“My best advice,” Dad says, “is don’t beat around the bush.”
Margot snorts. “I agree. Luke tends to beat around the bush way too much.”
Dad opens his mouth and then closes it, sliding Margot a disapproving look. “If you like her,” he continues with emphasis, slowly looking back to me, “then ask her out.”
“But this isn’t the one who he asked out and she lied about working, is it?” Mom asks Margot.
“It isn’t really that simple,” I say before Margot can answer for me, and for a heartbeat I can’t believe I’m actually engaging in this. But as both of my parents lean in, encouraged, I realize it’s too late. “We went out a couple of times.” I glare at Margot when she lifts a finger to correct the inaccuracy, and she drops it, looking—for once—like she’s going to lay off. “But I’ve been . . . playing the field a bit,” I say, delicately. “And I don’t think she likes that about me.”
“Well, of course she doesn’t, honey,” Mom tells me sweetly. “Girls want to feel special.”
“Take her to a dance,” Grams suggests with a wide smile.
I break it to her gently: “We don’t really do that anymore, Grams.”
“Well, then take her somewhere she likes,” she says. “Does this gal like the movies?”
Dragging a hand through my hair, I admit, “I have no idea if she likes the movies. She’s a bartender at night and surfs all day.”
Mom’s hand drifts in for a trembling landing on her throat. “She went to college, though?”
“She graduated with my class at UCSD,” I reassure her. Mom visibly relaxes. “I think she’s just figuring out what she wants out of life.”
“Well, there you go,” Dad says with a firm palm to the table. “You’re directed and driven. Maybe you can help her find her way in her career, and she can help you get your head on straight about how to get back in the saddle.”
This time my sister’s snort is so loud I’m worried a sinus broke off.
“I can’t believe you actually said ‘back in the saddle,’?” I tell him.
He nods, wincing apologetically. “I . . .” He reaches for the wine and pours another glass.
I’m practically vibrating inside, needing to escape the scrutiny. As if spring-loaded, my legs push me to stand and I kiss my mom’s forehead, kiss Grams’s dust-soft cheek, pat Dad’s shoulder, and smack Margot on the back of the head. “Thanks for dinner, Mom. The chicken and penises were delicious. Love you guys.”
I grab my sweatshirt from the back of the couch on the way out, feeling like my heart is going to punch its way out of my body. I’ve given Margot more trouble in her lifetime than I can ever hope she’ll repay, but I do like London. I like her a lot, and having it all reduced to a joke, or an amusing conversation over the dinner table, is starting to wear on me.
It bothers me that she felt she had to lie about working, but I get it.
It bothers me that I have no clue how to undo her perception of me, because it isn’t entirely wrong.
It bothers me to see her so obviously worrying about what Mia, and Harlow, and Lola would think of us together.
It bothers me that she’s so clear that nothing else will happen between us, but if all I can get from her is friendship, I like her enough to want to work for it.
But even though I know she was working last night, I didn’t go to Fred’s. I felt like I owed her some space.
“Hang on, Luke.” Dad catches me on the porch, stopping me with a hand wrapped around my elbow. The sun is setting over the horizon and it’s a dizzying mix of oranges and reds framed by long, delicate palms. Some days I feel like I would be insane to leave this town and move somewhere else.
“I wanted to say a few more things to you about . . . your dating life.”
And then sometimes I think I can’t escape fast enough.
“Dad,” I say, rubbing a hand down my face. “I know you guys mean well. It’s just . . . so incredibly unhelpful.”
It’s an odd thing to register that I love my dad’s laugh, but I do. It’s so unlike the rest of him—delicate and girlish—because he’s this tall, brooding dude with a pretty impressive beard. His love for literature combined with his career as a chemist earned from me the nickname Chemingway at an age when I was old enough to make the joke but not yet appreciate how great it was. Several of his colleagues have since claimed to have come up with it, but in my family, we all know the real score.
“I know it’s not helpful,” he says. “The last thing you need is the four of us butting in on your relationships status. But it’s just what family does.” Scratching his cheek thoughtfully, he adds, “You can’t imagine how much joy your mother, sister, and grandmother derive from interfering in your love life.”
“I think I have some idea.” I look past him, down the porch, and back to the ocean.
“My family did the same thing to me,” he admits. “I hated it, actually.”
This makes me laugh, and I nod, looking back to him. “I bet.”
“If you think Grams is bad now, imagine her when she was fed up with her four children and Papa, and on a tear.”