Silence. Their faces already registered worry, and they don’t change much. No disgust. No lunging across the table to strangle me. My father turns to look at my mother, but she’s staring calmly at me. I wait a beat, two. One more. I wait for the world to end.
Finally, she says, “Were you with him last night?”
I drop my eyes to my lap. I nod.
Maybe now the wrath will come?
My father says, under his breath, “This is a mistake.”
My mother whips her head around to look at him. “Well you’re the authority on that, Henry. Frankly, I don’t think your opinion matters here.”
He crosses his arms. “Like hell it doesn’t. She’s still my daughter. And you forget, I had Dax in my classroom. I’ve seen the way he operates. The truth is that Dax is not the person you want to attach yourself to. He’ll only bring you down. I’m pretty sure we had this exact conversation four years ago.”
My mother suddenly slams her hands down on the table. I jump.
Her eyes are wild. “Your. Opinion. Doesn’t. Matter,” she repeats, her words hard-edged. “Maybe it did then. Not now.”
I stare at her, rigid in shock. She always used to consult with him about everything, which was maybe why I always used to, too. Since when did his opinion stop carrying weight?
She looks at me, and her voice becomes calm and soothing. “Is he good to you?”
I nod slowly, still trying to comprehend that look of rage on her face. Have I ever seen her so angry and out of control before. “So good. He drove me all the way to Boston, mom.”
She nods. “He makes you happy?”
“Yes,” I say, thinking about yesterday. It was a blast, and not just the sex part. Even hanging out with him in high school, I was never as happy as I was when I was with him. “Totally.”
“Then good. Life’s too short to spend with people who make you miserable.” She stands up and walks down the hallway, toward her bedroom, without another word.
Perhaps nothing was more surprising than this—my parents division never more obvious than it was during this conversation.
Their disgust for one another is palpable and it makes me sad down to the pit of my stomach.
My father, biting his tongue, goes back to his work. I change into boxers and a tank and spend the rest of the afternoon ping-ponging between my parents, sometimes helping my mother pack her clothes, sometimes helping my father with his sea of paperwork. When dinner comes around, my mother only sets the table for two. My father gets showered and goes out.
Turns out, they don’t even eat together, anymore.
They are as separate as two people who live under the same roof can be. I know I’m supposed to text Dax, but my mother just looks so sad and lonely. So my mother and I spend a quiet couple of hours, just the two of us, sitting among half-packed boxes and half-empty cabinets, chatting about nothing important. We take down all the pictures from the foyer, and memories come along with each one. It’s a nice, sad stroll down memory lane, and several times, I have to choke back the tears. The truth is, though, in another few weeks, when she moves out of the house and down to Florida to live with her sister, I’m not going to see her very much.
Everything is going to change.
At times, I consider asking Mom for more details on what happened between her and Dad, but everything seems way to fresh and raw. I don’t want to hurt her just to satisfy my curiosity.
When my mother goes off to bed, my father still isn’t home. I head into my bedroom, shutting the door, and jab in a text to Dax. I’m alive.
Two seconds later, he comes back with: How’d it go?
I smile. Not as bad as I thought. My dad wasn’t so great. But my mom seems cool.
His response: Are you shittin me?
Then: Can I come over?
I’m throwing my hair into a ponytail and getting ready to wash my face. I laugh and punch in: What, now? I’m getting in bed.
Two seconds later: I’m definitely coming over.
I laugh and am about to head across the hall to brush my teeth when I hear a rap on my window. I cross the room, thinking of our first kiss. I pull open the blinds and see him leaning against the bent dogwood tree out there, just as he had four years ago. My mouth drops. “Have you been out there all this time?”
“Well, fuck, girl. You said you’d text me right after you told your parents, and if you didn’t, you were dead,” he whispers. “It’s been hours. I thought you were dead. I was gonna call 911.”
“Sorry,” I whisper back, searching the darkness around him. No headlights coming up the street yet, but my father could be here any minute. I pull the window up higher and slide the screen back. “Come in.”
He throws a leg over the window ledge and crawls in, blinking to adjust to the light. I have a lot of my old unicorn and One Direction posters off the wall, but it’s apparently not enough. He chuckles.
I remember how he teased me relentlessly about my room before and jab him in the ribs with my elbow. “Shut up.”