His mother’s eyes got that sheen that told him she was about to cry, but he couldn’t tell whether it was because she was disappointed his answer wasn’t a yes or because she was relieved it wasn’t a no. Sometimes it had felt like his childhood had been a never-ending quest to manage her emotions, to try to read her mood and play the jokester when she was sad, to act like he didn’t need anything when he could tell she was overwhelmed. He wondered who’d taken up that job in his absence. Somehow he doubted it had been his father.
Who still hadn’t said a word. Asa stared directly at him, daring him to say something, anything. It could be the most surface, banal statement, and Asa would play along. It could be something harsh, and, well, that would be even better. It would give him the excuse to say everything he’d wanted to say for the last ten years.
His father maintained eye contact without flinching, the tic in his jaw the only sign that he had any reaction at all. Asa knew that tic well. His dad was angry but apparently wasn’t going to say anything to disrupt whatever peace his wife was trying to broker.
It was Lauren who eventually broke the tense silence.
“Asa actually makes that soup himself now,” she said.
“Oh, really?” His mother turned to him, a tentative smile on her face.
“Well, he’s had to, hasn’t he?” Lauren said. There was a vibration in her voice he’d never heard before, subtle enough that anyone else in the room might miss it. He’d heard Lauren annoyed, irritated, maybe even as far as fed up. But this was something different—she was angry, too. “He had to learn to do all kinds of stuff for himself after you threw him out. Find a place to live. Get a job. Take care of himself. So yeah, he can make his own potato soup.”
The look on his mother’s face was a frozen mask of shock and something else, something like . . . shame.
“We didn’t—” she started, then swallowed when Becca crossed her arms, giving her a look as if daring her to finish that sentence. By the time she turned to him, she was definitely crying. “You were eighteen. An adult.”
There was an aching knot in Asa’s throat that prevented him from responding, from pointing out that he’d been a month away from his eighteenth birthday, not that the arbitrariness of that date should matter. Lauren had no such issue, however.
“He was still in high school,” she said. “And you—”
“You don’t know anything about it,” his dad broke in, his eyes blazing. He still had that deep, commanding voice, one meant for projecting to the back of the room, and Asa could feel Lauren flinch next to him even as she stood her ground. Even his dad seemed to understand that perhaps it wasn’t the time to be raising his voice against a stranger at his daughter’s baby shower, while guests were still in the next room over. He made a visible effort to get control of himself before speaking again.
“You seem like a nice enough girl. We’re certainly glad to see that Asa’s past his phase—”
“It’s who he is,” Lauren said. “Not a phase. Just because he’s with me, it doesn’t make him any less bi.”
His dad scoffed at the term. “And that doesn’t bother you?” he asked, a look coming over his face like he didn’t have the energy to be mad at some random girl holding his son’s hand when he was too busy being concerned instead. Asa was familiar with that move, too—a need for control that masqueraded as paternalistic care. Deep down, he knew that his father truly believed he was only looking out for his son’s eternal soul.
“The fact that he has bigoted parents bothers me,” Lauren said. “But that’s part of who he is, too.”
Becca’s eyes went wide at that, but more impressed than shocked. Asa could see his mom clock the reaction. Maybe she saw that they were outnumbered in that cheerful yellow room, because she hunched closer to his father, automatically making herself smaller. He hated seeing her that way, hated that he couldn’t just have the relationship with his parents that other people he knew had, where they were a source of support and understanding. But Lauren was right. It was part of who he was, but it was also baggage he didn’t have to carry around with him every day.
“It really hurt me,” he said, grateful when his voice came out clear and strong. “When you rejected me . . . you really hurt me. And it’s not going to be enough for you to turn the other cheek now and pretend it didn’t happen.”
He looked for a reaction from his dad, anything that would indicate he’d heard and had an emotional response. But that was the problem, of course. He was never going to get his dad to budge. All those years he’d stayed away, maybe he’d convinced himself it was because he knew that. But the truth was, on some level he’d been resting up, preparing for round two. Assuming that eventually he’d get his life to a point where he’d feel able to face down his dad and have this fight. Now they were face-to-face, and he realized he didn’t care about round two. He could close the door on it.
“You hope I’m happy?” he said to his mom before turning back to his dad. “I used to hope you were miserable. I used to hope it kept you up at night, thinking about me, about your son, who you threw away like I was a piece of garbage. But I know it doesn’t. And that makes me sad for you. It really does.”
That caused a flicker in his dad’s face, a brief moment when the older man looked away. But Asa knew he wasn’t going to get anything more than that, and he genuinely didn’t want to turn Becca’s baby shower into an ugly scene. He squeezed Lauren’s hand, about to say their goodbyes, when his mom spoke up from next to his dad.
“It does keep me up at night,” she said, her voice tremulous with tears. “And I do want to be part of your life. I—”
She glanced up at his father, looking for approval the way she always had. Asa knew she was just as much a victim of his dad’s rigidity as he was, in a way, but he also didn’t have it in him to fight her battles as well as his own.
“Well, you know how to get in touch with me if you have anything more you want to say. And I’ll be around,” he said to Becca, giving her a brief smile. She’d been watching the whole exchange, her eyes shining, her hand resting protectively on her belly. She gave him a watery smile back.
“Maddie is going to need her uncle,” she said. “I’m going to need you. Of course you’ll be around.”
Chapter
Twenty-Three
By the time they left Becca’s house, Lauren felt like she’d been wrung out. The most strenuous thing she’d done was clip multiple clothespins to her cardigan—her final tally was six, probably enough to win the nail polish, but it hadn’t exactly been on her mind by the end of the shower. It had been a day, and it was only two o’clock.
And if she was feeling spent from the emotional tension of the last few hours, she could only imagine how Asa must feel. He was quiet as they walked to her car, his hands in his pockets. His sister had let him go with a few laughing reminders to actually check your phone, dude as her due date approached. His mother hadn’t made any more overtures, whether out of respect for Asa’s boundaries or deference to her husband’s, it wasn’t clear. Lauren suspected whatever fractures existed in that marriage already, today may have cracked them wide open. She hoped for Asa’s sake that they had, that things would be different, but she also knew that it would be a long road ahead.
Since they’d arrived late, they’d had to park halfway down the block. Asa was walking on the grass, the sidewalk too narrow for the both of them, and she didn’t know if the distance was deliberate on his part. Back in the nursery, she’d held his hand, but now he seemed self-contained and pensive.
“I shouldn’t have gone off like that,” she said finally. “They’re your family. I had no business—”
He shook his head, but whether it was because he was agreeing with her or rejecting her apology, she didn’t know. “How did you know about the potato soup?”
“Oh.” She curled her fingers into her palms, hoping she didn’t sound like too much of a psycho. “Kiki told me. That you make it sometimes, anyway, and then when your mom mentioned it, I figured . . .”
She shrugged, not needing to state the obvious. It hadn’t been a stretch to assume it was the recipe from his childhood.