Page 84 of Kiss My Glass
On the way, I swing by the craft beer place, to explain why my car is still in their lot. No problem, says the tattooed guy. Pick it up whenever. I buy a mixed half-dozen because it’s only polite. It’ll be a gift for Frankie. Who knows, after spending a morning with her mom, she may need to drink all six in quick succession. I hope she’s doing okay, but I figure I’ve texted her enough love heart emojis for one day.
It’s the perfect summer Sunday, clear blue sky, hot but not too hot. The kind of Sunday I always hated when I was growing up because unlike my friends, I wouldn’t get to laze around, go swimming and sunbathe on the riverbank, or the beach when we were all old enough to drive. I’d be sweating on the soccer field, or in training, or watching my siblings compete. Some of that resentment comes back to me now as I cruise down the tree-lined driveway to our family home. I push it aside, because it’ll only get in the way. If I want a productive talk with my dad, my opening line shouldn’t be to call him a controlling asshole.
“Danny, dear.”
My mom is always glad to see me, and I’m always glad to see her. My siblings are adamant that I’m Mom’s favorite, and it’s true, we do have a very close bond. Trouble is, that only highlights the lack of closeness between me and Dad.
He’s come out to greet me, which is new. I shake his hand, and we follow Mom through the house to where lunch is waiting for us outside on the patio that overlooks the large back garden. Sounds weird given my parents’ wealth that we don’t have a swimming pool. My guess is that unless Dad could build a full size Olympic one for us to train in, he didn’t see the point. Mom likely vetoed that suggestion and settled for pretty plants and an ornamental bird bath instead. We do have a tennis court, though, I’ll just throw that in there.
As usual, Mom has prepared a feast. A platter of grilled vegetables, sliced heirloom tomatoes, fresh-baked focaccia, a range of dressings and sauces on the side, and sliced bavette steak for me because I’m a growing boy and need my protein. As usual, Mom leads the conversation, starting with today’s update on Shelby, and moving on to Izzy and Max, who both have summer jobs, but are planning to be here for the crush so they can meet their new niece or nephew and, in my opinion, confuse the wee mite no end with their identical faces.
Dad, as usual, says nothing and eats very little despite the effort Mom’s gone to. And as usual, I find this irritating, and my intent to have a productive conversation is fading by the minute. Would it kill him to be polite once in a while?
Then, finally, he speaks to me. But what he says is, “Are you serious about the Armstrong girl?”
“Yes, Dad, I am.”The Armstrong girl?Frankie would love that.
“And how do you propose to make the relationship work? I gather she lives in San Diego.”
He makes it sound like she lives in a cardboard box beneath an overpass. I work on controlling my breathing without making it obvious.
“We haven’t got to that stage, Dad. We don’t want to rush things.”
Dad nods. “Good to hear that. You have a track record of being impulsive.”
I bite back my first response. If I get defensive, it’ll be rapidly downhill from here. Instead, I treat this as an opportunity to engage.
“Making quick decisions isn’t necessarily being impulsive,” I say. “I do actually weigh up the pros and cons beforehand.”
“But you still err on the side of risk,” says Dad.
It’s not a question. He’s decided that’s the whole truth and no evidence I can offer will sway him. I give up. I won’t end this conversation rudely out of respect for Mom. But I’ll end it.
“You know best, Dad,” I say, as neutrally as I can. “Mom, thanks for lunch, it was delicious as always, but I’d better be going. Got a lot to do.”
“Oh, so soon?” says Mom. “I made a dessert!”
Damn it. Mom’s so kind, and she goes to so much effort, I feel like a real churl. But if I stay, I’ll fight with Dad and that would only make her feel worse.
All I can do is say, “Thanks, Mom. Save it for Nate.”
Dad’s out of his seat now, waiting to shake my hand, because that’s the rule. Durant men shake hands. I could refuse to take it but that reallywouldbe churlish. I give the minimum viable handshake, and – yeah, all right, to make a point – I kiss Mom on the cheek, and say, only to her, “I’ll see you soon.”
And I walk off feeling about as bad as it’s possible to feel. I came, I saw, I failed to conquer my defensiveness when it comes to anything my dad says about me. I sincerely hope Frankie’s had a better day than I have so far.
ChapterForty-Seven
FRANKIE
Ireally hope Danny’s having a fun lunch with his parents. I’m currently hanging out with Ham and Luke, so you can guess how well breakfast with my mom went this morning. It was my fault. I went into it like a siege engine, covered in armor and ready to lob flaming missiles. Mom took one look at me, made her usual sad face, and sighed, “Oh, Frankie.” It went downhill from there.
We didn’t fight because Mom never fights. She asked me polite questions and I gave polite answers. Very short polite answers. I ate toast and eggs, and she ate some seed mixture that she’d created from what she found in Shelby’s pantry. I had a glass of pulp-free orange juice, and she had herbal tea. We had a brief (polite) tussle over who’d do the dishes. I let her win and left the house. Thought about going back to Danny’s and screaming at the top of my lungs, but I knew I’d miss him too much and do weird stuff like pick up his shirts and bury my face in them to inhale his scent. So, I went to see Ham and Luke, stealing some lettuce from the vegetable garden on my way. They grunted happy greetings and made short work of the lettuce. They let me scratch them behind their wire-brush ears and waddled off again.
And now, I’m stuck here. Danny has my car, and it’s four miles into town, too far to walk on a hot summer’s day. So, it’s either hole up in my bedroom or go to Danny’s and sniff shirts. Funnest Sunday ever.
I hear a distant but familiar rumble heading up the drive. Great, that’s all I need. Cam, definitely, and Ava, possibly. If I stay by the pigs, no one will know I’m here. Unless…
As I feared. Here’s Cam. With a bunch of food scraps for Ham and Luke. He spots me, lifts his chin in greeting. I do likewise. He ambles up and chucks the scraps to the pigs who fall upon them oinking and grunting in a way that implies the last time they had food was five months ago rather than five minutes.
