“How old do you think she is?” Mia asks, clearly referring to the pink-striped creature fetching our tea.
“Likely only in high school, still living at home, terrifying her parents, who have lost all control of her. Scary, right?” I say. I’m finding it harder to breathe in this booth, the more I think about teenagers and tattoos and project both onto my little boys. My boys as teenagers is something I’ve imagined with an equal mix of hope and dread. They already know, even at six and eight, they would never be allowed to come home with a tattoo. They know my rules, at least as much as I can impart at these ages. No tattoos. No girlfriends who have tattoos. No swearing. No back-talking. Ever. Throw the football like a man, a perfect spiral. Always. They live in a dictatorship, not a democracy. End of story.
“I don’t think she’s scary, Paul. Just finding her identity. She’s portraying her individualism through outward expressions, like tattoos and unique hair color. I wish I had been bold enough to do that in high school, or well, ever,” she says. We are silent as the girl places the plastic cups of tea in front of us. Mia is lost in thought, thinking of all the small rebellions she should have taken part in during her youth. Hopefully, she is forgetting the ones she alluded to during the drive. She really should just let all of those ideas go. For both of us. For the best day ever. She tosses her sticky, plastic-coated menu on the table.
And adds, “I was such a good girl. Always trying to please. First my parents, then you. I never got to rebel.”
“I just don’t see you with a nose piercing,” I say. I’m trying to sound breezy, carefree, but in my head a little bell of alarm is ringing again. Of course you were the good girl, that’s why we connected so strongly, at the cellular level. We were perfect for each other, still are in many ways. My alarm bell is in overdrive; I’m overthinking everything because Mia spoke to John. I need to settle down, yet the prickle of pre-Lakeside unease remains. Why, I’m not certain. It doesn’t matter, not really. It’s just mildly disconcerting, this defiance Mia is verbalizing, has been demonstrating during our drive and continues now. Her little rebellion, stirred up by my former business associate, I suppose. How sweet. How frustrating.
Mia says, “It isn’t about piercings or tattoos. It’s about not being a reflection of what someone else wants you to be. You probably don’t understand what I’m saying. You’ve always been so sure of who you are, what you want.”
“I couldn’t imagine living any other way, actually,” I say. I wonder if she is asking me for something, for some understanding. Some type of compassion or empathy. I’m not good at those emotions, or, if we’re being honest, any emotion except anger. Rage lurks deep inside me, ready to lash out whenever it’s needed. But for those other, more feminine feelings, I have to fake my expressions. I taught myself how to imitate the look people have when they are feeling sad, for example. The corners of the mouth droop, the eyes fill with water. Back when we were first getting serious, when I’d convinced her I was the one, Mia told me I sometimes seemed to be on a five-second delay, like a live broadcast where the director thinks something censor-worthy might happen so they leave room for the bleep.
She was being funny, of course.
“Mia,” I explained at the time. “There’s a difference between not expressing things and not feeling them. Remember me, Poker-face Paul? It’s a blessing and a curse. I’m a guy. It’s how we are, genetically. You know, hard on the outside, soft on the inside. The delay, honey, is all in your pretty little head.”
We were out to dinner, another rather fancy place that has since gone out of business, French I believe. Mia looked at me over the flickering white taper candle and said, apropos of nothing, “You don’t seem to be listening, Paul.”
I was stumped, of course. I had been listening, listening closely, but what I hadn’t been doing was showing her I was listening. A mistake. But I had no idea what had brought this up. Everything was wonderful. Sex, dinners, everything. What I’d been reflecting on, when she’d surprised me with her random observation, was the fabulous sex we’d had just that morning. It was amazing, once I’d unlocked the key to her sexuality, so to speak. The physical passion she’d been missing in her sterile, privileged upbringing, well, it was to be expected of the rich. They’re nothing if not stiff. But now, behind closed doors, my Mia was free of all those silly inhibitions, at least most of them. But why this?
“What, is something wrong?” I’d grabbed my wineglass, taking a big gulp.
“Remember, I told you my mom’s best friend died this morning? She was like a second mom to me.” Yes, yes, I remembered, but mostly I remembered the sex. It had started out as my way of providing comfort, but it’s safe to say I’d successfully distracted her from any focus but me. At least, I’d thought I had.
I noticed Mia’s eyes filling with tears. She was sad. I hadn’t remembered to carry that emotion with me all day at the office, on her behalf. I should have cradled her lovingly after sex and told her how sorry I was about that woman who died. I should have walked into the restaurant with a frown on my face, my head tilted down with sadness. “I’m sorry, Mia. I completely forgot.” I reached across the table and patted her hand. On cue, my eyes glistened with sadness.
She seemed to consider me, tilting her head. The sadness had been replaced with something different, something I couldn’t read. I needed to change the subject. “Hey, so when is the funeral? I’d like to go with you.”
Mia snapped back to sadness, leaned forward, and reached for my hand. I’d said the right thing. Of course I had. “I’d like that. It’s this Friday. And you can meet my mom and dad, too.”
Shit. I’d convinced her of my hidden emotional depths, but now I had agreed to fly home with her. I’d known I had to get that over with one way or another. Maybe a funeral would distract them all. I liked the focus to be anywhere but on me in these types of situations, when I was setting the bait but hadn’t yet hooked my prize catch. The fewer people involved the better, I’d learned, but it was too late. I was headed to a funeral in New York, and an encounter with her parents. Remember, I am nimble, always in control. I played it to my best advantage, as always.