Dad takes us to the diner, which is a terrible sign, because diners are where we go for difficult conversations.
“Get grilled cheese!” he says, and that means it is extra bad and we should jump ship immediately, because shit’s about to go down in a serious way. Grilled cheese is code for total drama.
“Mom’s coming back,” Arizona says. This is what Arizona always says. It is absolutely never true and Mom probably never will come back, but for some reason Arizona lives in a state of fear that Mom will come back and a slightly greater fear that she never will. So anytime Something’s Going On, that’s her first thought.
“Mom?” Dad says like he’s never heard of her.
The waitress comes by and I take his advice and order grilled cheese and a milk shake, because I don’t like the look on his face. A combination of nervousness and sappy happiness that I’ve seen before. The look he gets when he knows he’s doing something I will hate, but it’s making him happy so he’s going to try to justify it.
“Yeah. Our mom. Is she coming back or something?” Arizona says.
“Of course not,” Dad says. “Did she say something? That’s extremely not true. Unless she’s coming back without telling me? Did she say she’s moving to New York?” Something about my mother unnerves my father too. We are all disasters from even the mention of her.
“I haven’t heard from her since my birthday,” Arizona says. “You know that. We have a birthday mother. The end.” She looks shaky, my sister. Mom would hate the way Arizona looks now. I know almost nothing about the woman except that she thinks plastic surgery was the biggest mistake of her life. That it ruined her and ruined her marriage and that she thinks it will ruin us.
It’s hard to take advice from a mother who left you.
I almost get it. Almost.
“This isn’t about your mother. This is about Karissa,” Dad says. The waitress brings our food out, and Arizona starts scarfing her sandwich and sucking down the milk shake. I can’t bring myself to eat yet.
“She’s twelve,” Arizona says.
“You don’t ever like the women I date,” Dad says. He has this calm way of speaking that makes it impossible to fight, even though that’s all Arizona wants to do.
“They’re not really worth having any feelings about,” Arizona says. Dad clears his throat, which is his version of yelling at us.
The red seats are stickier than Natasha’s leather couch. They’re not real leather, for one, and they’re gross from whatever jam and syrup and ketchup has landed on them in the last day.
“You’re breaking up?” I say, because he usually takes us to the diner when he’s either breaking up with a woman or deciding to marry her, and I know, I know he is not deciding to marry Karissa.
She is practically my age. She lets her hair air-dry. She wears cheap jewelry and makes terrible martinis. She never had braces. Her chin is a little like mine. She makes me feel like I’m important and wild.
“Karissa means a lot to me,” he says.
Fuck.
He tries to say these speeches differently every time, but they’re so stale and familiar that they physically hurt. Muscle memory or Pavlov’s dog or whatever. I hear the words and start to ache in all the familiar places.
Except worse this time.
“And Montana, I’m so glad you and she have such a strong relationship already. I think that makes this very new. And very unique.”
I have been hearing some version of these exact sentences my whole life. Everything is always new and unique in my father’s head. But in reality it is monotonous and the worst kind of boring. Recurring-nightmare boring.
Except this time with a twist.
Arizona grips my knee under the table and is already scraping the bottom of the milk shake, slurping at the last few sips. We both stare at the salt and pepper shakers.
Something terrible is happening right now, I text Bernardo under the table, and I’m elated to have him to report to, a way to escape the moment a little. I let my mind remember that there will be a whole life with him outside of this.
I take a huge bite of grilled cheese at last, and it’s perfection, but there is not enough grilled cheese in the world to make what Dad’s about to do less painful. He reaches into his jacket pocket. He’s the only person wearing a suit in the crowded diner.
“You are not serious,” Arizona says. “If you take a ring out of your pocket right now, I am going to lose my fucking mind.” Her voice is cut up and jagged. She sounds like an animal, not like herself.
My throat’s dry and I close my eyes, willing the diner and the milk shakes and my dad’s earnest face and the velvet box away.
Inside my head I’m screaming. Actually screaming. But on the outside I’m straight-faced and mute.