Andrea drops her gaze to the cutting board. “But he’s not my dad. Alex was my daddy.”
I know Rebecca must be remembering our conversation from yesterday when I referred to my “wife” by that name.
“Are you telling Miss Rebecca about Daddy?”
I step into the kitchen boldly, making them both jump a bit. I should have held back, let them have this moment, but I can’t roll back time, not even these past few seconds.
Andrea stares down at the cutting board, her rust-colored hair hiding her features. Rebecca offers me an apologetic smile, and I wonder if she’s starting to piece the puzzle together yet.
Maybe… maybe not.
“Andrea’s daddy could cook one helluva meal,” I say in an overly bright voice. “Me, well, I’m not so good.”
There’s an awkward silence, and I hope Andrea will answer or say something about Alex, but instead it’s Rebecca who finally speaks. “Then it’s a good thing I’ve come to visit, huh?”
I bend down and kiss the top of Andrea’s auburn head. “Really good. We need some home cooking ’round here.”
***
After Andrea’s asleep, Rebecca notices our family portrait in the hallway, a photograph taken by Alex’s own twin sister, Laurel. We’re in the backyard of Grandma Richardson’s house in Santa Cruz, the lush green grass a canvas beneath us. Alex and I are sitting together, Andrea just in front. We’re all dressed up, a little churchy even, with our neat jackets and ties, Andie in a white sundress. The sun had hunkered low on the horizon that day, creating a golden halo around our trio.
“So that’s Alex?” Rebecca’s voice is thick, a little choked. She stands beside me, reverently studying my family’s picture that hangs before us on the wall.
“We were together for twelve years. Andrea’s our daughter.”
It’s such an easy, offhanded explanation, no matter that it sidesteps all the obvious—and awkward—questions about surrogates and the like. The red hair ties Alex and Andrea together like a birthright; that I’m on the outside is apparent to even the most casual of observers.
“So you’re gay.”
I feel the weight of Rebecca’s expectations, her disappointment about the vibe she must have detected between us.
“Well,” I answer, drawing in a breath, “I was with a guy for a long time.”
Rebecca shakes her head apologetically, the golden hair shimmering. “It was a stupid question.”
“Not stupid,” I whisper, turning toward her. “Actually, he’s the only guy I’ve ever been with. Only thing I can say for sure is that I was in love with him.”
“You still are.”
“Can’t get past it, I’m afraid.”
This comment must hit home, because she closes her eyes a moment, then quietly asks, “How’d he die?”
“On impact. A drunk driver…head-on collision. Andrea was in the backseat.” My voice catches; I hesitate, pressing my eyes shut. “It took them more than an hour to get her out of the car.”
“Oh God, Michael.” She covers my arm with her warm hand. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”
She gets it. She gets it all, and I don’t have to color in the pages for her to see what’s happened here, to my family. Neither of us speaks, we just stand there in front of the portrait, like we’re in the National Gallery or something, trying to decipher an Old Master. But she doesn’t move that hand, either; it remains fixed solidly on my arm, tender and true. Somebody is touching me, finally. Someone unexpected.
“He was a beautiful man,” she whispers, and I hear surprising tears in her voice as she leans up on her toes studying his image. “Very handsome.”
Maybe she’s crying for lost youth. Maybe for stolen beauty, her own perhaps—or because a violent stranger can careen from nowhere and rob you of so much. Maybe we’re crying together, for all that we’ve both lost.
I’m not sure, but perhaps it explains why I lean low and breathe a silent kiss against her scarred cheek. A chaste one that I hope conveys all the gratitude inside my heart that she’s come here tonight.
***
“You what?” Marti whispers into the phone. She doesn’t want to wake Dave, who’ll be up at five a.m. for his job as a construction foreman. I can actually hear him snoring in the background, but I promised this wrap-up call, so I’m stuck.
“I kissed her,” I repeat softly. “Made sense, I guess.”
“You’re gay, huh, Warner?” She snickers affectionately. “I knew you liked her.”
“It’s not that way.” I sigh. “I mean, the kiss was like a friend kiss. Kind of.”
“Friend kiss. Kind of,” she repeats. “Good lord, you sound like you’re in high school. I bet Alex is laughing his ass off right now,” she teases me, but I smart at the thought.
“Marti, I miss him so much,” I say. “Y’all don’t understand. You can’t know what it’s like.”
There’s silence, and I hear the rushed intake of her breath. “Sweetie,” she finally says, “I do know how hard it is. But you’re here, and he’s not.”