Page 67 of The Boyfriend List
Usually, I do woodworking to decompress from a stressful workday, or, more often, to get away from my family. Growing up, I would come in here whenever my siblings were engaged in one of their infamous yelling matches (Savannah would scream at Perry for using her hair gel because he wanted to look cool, or Troy and Brooklyn would argue over everything from who ate the last potato chip to who stole whose soccer cleats.) Mom never comes out here unless it's to complain to my dad about how we really need to declutter this space.
And Dad never comes here. He prefers the other garage, which is cleaner.
I move on from the tropical fish to a small rendering of Perry's motorcycle. Maybe I'll give it to him for Christmas. After I've been working on it for a few moments, I decide to put on some music.
Just as I'm flipping through my phone's music choices, a ringtone blares through the garage that definitely isn’t mine. I scramble to my feet and find the culprit: my dad’s beat-up Samsung. An unfamiliar number rings and rings until it goes to voicemail.
“Hi Mr. Young, this is Larry here from Fink Divorce and Family Law. We’re calling to confirm your appointment on Monday. Please give us a call back whenever you can. Thanks.”The message ends, but keeps replaying in my ears.
A divorce lawyer?
My entire body freezes, my heart dropping out of my chest. I thought I would be gripped by shock or anger, but this feels more like…
Like resignation.
Like acceptance of what I already knew, but was denying.
There has to be an acceptable reason for this.
Maybe he’s consulting for a case before he retires.
Maybe he’s just helping someone else with their divorce.
Family law doesn’thaveto mean divorce, does it?
It can mean anything. It could be about… property. Or inheritance. Or a prenup? Maybe it’s for Savannah's prenup. That would make sense.
It doesn’t have to mean divorce.
It doesn’t have to mean my world just spun out of control.
When I get home from the woodshop, I'm more than eager for the distraction of work. I have a bad habit of taking it home.
Numbers make sense. Facts stare back at me from the page, logical and neat and orderly. Black and white charts and spreadsheets greet me, ready to be sorted into data analytics that make sense.
Unlike my family.
I can't think about that right now.
Can't let myself entertain the thoughts that my parents’ marriage will never heal.
That despite all I've done to fix us, we are irreparably broken.
That despite all I've done to try to make my mom happy, to be some kind of replacement for the love she couldn't get from her husband and other children—
I'll never be enough.
My presence in her life will never be enough.
Yet I hoped for so many years, prayed for over two decades, that they would love each other. That they would look at each other with more than contempt and disrespect and anger. That at the very least, they could tolerate each other's faults more than they have been.
But I guess not. They’re finally divorcing.
I lose myself in the numbers for a while, working through dinner. When it's nine pm and my stomach is growling, I pick up the phone I've ignored allday to order ginger beef—my secret guilty pleasure, even if it tastes nothing like actual Chinese food—and see three texts from Gloria.
Gloria
Hey!! How are you? Wanna join me and Raina at Scoops?
