Before the door closed, she looked toward him.
“Wear the blue shirt.”
He stared.
“What?”
“The one you’re wearing.”
“I only brought two.”
“Good.”
She closed the door.
The Single Dad stood in the driveway as the SUV disappeared.
His sister appeared beside him.
Silence.
Then:
“No.”
He looked at her.
“What?”
“You are not going to walk into my house and pretend that was normal.”
He laughed.
“I met her on the plane.”
His sister stared.
“That sentence answered nothing.”
Inside, the boy had already opened the Single Dad’s backpack.
“Dad!”
“What?”
“Why is your laptop broken again?”
“It works.”
“It sounds like a lawnmower.”
His sister folded her arms.
“Who is she?”
The Single Dad sighed.
“CEO.”
His sister’s eyes widened.
“Of what?”
He told her.
She looked toward the street.
Then him.
Then street.
“You met that woman in economy?”
“Yes.”
“What was she doing in economy?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Why?”
“Because normal people don’t interrogate strangers about their ticket choices.”
His sister stared.
“Normal people also don’t arrive at my house in a car worth more than this neighborhood.”
He laughed.
Then became serious.
“She’s nice.”
His sister’s expression softened.
“Oh.”
“What?”
“You said nice.”
“Yes.”
“You never say nice.”
“I say nice.”
“You say competent.”
“Responsible.”
“Funny.”
“Exhausting.”
“Occasionally catastrophic.”
The Single Dad frowned.
“Who have I called catastrophic?”
“Your last date.”
“Accurate.”
His sister smiled.
“You said nice.”
The Single Dad looked toward his son.
The boy was sitting on the floor trying to repair the laptop hinge with a screwdriver he had apparently produced from nowhere.
“Don’t.”
The boy looked offended.
“I can fix it.”
“That sentence has cost me hundreds of dollars.”
The boy continued.
The Single Dad’s sister lowered her voice.
“Do you like her?”
He looked at her.
“I met her today.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
He walked toward the kitchen.
His sister followed.
He finally said:
“I don’t know.”
She smiled.
That was answer enough.
The CEO arrived at 9:58 the next morning.
No driver this time.
She drove herself.
Different outfit.
Cream blouse.
Dark trousers.
Hair tied back.
Less glamorous.
Still unmistakably her.
The Single Dad’s son ran toward her carrying a small homemade robot with wheels made from bottle caps.
The CEO crouched.
“What is that?”
“Prototype.”
She looked impressed.
“What does it do?”
The robot moved two inches.
Turned in a circle.
Hit a shoe.
Stopped.
The boy frowned.
“It used to do more.”