“This looks delicious—thank you so much.”
You squeeze my hand and then we sit down. Dinner with your family is how I’ve always imagined a family dinner could be. Instead of The Giant criticizing my mom’s cooking or interrupting me every time I try to speak, there’s laughter and good conversation, where the adults actually listen to what you have to say. Your dad calls your mom a kitchen goddess and you heartily agree. She keeps doing TV mom stuff like trying to put more food on your plate and running her hands through your hair.
“How much time do you two have before you have to get to the theater?” your mom asks.
It’s hard to believe we only have two more performances of the show. Time flies, I guess.
You glance at the cuckoo clock on the wall (your family has a cuckoo clock—how cute is that?).
“A couple hours,” you say. “Ish. Grace has to get there earlier than me. I just have to look pretty and remember a few things—she’s doing all the real work.” You wink at me and I hope your parents can’t tell what a turn-on that is for me.
“So, Grace, Gavin tells us you’re pretty much running the show these days,” your dad says.
“Yeah. It’s kind of amazing. But the cast makes it easy—they’re all super great.”
“You excited about this cast party tomorrow night?” your mom asks. “Kyle’s mom told me she’s going all out.”
And just like that, the warm fuzzy feeling I’ve been nursing is gone.
“I’m actually … grounded.” I can feel how red my face is getting and this is so freaking awkward. “So I’m just, you know, going home after the show.”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” your mom says.
“It’s okay,” I lie.
“Ask her what she did,” you say, and you don’t even bother to hide the anger in your voice.
“Gav…,” I say, soft. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine.” You set down your fork, shaking your head, and I love you for how pissed off you are on my behalf. “She’s grounded because she forgot to turn on the dishwasher. The dishwasher.”
Your dad cocks his head to the side, as though he’s trying to figure out a difficult trig problem.
“Er … what?” he says.
“My thoughts exactly,” you say. “She’s been working her ass off on this play and—”
“Gav. It’s not a big deal,” I say. I turn to your parents, hoping they don’t decide to keep you away from me because of my crazy family. “My mom needed some of the dishes to make something for this event she was doing for her makeup company. So, you know … she was almost late because she had to hand-wash the … anyway, it’s fine.”
When I told you at lunch, you didn’t buy my it’s-no-big-deal rap then, either. God, you already know me so well. You don’t have to pretend with me, you said. This fucking sucks and your mom is being a psycho, end of story. I am so afraid that my family is going to scare you off.
“Well.” Your mom stands up. “It’s obvious that the only thing we can do now is eat sundaes.”
You turn to me and smile. “This is how my family deals with a crisis.”
We eat sundaes piled high with whipped cream and fudge and cherries. Your mom tells me a little bit about how it was for her growing up. Her parents were strict, too.
“Aaron got me through it, though,” she says, putting her head on your dad’s shoulder.
“Wait, you guys were high school sweethearts?” I say.
“Disgusting, isn’t it?” your dad says with a wink.
We hang out with your parents for another hour and it’s not lame or boring at all. They’re funny and kind and when it’s time for me to go, your mom wraps her arms around me and I realize I can’t remember the last time my mom hugged me. Tears prick my eyes and I blink them away quick before anyone can see.
“It’ll be okay, Grace,” your mom whispers. “If you ever need to talk, you know where to find me.”
I feel safe here. There is so much love in this house. No one here cries themselves to sleep at night or wonders what would happen if they stuffed a backpack full of clothes, walked out the door, and never looked back.
“Do you think your parents would consider adopting me?” I joke as we drive to the theater.
“Yes, but I can’t allow it—we would be incestuous, it’d be a whole thing,” you say.
I laugh. “Yeah, I guess that would be pretty gross.”
“You totally rocked it with them, by the way. I bet I’ll get home and it’ll be all Grace this and Grace that.”
“Do you guys ever fight or do you get in trouble or anything like that?”
You shake your head. “Not really. My parents are pretty chill and they respect me. I respect them. It’s all good.”
“I seriously can’t even imagine that.”
You’re quiet for a minute. “I wish I could protect you from them,” you say softly.
I rest my hand over yours. “You do.” I smile. “Whenever we’re together, you help me forget about them. You’re … my happy place.”
Your lip turns up. “That sounds dirty.”
I hit your arm. “You know what I mean.”
You stop at a red light, then pick up my hand and kiss my palm. I hold my breath. Your lips are warm against my skin and goose bumps fly up my arms.
“You’re my happy place, too.”
I lean my head on your shoulder like your mom did with your dad and I wonder if that will ever be us, sitting at our dining room table with our teenage kid and the girl who’s in love with him.
Now I look at that girl who adores you, who thinks she’s safe with you, and I want to scream at her to jump out of that car and run like hell. Because you won’t be her happy place for long.
TEN
When I was a kid, my mom would call us the Three Amigos: me, her, and my sister. Every weekend we’d get up on Saturday morning and do something unexpected—we called it our Adventure Day. A bike ride along the beach. A drive through Topanga Canyon, plastic water bottles filled with soda. Walking around the mall. Even though we didn’t have money to buy anything, we got a snack and window-shopped and that was kind of enough.
There was this one nasty-looking purple house in our neighborhood in LA and every time we drove past it we’d all cry, “Eww, the purple house!” I loved that. We always said the words slowly, with relish. Eww … the … purple … house. We singsonged our delighted disgust in unison. I don’t remember anything about the house except that it was purple—a garish shade, bright, like Halloween decorations in March. It was our thing, part of what made us the Three Amigos. When The Giant came into our lives, he took the purple house away. And Saturday adventures. And smiles. We learned to live without these things. Eyes down, lips shut tight, hands clasped in our laps. We became a flinch, waiting for hands to slap skin, words to cut through bone.
Beth and I asked WHY WHY WHY and all Mom would say was I love him.