Page 138 of Almost Not Quite Engaged

COURT: Be safe. Be careful

GINNY: You’re ok by yourself?

KAT: I’ll be fine

GINNY: Still you shouldn’t be alone right now

COURT: She’s not

I close my phone at my sister’s cryptic text and pray she’s not coming with me. I can’t handle the women right now.

But my guest star is already in the seat next to mine on the plane. I sit down, lean over, he wraps me up and I sob in the safety of my father’s arms.

“I have a lot of Yellowstone to get through and since your mother hates that show I thought I could use a solid eight-hour flight. If you could hurry your mental breakdown along, I’d appreciate it.” I laugh into his chest and he strokes my hair. He lets me cry and holds me. “You’ll be ok. This isn’t forever, Katydid.”

I look up at him, “The breakup?”

“I was going to say the pain, but that’s an interesting way to go.” I curl back into my seat and he settles into his and I drift off, holding my father’s hand. Just before I fall asleep I confess.

“It wasn’t real, Dad.”

He grins and puts his seat back. “Sure it wasn’t. I totally believe you.”

“Dad,” I say more pointedly.

“Then why are you crying?”

The plane lands hard in Copenhagen. It’s gray, and in the distance, I can see specks of red roofs. I don’t know what to expect in Denmark, but I need to photograph something today. I need someone else’s story.

We spend the day in their little Paris neighborhood with a name I can barely pronounce, Værnedamsvej. I indulge my father in the Danish War Museum. He read it all and I discovered how the light played hide and seek throughout the museum. I took a series of abstract pictures of the light playing off sculptures or tanks. Even my father’s shoes framed right made a cool shot. We ate and slept early.

We’re strolling down the canal along Nyhavn and it’s all sherbet-colored. Each building its own shade of pastel. It’s gorgeous and I wonder if Charleston copied them. They’re gorgeous blues, reds, yellow, coral and greens. I stop every few feet to catch them in the morning cozy light. The hygge is real. I truly want to curl up with a book right here on the street.

“Why would the whole neighborhood decide to paint their buildings like this?” I’m looking around for a plaque or something when my father speaks.

“There are several reasons, and yes, I saw it in a documentary. The colors were cheap materials in the 17th century. They make damn colorful landmarks for incoming sailors who were looking for the port and my favorite of all.” He spreads his hands wide. “Happiness. A shield. The bright pops of color bring warmth and cheer to a long gray winter.”

I mutter, “Three reasons.” Then exhale and loop my camera over my head. “Even the city has a metaphor for you to tap into, Dad.”

“I can’t help it, I’m your pop of color right now.” He kicks his heels up and taps them together like he’s Dick Van Dyke.

I snap his picture and he bows.

Out of habit, obligation, or possibly an apology of sorts, I hold up my empty left hand and snap it framed by a statue that the square surrounds.

“Such melodrama. You’ve been maudlin long enough.”

“I was doing it for consistency’s sake. There’s so much bullshit I was keeping from you and I don’t know why. See I was taking…”

He puts his hand up and pulls up a picture on his phone. “Voila, your engagement party invitation.” I stare at it. It’s a collage of all the ring photos from the gallery. My jaw drops.

“So, I’m like not a mystery to anyone?”

“Nah, you never have been. You’re just you. It’s just time to dwell in it, come on.”

I reach out to his shoulder. “Dad, I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to do my hair right, or not stain something in the near vicinity or remember where I parked my car or threw my wallet. I think that’s never going to happen.”

“Exactly. And if I can add my god given right of some good ole dad- -two-cents.”