“It’s weird,” he says. “Not the right word, but…”
He gives himself a shake.
“Lauren and my mom have each other. They know what it’s like to become an only parent overnight—it’s not exactly the same, but it’s similar, I guess. They can talk about it. They get it.”
He runs his hand over the back of his neck.
“I thought I could be that for Lena. That there would be this understanding between us. This bond. And it was that way at first. We talked a lot. We got really close. But…” He lifts his shoulders, holds them, releases them. “I fell off the wagon, and broke whatever connection we had. She doesn’t want to talk to me anymore. She doesn’t want to talk to anyone.”
His guilt is palpable, and Teddy lets out a soft, mournful little woof from the backseat, pushing her nose against Gabe’s arm. He reaches back and scratches her neck.
“She’s a teen girl,” I say. “I think their genetic disposition is to be silent and surly for at least two years, maybe three.”
Gabe smiles a little at that.
“Yeah,” he says. “I know. I keep reaching out, hoping that she knows I’m here for her.”
“I’m sure she does,” I say.
“Still hurts, though. Still feels like there’s something more I should do.”
I think about reaching out for his hand, but already this moment is so intimate, so raw, that I keep the impulse to myself.
“Give her time.” I offer platitudes instead. “All you can do is be there when she’s ready.”
He lets out a breath.
“Yeah,” he says.
As if she knows we’re talking about her, Lena steps out onto the porch. She’s taken off her shoes and jacket, so she’s standing there, in the dark and the cold, in her socks and T-shirt, her jeans ripped at the knee, well-worn everywhere else. Throwing out her arms, she gives a look of exasperation so spot-on that it’s hard not to be impressed.
Having effectively made her point, she turns and goes back into the house.
“I guess the food is ready,” Gabe says.
Dinner is all homemade, from the lasagna to the garlic bread. Conversation is stilted, mainly because of some unmentioned fight that seems to have occurred between Lauren and her daughter.
Lena sulks at one end of the table, arms crossed, eyes on her dinner plate. She’s smack-dab in the middle of what will probably be her most awkward years—years I remember well. Her features haven’t quite settled into her face—everything looks just slightly out of place. Her thick eyebrows slouch downward over dark brown eyes she must have gotten from her father, while the lower half of her face obviously comes from her mother’s side. Everyone at the table—besides me—has the exact same nose.
It is clear that this dinner is a special kind of torture for her.
She stabs her lasagna while avoiding all attempts to include her in the conversation.
“Lena is a big reader,” Lauren says. “Practically came out with a book in her hand.”
Lena grimaces but doesn’t say anything.
“The two of us have always been at about the same reading level,” Gabe says. “When she was little, she would read me stories before bed.”
He’s joking, of course, but Lena doesn’t even acknowledge it.
“What kind of stories are your favorite?” I ask, not really expecting a response.
Sure enough, I don’t even get a blink.
“Sometimes people send me copies of books they want me to read,” I say. “Before they’re released. I could send you a few, if you’d like.”
“Oh, that is so generous of you,” Elizabeth says. “Wouldn’t that be nice, Lena?”
“We own a bookstore,” Lena says.
It might have been funny if it wasn’t so awkward.
The only living creature at the table she devotes any warmth to is Teddy, who has settled herself at Lena’s side, licking her arm, as if to say “you’re okay.” Or perhaps Lena dipped her elbow in bacon grease just before coming to dinner.
“Gabe says that you’re working on a novel,” Lauren says to me.
“Not quite,” I say. “I’m still mostly doing nonfiction.”
“She’s extremely talented,” Gabe says. “She could write whatever she wanted.”
I can feel a blush spread upward from my chest.
“Gabe,” his mother says. “You’re embarrassing the poor girl.”
“Oh, I know,” he says.
He holds my gaze while he takes a big bite of lasagna, grin affixed to his face. I roll my eyes, but the heat lingers.
I catch a knowing glance being exchanged between Lauren and Elizabeth. They’ve been nice, so nice to me. I like them.
Like with Ollie, I’m worried I’m going to disappoint them.
It isn’t until we’re halfway into our meal, and I’ve just put a very large forkful of very good lasagna into my mouth, that Lena says something directly to me.
“I know who you are,” she says.
It’s an accusation.
“Lena,” Gabe says.
“What?” She shoots him the look that all teenagers have in their arsenal.
The look that says that if you were to drop dead right there, she wouldn’t even care.
Even though I don’t have a teenager of my own, I have stood in front of a room of mostly men who, despite having never written a book in their lives, were convinced that they were destined to become the next great American novelist, and who didn’t have a question, really, but more of a comment.
I can withstand a baseline of disrespect from virtual strangers—I’ve practically trained for it.
“You’re the reporter,” Lena says.
“I am,” I say.
“I read the article.”
“What did you think of it?” I ask.
I can sense everyone at the table sucking in a breath.
“Lena,” Lauren warns, but I wave her off.
“It’s fine,” I say. “Gabe didn’t like it either.”