“A little?” I say, my voice catching in my throat.
“Okay, a lot. Maybe I just got overly defensive because of my own stuff. But what I’m trying to say is, you forgave Max. You understood that there was more to the story.” When I don’t respond, her face softens. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be such a bitch.”
“I know,” I say. “It’s okay.”
“I was just trying to make the point that you should give others the same consideration you’ve given Max.”
“Like Nikki Day? I’m sorry, Jules. I love you, but comparing her to Max is a stretch. Why would I give a shit about her?”
“Because Liam does,” she says simply.
I pause for a moment. “You’re right,” I reluctantly agree, her reminder about accepting Liam’s choices bringing back the talk he and I had at the club.
“Great,” she says, clapping her hands together. “So that means you’ll go to this party no matter what your feelings about Nikki are? Because even though Liam acts like he doesn’t need us, he still does. We should be there for him. In good times,” she says as she points to the article about Nikki, “and bad.”
“I’ll go,” I say, and swallow the lump in my throat, trying to ignore how quickly things seemed to be spinning out of control—like a merry-go-round that I can’t escape without flying untethered through the air and falling to the ground.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Going through old photo albums—OMG, who gave me that god-awful bowl cut when I was a toddler? #momIknowitwasyou #dontdenyit
As a little girl, I remember feeling like time always went slowly when I wanted it to speed up, like the first day back to school after winter break when I was still dreaming of the presents I’d opened on Christmas morning. And time seemed to fly by at lightning speed when I wanted it to decelerate, like summer vacation when I spent my days with my bare feet kicked up over the handlebars of my bike, the wind ripping through my long hair. But now, over twenty-five years later, as I stare at the date on the calendar, I wonder why the opposite is happening. My wedding is fast approaching, yet I find myself wanting the hands of the clock to move just a little slower. There is a pressing feeling in my gut, one that tells me to take my life one day at a time, to not be in such a rush, that Max will be my husband soon enough.
I pull out my cell phone and listen as it rings, wondering if my dad will answer or if I’ll get his voicemail, where Leslie hums in the background as he chants his greeting, trying to sound like he’s rapping, but the result sounding more like he’s preaching. It’s so ridiculous that I can’t help but laugh every time I hear it. They’d moved to Northern California last year so I didn’t see them as often as I liked, but it was always good to hear his—and her—voice. And I realized my dad was the one person who needed to answer a question that had been sitting heavy on my chest.
“Daughter!” my dad says cheerily.
“Father!” I answer, smiling at the memory of trading this greeting for years.
“So you’re almost a married woman—how are you spending your final days before you become an old ball and chain?” My dad releases a hefty laugh and I imagine him sitting in his leather recliner, his feet perched on the matching ottoman, CSPAN on mute on the TV.
“Dad?” I start, ignoring his question, my voice suddenly sounding like it did when I was a little girl. “Can we talk about Mom?”
He exhales deeply, and for several moments there is only silence between us. Finally, he answers. “I know she’s upset about Leslie wanting to be in the family picture at the wedding—”
“I don’t want to talk about that. That’s not what I mean.”
“Oh? Then what is it?” My dad’s voice lightens.
I think back to what my mom had said to me—that my dad had been her everything, and I wonder, if that was the case, why hadn’t that been enough for them to make it? “What happened between you and Mom? Why didn’t you stay?”
“Whoa, I’m going to need something stronger than this coffee I’m drinking to have this conversation.” My dad laughs again, but this time it’s stilted. “Hey, Les, can you bring me a beer?”
“If you don’t want to talk about it, I understand—” I start to let him off the hook, deciding as I curl my knees under me, the photo albums from my childhood strewn across my dining room table, the little girl with the strawberry-blond pigtails staring up at me, that maybe I don’t need to dredge up the past after all. Maybe figuring out where my parents went wrong won’t unlock the answers inside like I hoped they would. As I listen to my dad and stepmom’s muffled voices, I wonder if it’s better to preserve the memories I have, not taint them. My dad had left, that was true. But he hadn’t left me.