He brings it out even after Arizona’s threat. He looks sheepish but determined.
“Don’t make a mountain,” Dad says. He is known for saying one half of famous phrases without saying the other half. “In group we talk about moving forward, and it can be hard for the kids, but you girls move forward too. Arizona, you don’t even live here. And soon Montana won’t either. And I need someone to share my life with.”
It sounds so reasonable, except when you factor in how many times he’s been married and how young Karissa is and how they only just met and that she is my friend and not meant to be his wife.
She cannot be my stepmom.
Cannot.
The black velvet box flips open with a practiced flick of his wrist. Personally I’d never marry someone who looks so comfortable proposing. The ring inside is enormous, like the rest of them. It glints even under crappy diner lights, and I swear some of the customers nearby are straining to catch a glimpse.
I scarf down french fries and pickles and the delicious remains of melted cheese still stuck to the plate. I decide not to cry.
“You can’t do this,” I say. I put my shoulders back and my head up, like if I can posture myself correctly, he’ll change his mind. “This is not okay. You know this is so absolutely not okay on any level.”
“You’ll understand when you’re older,” Dad says. “I know this is hard.” He smiles all wise and kind and insane. Arizona’s whole body tenses up. She rubs her temples and can’t stop fidgeting. She sips the last of her water since the milk shake is gone. Even the water is mostly ice now—we are vacuums when we’re upset about Dad.
“This isn’t a normal situation,” Arizona says. “Your friends at your support group thing are talking about normal situations. This is a fucking shitshow.”
“Please don’t swear in public,” Dad says. It’s the in public that kills me.
“Why are you doing this?” I say. I want to say why are you doing this to me, but I stop myself before the last part comes out. I know it will only make me sound young and difficult and whiny.
“Come on, Montana,” he says. It is the worst possible answer.
“Why are you doing this now?” Arizona says. We are in a competition for who can be the first to get Dad to say something real.
“The thing about love,” Dad says, starting a sentence I don’t even want him to finish, “is that you don’t answer those kinds of questions about it. It’s unanswerable. It simply is.”
I am feeling so, so sick.
“Can you wait? Please? Wait a few months? Or a year?” Arizona says.
“I’m ready now,” he says. Defensiveness is creeping in, and his voice is rising and people are listening to us. New Yorkers have a knack for knowing when an interesting conversation is happening. I’m sure once the ring came out, most of the diner started only half listening to their companions so that they could mostly listen to us.
“I need to get out of here,” I say, and Arizona nods and we start sliding out of the booth, but Dad stops us.
“I’m doing it next weekend,” he says. “Washington Square Park. I expect you to be there.”
Arizona laughs. “Dude, come on,” she says. “You have got to be kidding. You are not proposing to a teenager this weekend.” She says it loudly on purpose. She wants everyone to hear, to judge, to know.
Dad clears his throat again, and I bet he’s wishing we had more grilled cheese and milk shakes to fill the awkwardness.
“Do not say things like that,” he says. “That’s inappropriate.”
Arizona laughs again. She can’t stop laughing. She is grabbing her stomach and having trouble breathing. There are tears running down her face. She’s officially lost it.
“You are inappropriate!” she says, so loud the waiters jump to attention and start printing our check. “You! You!” There’s this edge to her voice that I’ve never heard before, and even her perfect outfit can’t save her from seeming unhinged.
“That is enough,” Dad says, in one of those yell-whispers that parents are so excellent at. “This is happening. And you’re going to get behind it or at least act civil. And it is not up for discussion. I expect support from my girls. The end.”
My father thinks he’s going to marry K, I text to Bernardo.
I can’t stop thinking about Karissa drunkenly dancing on the basement couch or flirting with the bartender or handing a lit cigarette to me. She will never be my mother.
I’m sure she’ll say no.
I’m sure none of this is real.
I’m sure in a few months he will be with a new woman with a big shoe collection and lots of makeup and a love of furs and dinner parties and French toile. Karissa is not marrying my father.