He was ready to throw in the towel. After twenty minutes of circling the block and damn near crashing into a lamppost trying to drive and navigate at the same time, his map spread out on the passenger's seat, he'd decided to leave his truck in a thrift store parking lot and test his luck on foot. That was when he'd finally discovered the number 2014 on the peeling facade of a dusty-windowed laundromat. 2016, though, remained as elusive as a greased pig. Georgie must've given him a false address as payback—or perhaps his dumb son had just screwed up copying the details.

He looked up and down the street, shielding his eyes against the watery January sun. Little simple-hearted of him to think he'd locate the place just like that, as if he'd expected to find a tacked-up sign casually announcing gays over yonder. He wiped his brow with his sleeve, clammy after all the walking he'd put himself through, and decided to continue his search for ten more minutes. If it didn't bear fruit, he'd call Georgie from the motel and ask for some markers.

He set off again, past the grimy alley mainly blocked off by a faded green dumpster, checking for a number on the next building. Try as he might, not in a month of Sundays could he envision Mary living in this city, bicycles zooming down steep hills, the same coffee shops in different fonts on every corner selling all types of lattes and whatnots but not a simple cup of joe, more tie-dye, piercings, and funky hair colors than in his daughter's magazines—not to mention that damn fog chilling up his back. How did a former Bible study hosting mother of three ever fit in here?

Across the street, a bunch of men came strolling down the pavement, springy and loud, as if it was business as usual to walk all the way to your destination. He halted, wondering if they would beat his ass if he asked for directions to a lesbian bar, when a tall, skinny one with a mop of curls called, in a girly high voice: "That's the ladies' side, handsome. Gents are over here!" He pointed behind him, his friends guffawing like a pack of donkeys.

George lifted his hand in acknowledgment, continued straight on, then doubled back once the group's noises had died out and the oncoming evening was resting again, no people in sight. He checked for bystanders and treaded into the alley, which turned out to extend to the left, ending in what was finally the number 2016 he'd been after.

Above the door, pink neon formed the name Missy's, a glowing stab in the gut. A fool he might be, still, it wasn't rocket science: his wife's sweet request to call their wrinkly prune of a baby daughter "Missy" was steeped in the memories of an ex-girlfriend, more on her mind than she'd probably ever confess. Another way she'd cheated on him. He had half a mind to storm in and demand an apology, have her admit she wronged him, when he spotted the note with closed for private event stuck to the door, surrounded by hand-drawn balloons and many-candled cakes, and stayed put. He'd done his kids enough damage. Wouldn't do any good to ruin their birthday too.

The windows were completely covered in newspaper and tabloid pages to ward off prying eyes like his. He pushed his face to the door, but couldn't see anything aside from vague blurs of light. He could hear them, though, a mishmash of women's voices, the vibrating boom of music. If he could just find a gap in the defenses, he would be able to see Missy again, maybe Sheldon too. Towards the top, he noticed a sizable hole where the pages had started peeling off, and spotting fire escape clinging to the building on the left, he climbed it, taking care to keep quiet on the metal.

His heart, damn treacherous lately, leaped up. He had the perfect view from up here: through the windows, he saw right into the bar to a long table seated with two dozen women, his girl sitting in the middle, shining like a new penny with bold eyeshadow matching her fuzzy blue sweater, her hair bedecked with plastic flowers. He gripped the guardrail, gritting his teeth. Should've been him bending past her to light the candles on that giant frosted cake, her father, not Jean, the one who'd unlawfully received a piece of his daughter fifteen years ago. Missy said something to her, smiling, and Jean smiled back, squeezing her arm like a claim. He smothered his anger. Wouldn't do him any good now. If anything, the couple of close calls in the past few weeks had taught him life was too damn short to hold onto this spitting spite.

Sinking into a starched-white hospital bed, he hadn't spared a single thought for the woman clutching his hand or the thorn of betrayal in his side. While a nurse fussed over the beeping screen and the sticker things on his hairy chest, he'd envisioned his kids, his ex-wife, hell, even his ex-mother-in-law, and vowed to stop being a stubborn mule.

He wasn't delivering on that promise just yet, but he hoped to be soon.

His gaze swept past the guests in his range of vision, trying to locate his boy or his ex, then did a double-take: Mary was right there, on the other side of Missy, pointing at some people to do her bidding, and he hadn't recognized her.

