Free Tattoos & Teacups by Anna Martin Page B

prompted the right kind of reaction from her. My daughter sighed heavily, and I could almost hear her eyes rolling in her head.
    “Dad.”
    “Well,” I said. “There’s no precedent for how the letters K H should sound next to each other in the English language. It could be like ‘knife’ with a silent K.”
    She muttered something about having a teacher for a parent, which I chose to ignore.
    “So her name could be pronounced like….” I considered it. “Hulooo. Hulooo Cardigan.”
    The snort of laughter was inelegant and sounded so much like her mother it made my heart ache. “You’re such a geek,” Chloe informed me.
    “Thanks,” I said. “Tell your mom that for me, would you? It’s the risk she’s taking with all of those creative spellings.”
    She smiled and tried to hide it by looking out the window.
    “So, what’s his name?” she asked.
    “Chris,” I told her.
    “Do I get to meet him?”
    “I think he’d like that,” I told her.
    Chloe kicked her heels up onto the dash. I decided not to argue with her and let her do it.
    “You look different,” she said suddenly, sitting up straighter.
    “I do?”
    “Yeah. You’ve had your hair cut. And you’re growing a beard.”
    “I’m not growing a beard,” I said, laughing. “I just didn’t shave this morning.”
    “And… and… you look… different,” she finished lamely.
    “Better?” I teased.
    “Anything is an improvement.”
    “I’ll call Joan Rivers, see if she can get you a job. Your critical eye is clearly an untapped talent.”
    “Ha ha,” she deadpanned. “He’s changed you,” she accused.
    “Maybe,” I said lightly. “I don’t mind if he has. Like you said, it’s an improvement.”
    She turned the radio on then, effectively ending the conversation with Lady Gaga. I considered calling Chris and picking him up on the way back to the flat but decided against it, thinking Chloe would probably be more comfortable meeting him in a more public, nonthreatening environment. Neutral territory. Switzerland. She would probably rejoice at a trip to Europe, actually. Although my first choice of location would be taking her back to my homeland.
    But I digress.
    I needed to stop back at the flat to pick up my wallet, which I’d forgotten in my haste to leave the house that morning, and Chloe wanted to see the cat. We ended up crashing in front of the TV with two mugs of coffee, leaving me wondering when my teenage daughter had started drinking the stuff. I blamed her mother.
    We were tuned in to Oprah when my phone buzzed. I smiled as I answered it to Chris.
    “Hi,” I said, trying not to let the goofy smile escape from my face.
    “Hey. Did you pick her up okay?” he asked.
    “Yeah, we’re just chilling before we go do something.”
    “’Kay,” he said, and I heard him shifting about.
    “Are you still in bed?” I asked incredulously. It was closing in on 11:00 a.m.
    “Dad, please,” Chloe muttered.
    “I didn’t get in till three,” Chris protested.
    I told him to hang on and turned to Chloe. “Is it okay if we pick him up in an hour? I’ll take you out for lunch.”
    “Sure,” she said, shrugging it off.
    “Get your ass out of bed,” I said to Chris. “We’ll be there in an hour.”
    “Fine, fine,” he muttered and rang off.
    Chloe was silent, staring determinedly at the TV. I wasn’t too concerned. I was aware of the soporific, trancelike effects of television, especially on young minds.
    “Where did you meet him?” she demanded after a few minutes.
    “Hmm? Oh. At a pub,” I said.
    “A gay bar?”
    “No, Chloe,” I said gently. “Just a pub. We just got to talking.”
    “Then how did he know you’re gay? You don’t look gay.”
    This was the part of the coming-out-to-my-daughter process I was dreading. Explaining things. Maybe it would have been easier to tell her when she was younger.
    “I was out with Alex. He sort of orchestrated our meeting.”
    “Oh.”
    More silence.
    “Chloe,” I