I was exhausted and hungry, and I still had to go to the stupid football game. But first, what I really wanted? To steal a few minutes with my polyester gabardine cutie. To let down my guard, get a hug and a laugh. Like filling up the gas tank before a long drive. “Sure, um, you want to grab some dinner first?”
    “No, I’ve got some pizza in the fridge, thanks.”
    “Then maybe you just want to take a break? Get some fresh air?”
    His gaze sharpened as it bore into mine. And although I was sure it was a mere coincidence (more likely, my own paranoia), it seemed as if he glanced at the window display before glancing back at me.
    My lungs went all heavy, and I was surprised when I took a breath, that it made no sound. “Or,” I managed, “I could just go home.”
    He said nothing.
    Which was my cue, of course, to take off. I grabbed my backpack, told him I’d see him on Monday and headed out the door, carefully not looking back or at the window. Just in case Phillip was watching.
     
    * * *
     
    “Yum,” I murmured to Jennifer back home, wolfing down a couple fish tacos at the kitchen table. She’d topped them with some kind of orange dressing that looked a lot like Animal Style sauce, but with a south-of-the-border kick.
    My dad was clearly in heaven, too, for by the time I jumped up from the table, he was chowing down his third.
    “Muchas gracias, senorita!” I said to our sombrero-wearing cook, and headed for the stairs.
    Upstairs in my room, I leafed through my hangers for the right tank to layer under my tee and favorite fleece hoodie. It would definitely get cool later on the beach. Only to get stopped short by the sight of something completely out of whack.
    The homecoming dress. Hanging there, all nice and clean and blue and pressed inside its dry cleaning bag. Way to go, Jennifer!
    After a zip-up of my jeans and a touch-up on my face (was there such a thing as too much lip gloss?), I skipped back down the stairs, passing my dad in his favorite recliner in front of the TV. My step-mom-to-be was in the kitchen, her hands immersed in soapy water. Doing the dishes.
    How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
    I moved in for a quick back squeeze. “Jennifer, thank you so much for picking up my dress! What a wonderful surprise.”
    She glanced over her shoulder. “I’m glad you’re happy, sweetie, but it wasn’t me.”
    Stepping back, I shook my head, back-and-forth, back-and-forth, almost hoping I’d get dizzy and dislodge some secret trove of logic. For this did not compute. Jennifer was my Plan B. My back-up. My safety net. If not her, then...
    “Who, then? The Easter Bunny? The Sandman? Old Saint Nick?”
    Turning while wiping her hands on a dish towel, Jennifer laughed. “I think you could say it was the Tooth Fairy.”
    My jaw dropped. Hard.
    She nodded.
    “My dad?” I managed. “ My dad picked up my dry cleaning? How in the world...”
    “Simple. I asked him.”

 
     
    Chapter 12
     
     
    Jennifer’s words boomeranged in my brain as I circled the high school stadium later in search of street parking.
    She asked him. She asked him .
    As if, all these years, if I’d just said pretty-please, my father would have put down his newspaper or golf club and gone to the grocery store or made a bed or a meal? Really ?
    I couldn’t remember a time when I had, in so many words, asked for his help. Still, you’d think the sight of his daughter burning grilled cheese sandwiches, on her hands and knees to find the outlet for the vacuum cleaner cord or having the