He wasn't sure why. Sure, she'd chopped off a considerable length of hair, her tresses not reaching past her boobs any longer. Sure, she was clad in jeans and a pretty blouse, but that wasn't that out of the ordinary. She still fussed over the mountain of gifts before them, she still had a glint of gold dangling from her neck, she still wore her bright smile, and she was wearing it well. Part of him had hoped she'd withered here, retreated into herself with her tail tucked between her legs. Instead, she'd never breathed so much life, like the San Francisco fog didn't bother her none.

He always believed he'd picked himself a strong-willed woman. There hadn't been any doubt as to who wore the britches in their marriage; he found it easier to nod along to whatever she wanted and go behind her back if needed.

It struck him now that maybe that will had not been a symptom of strength after all—that maybe it'd been a way to take control and hide her weaknesses. This Mary wasn't his wife; she'd cast off a dragging weight he'd never noticed until it was gone, her shoulders unburdened and relaxed, her chest no longer swelling with stifled sighs. It was clear as day she was better off without him.

The thorn in his side burrowed a little deeper.

"I really hope you're that girl's father and not some pervert."

"Jesus!"

He almost toppled over the railing, his heart beating a million miles an hour. How he could've missed the whole person appearing down below, sparking up a cigarette with her delicate hands cupped around it, was a mystery. She took a drag and pocketed her lighter, looking up at him like a birder observing a new, mildly interesting species.

"Not around these parts, man," she said, with a barely-there smile.

He didn't get the joke at first, too distracted by her Halle Berry cut of soft raven curls and the sharp lines of her sculpted face, the dark eyes scanning him from head to toe. He'd been way off base about lesbians: this one was a stunner too, all feminine curves despite her leather jacket, a softness to the fingers gripping her smoke. Another woman who could reel in any man she wanted and yet chose to spend her time here, secluded from the rest of the world.

He huffed in appreciation, a delayed response, and gestured to the bar. "Yeah, Missy's my daughter. Just wanted to..." He trailed off. What did he want? Stand here all night to watch a bunch of strangers shower his daughter with presents and congratulations?

With the heedful glare of a bird of prey waiting her turn to pick at his carcass, the woman climbed up the steps to stand next to him, elbows on the railing, all cigarette smoke and musk. Together, they watched as the group inside erupted into a messy rendition of Happy Birthday, Missy hiding her face in her palms, Mary keeping Jean's gaze with an intensity that almost made him turn back then and there. Jean reached for her, and he wondered if they were holding hands behind Missy's back. A cat jumped on the table, gunning for the cake, and Missy laughed and picked it up, snuggling it close.

It stung worse than a hornet's nest to be here on the outside, and it being entirely his own fault. Seeing Mary like this, he wasn't holding onto any pipe-dreams: he couldn't have stopped his wife from running off with another woman even if he'd tied her down to the bed with a Palomar knot. Maybe, though, if he'd been more of a man, he could've swallowed his pride, and he'd be celebrating with his kids right now. He could've had the gumption to face his family.

"I had a father like you," the woman beside him said, like she had heard his thoughts. She tapped her cigarette on the railing, ashes flurrying to the ground. "Would've given anything for him to show up out of the blue with the intent to reconcile."

He nodded absentmindedly and moved to walk past her, hoping he would find the courage before he reached the door, but she blocked his path, shaking her head.

"Not when it was my fifteenth birthday that I'd been planning for weeks, though. Come back in a couple of days. When she can separate the two."

It was simultaneously a relief and a punch to the gut.

"What are you, a therapist?" he grumbled.

"I am, actually," she said, shifting her cigarette to her other hand and extending the now-empty one. "Michelle."

"George."

Her skin was cold and smooth to the touch, her grip firmer than he'd expected. Damn bonkers, meeting a lesbian therapist who introduced herself like they were in an office while spying on his not-so-little girl, the windows of the bar flashing brightly with someone taking photos of the party proceedings. Silently, Michelle and he looked on as Missy attempted to blow out the candles, the cat squirming in her embrace. She managed on the third try, with the help of a big manly woman who looked exactly like he'd always pictured lesbians, and the rest erupted into a roaring applause that could be heard clearly in the alley. Jean hugged Missy first, then Mary, and the ease and familiarity was another punch to the gut.

He bit back bitter tears as Mary handed her a gift, gesturing from herself to Jean. If there was anything he had no appetite for, it was to act like a yellow-bellied weeper in front of a therapist. Missy ripped off the wrapping paper, tore off the cover from a box, and revealed a bundle of snow-white fabric as bright as the sparkle in her amazed grin.

