I don’t, but I do grab a chilled bottle of Sam Adams and head out to the deck, where Paul and a host of other men have congregated, much like this is Super Bowl Sunday and not a sad occasion. They’re laughing, until they realize who I am. I have no idea who these people are, but they murmur appropriate sentiments: “Sorry for your loss.” I keep thinking that they mean Mack. I’m sure that they think that the very real grief on my face is attributable to the human loss and natural filial feelings.

If only they knew that I lost my father years ago. That loss is hardened into my bones. I murmur my appropriate responses. Paul plays host and starts introducing them to me. I shake hands and smile and keep the urge to howl at bay. I take a quick sip of the beer, tell myself I need to behave like a grown-up, thank them for their kindness in being on Paul’s deck on a weeknight.

“You remember Ron Markham?”

Nearly thirty years changes a man. Changes a boy into a man. Changes sleek and Greek into a schlub. This Ronnie Markham is soft-faced; a ring of untidy brown hair frames a bald head, and his eyebrows are trying to make up for the loss. He sports a bristly mustache and looks the part of a used-car salesman to a T. His hands are feminine, small and soft as he takes my unoffered hand in his. He freaking pats it. “Justine, I’m so sorry about your dad. He was always one of our best people.”

“Right.” I extract my hand from his. Markham’s best.

*   *   *

I am so excited, as only a girl can be whose dream guy has suddenly woken up from his obliviousness and seen her for a desirable woman. Golden boy, king of the football field, legendary Ronnie Markham is taking me out. It is one of the few times I can remember Adele smiling at me with genuine pleasure, as if I have turned from straw into gold. My dating Ronnie Markham is clearly a feather in her social cap.

I dress with such excited panic. Is the floral dress with the outsize shoulder pads the best thing? I decide that I shouldn’t be too dressy. I pull on my black leggings and fashionably droopy boat-neck top. Using electric rollers, I curl my hair, and tease my bangs into a lofty height. Ron, a little early, is in the kitchen, drinking Coke with Paul. I walk into the room and, oh Lord, he stands up, like a gentleman caller, and helps me into my fake-leather bomber jacket. I hope that my deodorant does its job and I’m not going to embarrass myself with wet circles under my perspiring armpits. I am so nervous.

When Ronnie asked me out, it was an afterthought. “Hey, Justine, want to go out sometime?”