My dad is the only person in my family who always, always calls me Rose. My mom throws out a ton of pet names for Aaron and me both—sweetie, honey, kid, pumpkin, hey you—and Aaron has been calling me Rosie since he was old enough to talk, but my dad only ever calls me Rose. It always makes me feel more grown-up, like we’re on the same level.

“What do you do on dates?” I did not feel grown-up when I blurted that question out. My dad hadn’t looked up from his book (one of those bland crime thriller political drama things with a strong-jawed white man in silhouette on the cover) when I came into the room but the moment I asked that, he put his bookmark in, set the book down on his lap, and looked up at me.

“Excuse me?” he asked, taking his reading glasses off. I could see the ghost of a smile on his face and decided to just push through before he could tease me too badly.

“I just mean…” I started, “like, when you ask someone out, and they say yes, what’s the next thing you’re supposed to do?”

His mouth twitched in amusement.

“I know what’s next, obviously,” I rushed to add. “You find a time and then you meet up and…”

I trailed off, hoping that he would forgo poking fun and head straight for the fatherly advice.

“Rose,” he said, in a tone of voice that I knew meant he wasn’t going to breeze past the good-natured ribbing portion of this conversation, “do you have a date?”

“Yes,” I said loftily, as if having a date was something that happened to me all the time.

“With whom?” he asked, matching my formal tone.

“A lovely young woman named Emily Rodriguez.” I sniffed haughtily.

“Well, that’s very exciting.” He was nodding his head, his toothless smile coiled so tightly like he feared opening his mouth would lead to a laugh breaking out. For a few seconds, we just stayed there, looking at each other and nodding solemnly, him seated on the couch and me standing above him, hyperaware of my stiff posture.

“Ugh, just tell me what to do!” I moaned finally, collapsing down on the couch next to him. At that, his smile did burst open, wide and bright, his head tipping back in a warm, hearty laugh.

“Stop, I’m serious.” I groaned, hitting his arm lightly as he laughed. But soon I was giggling too, never immune to the infectious nature of my dad’s joy.

“I’m really proud of you, Rose,” he said, smiling wide at me.

“Ew, why?” I asked, blushing furiously. Even though I knew, deep down, that he was proud of me—more accepting of jumping right into the workforce than my mom was—I hadn’t heard it so directly in a while.