Page 16 of Fathers of the Bride
I frowned in a way I knew would cause the kind of wrinkles I’d someday regret. I’ll admit it, this was not a subject I enjoyed being honest about. Andy and I split and then only months later, Raj appeared. Many of my friends assumed that Raj appeared andthenAndy and I split. I didalwayscorrect them. Actually, I never corrected them. People can feel free to think he’s a philandering so-and-so. After all, it’s a free country.
This, however, was my daughter. Andy’s daughter. She deserved something resembling the truth. I began slowly, “As gay men of a certain age, your father and I have lived most of our lives without the benefit of legal marriage. Before it became legal, gay people entered and exited relationships in our own way. Things began when you said they did, and they ended when you said they did. I mean, I can hardly expect your father to be faithful when I packed his bags and threw him out.”
Of course, I had expected him to come crawling back rather than taking up with a twink Internet sensation.
“But yes, it bothers me. Right or wrong, everything your father does bothers me.”
I’m not sure she enjoyed that answer. She certainly looked unhappy.
“Kelly. We need to start talking about your wedding.”
“I know,” she said, as though we were discussing washing toilets.
“Surely you have fantasies about your dream wedding. All women do.”
She shook her head.
“None? None at all?”
“Daddy, you raised me to reject gender norms.”
“Well, clearly that was a mistake.”
“It was not. You know what would make me happy? If you and Papa made all the decisions.”
I gave her a stern look and said, “How about just me?”
She gave my look back to me.
“Fine. But, you know, that’s not how it works. Even if your father and I act as unofficial wedding planners, you still have to make decisions.”
“So, you think the three of us should sit down and talk?” she asked, leaving me feeling like I’d just been tricked into something.
“You obviously think so.”
“I want both my fathers involved in my wedding. Is that too much to ask?”
“No, of course not. Where and when?”
I could not believe that after tricking us into seeing each other my daughter had manipulated me into seeing my ex again. On the same day no less.
“We could do it here?” Kelly suggested.
“Absolutely not. What about a conference call?”
“No.”
“Well, I’m not going back to that coffeeshop, even if it is your favorite.”
“Let’s just meet for a walk then. I’ll call Papa and arrange it.”
* * *
The next morning,I was making whole wheat buttermilk pancakes with blueberries, strawberries and raspberries—Avery had already gone to the bank to rescue the third world, Kelly was sleeping in—when there was a clinking at the French doors in the back. I peeked out of the kitchen and saw my next-door neighbor, Lucas, standing there with his phone in one hand and a giant cup of coffee in the other.
Near my age, Lucas Waters is tall, eternally thin, and favors black tank tops and khaki-colored skinny jeans. I’ve never seen him wear shoes. He seems to go barefoot everywhere. For formal occasions, he wears flip-flops.
When I slid the glass door open, he was saying, “Why didn’t you tell me our Kelly was home? Seriously, I have to find out on the ‘Gram?’”