"Did they give her linen bedsheets?" he asked, because he was scared he might cry if he didn't distract himself.

"It's a karate gi. She's been wearing a second-hand one up until now."

"Karate?"

"Yeah. She's pretty good, too, I hear."

Missy held up her gift, and he saw what it was now: a crisp uniform with something embroidered on the top left, maybe a name. Mary, allowing their precious girl to learn how to kick and hit her peers. He would've never dared to suggest it, already imagining passioned speeches about Jesus and peace, and he could hardly imagine anyone else having better luck, not with that crucifix dangling from her neck. He wondered what it had taken. Maybe some simple coaxing and fluttering of eyelashes from Jean had been enough to do the trick. It'd led her astray to California, after all.

Missy pulled the kimono thing over her sweater, Mary drawing it shut in absence of a belt, and he warmed with pride that had nowhere to go, streaming out of his pores in dank sweat. "So, she's doing okay?" he asked, like he didn't already know. "She's happy here?"

Michelle scoffed. "That girl is spoilt rotten. Treated like some kind of mascot."

It occurred to him then that he might not be the only loser feeling left out that night. After all, she'd sneaked out for a cigarette during the crown moment. Strange to bear some kind of kinship with a person who in every other way was as different to him as night to day.

"What about Sheldon?"

He couldn't locate his son anywhere—no wonder, of course. He would hate this.

"We've been toughening him up a little. Barely left his room at first, until he discovered Lou is up to executing about any questionable science experiment."

"Can't see him loving these crowds."

"Nah, he's up at his dorm a lot of the time. They took him to a museum yesterday, hasn't stopped talking about it."

It was peculiar to see Missy take center stage, Sheldon nowhere to be seen. Georgie had told him Sheldon was now attending Caltech, while he and a melon-round Mandy bursting at the seams lived with Connie. "Ma's planning to come down here after the birth," Georgie had said, "maybe Missy and Jean too for a few days. In case you wanna talk to her." Good to know his eldest son was still chock-full of bad ideas. Last thing he needed was to barge into a house brimming with hormone-raging women who hated him.

No, he'd thought this might be better. Maybe he could gain some understanding of the wife he'd loved for about twenty years if he could observe her in her natural habitat.

Mary bent forward to cut into the cake, and with a zap, he realized the golden shape swinging from her neck didn't remotely resemble a cross. He squinted his eyes, trying to make out what it was, some sort of lesbian signage, but he was too far away.

"I'll be damned. That ain't no cross."

Natural habitat—what a dumb idea. Mary, shocked as the knife shot too far and her hand sank into the cake, Jeanie, taking her whipped cream-covered fingers and licking them clean, no shame, Mary burning red, Missy rolling her eyes like she was used to it. Like it was every day that her mother turned to another woman to kiss her sweetly, a little too long for a kid's birthday party. His stomach gurgled.

Michelle sighed. "It's an airplane. Jean got it for her. It's got something to do with how they met."

How about that. Once, he'd driven her into the arms of God, and then, this woman came and pulled her right out of His grip.

"Hard to see someone you love love someone else so much better, isn't it?" Michelle said then, and suddenly, he understood why she was out here with him and not in there with them.

"Jean?"

She nodded. "Mm-hmm. Never realized she likes to be pampered this much. Thought I was dating a modern independent woman. And now here's the white picket fence."

He didn't think the fence was white at all, much less consisting of something as commonplace as wooden pickets—but he got the sentiment.

"If it makes you feel any better," he said, "I never realized my wife would've preferred I had boobs."

Michelle didn't smile. Two strangers, as different as grits and gravy, cast off in the same boat. He felt oddly soothed by the heaviness of her presence, the steady exhale of smoke. Inside, Missy was opening more presents, Mary plunking cake onto paper plates, Jean distributing them amongst the others, working together like a well-oiled machine. They kept watching, like spectators stuck in the arena of an opposing football team doing a little too well, until Michelle let go of her cigarette and it extinguished on the tarmac below.

"I'm gonna tell Stacey to fix that gap," she said, retreating back down the stairs, "so next time, knock on the door."

He waved at her in thanks, stopped quickly when his shoulder hurt. Too much driving in the past few days. Taking one last look at his daughter, he set off for his truck and a good night's sleep. Hopefully, the pain would be gone by the morning.