“What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
I shrugged, drinking before speaking. “I was just thinking that you aren’t like them. You don’t care what other people think. Sebas—he…”
“You can say his name, Guinevere. He isn’t Voldemort.”
I giggled. “Well, Sebastian cared a lot. He wanted everything to be…high class. When I was dating him, I knew he liked finer things, and he liked to show off how well he was doing. That he wasn’t ‘just a trust fund baby’. I felt awkward and a little put on display sometimes, but the good outweighed the bad.”
Or at least, I had thought it did.
“Was he the one who picked out that dress for you?” He gazed at the city outside the window.
“How did you—”
“A tight, sparkling-with-crystals wedding dress does not seem to fit your style at all.”
Even though I agreed he was right, I was a little annoyed. “He didn’t really pick it out. He knew the owner of the bridal store I went into and had them bring out the very best and most expensive dresses. We had gone to other weddings before, and I knew which dresses he thought were ugly. I tried to pick one I knew he would like…wow, that sounds awful. But I can be girly, too.”
“Never said you couldn’t. It isn’t awful, just meant you really wanted to look nice for him. There isn’t anything wrong with that.”
“I’m glad you cut me out of it.” I smiled into the glass. “I would have held onto it like it meant something. I should have thrown it out weeks ago, or at least sold it to someone else, but with Stevie’s wedding tomorrow, I just…I don’t know. I just wanted to wear it one more time.” I was sure there was someone out there that would have fallen in love with it.
“The answer to your non-question about me not being like them is: my father,” he replied.
It took me a second to remember where the conversation had started.
“I don’t care what they think because they don’t matter to me. When my father died, I learned how superficial a lot of them were. Sure, they came to the funeral, held my mom's hand and whatnot, but I remember someone asking, Who is he again? What did he do? Where did he live? A few months later, some of the wives even tried to set my mother up. I guess to them, she should have moved on already. I just…I just wanted to hear stories of my father from them. Things they remembered as friends. But then I realized they never did anything more than go to the same parties. It was only the patients he helped that talked on and on about him. I think that’s one of the reasons I wanted to become a doctor so badly.”
“If your father saw you…” I started.
He turned to face me.
“If he saw you the way I did when I came to the hospital, I bet he would be more than proud. For a second, even I was like, 'Wow, so this is what he does every day.' I thought I wanted to do it, too. This coming from the girl who failed chemistry three ways to Sunday.”
He snickered. “Really? I thought I was only 'kinda cool'.”
“I scratched it out, didn’t I?” Damn note.
He laughed, and so did I.
“So, your father was a surgeon. Your mother is a surgeon and chairwoman of the hospital. You are a surgeon, and your brother’s working on becoming one, too. I’m almost too intimidated.”
He raised his head high.
I rolled my eyes.
“What do your parents do?”
“My mother teaches African American & African Studies and history at the University of Alaska. She immigrated to California from south Africa when she was four and worked her way up the coast.”
“And your father?”
“My father is an astronomer. He teaches at the university, too, but during campouts and bonfires, he becomes the chief Native American storyteller. He's half I?upiat, half English. So technically I’m part Native American, English, and South African.”
He nodded his head, thinking for a moment. “I always tried to trace where our family came from, but as far as I can tell we’ve been in America for generations. I suddenly feel the urge to look into it more.”
“You should.”
“So both of your parents are scholars and you're the artist…the rebel. You don’t have siblings?”
I wished he hadn’t asked that. Spinning the glass in my hands, I drank the rest of it before answering. “Not anymore.”
Thankfully, he didn’t pry.
Eli
Taking off my shoes when I got back into my apartment, I fell back on my couch. I couldn't stop wondering…I wanted to know more, but I knew I couldn’t press, not when she was trying so hard to smile about something that was obviously hard. I was starting to realize she had two smiles: her genuine one she gave when she really was happy, and then the other one, her shield. If she felt hurt or upset, she smiled and tried to push it away.
She looked beautiful in that wedding dress—what am I thinking?
“Obviously, I had too much wine,” I muttered to myself.