Page 34 of Napkins and Other Distractions
Gillian gulps wine. “Dad was pushing me in a stroller. To this day, we still don’t know exactly how, but he didn’t see a row of bright orange cones alerting him to the Grand-Canyon-sized pothole in the road.”
“I’ve heard this story a thousand times, and the hole gets larger each time,” Louis says through a mouthful of food.
“Baby Gillian in the hole,” I say. “The squad had to come and rescue her. The Worst Father in the World award. Child protective services. Yada, yada, yada.”
“Wait, where was your mother?” Vincent asks.
“She was hopelessly stuck in the eighties,” Gillian says. “So probably rollerblading in leg warmers while listening to crappy music.”
“Hey!” I shout. “That’s the music of my childhood. ‘Don’t You Forget About Me’ might be the best song ever written. Apologies to Fleetwood Mac.” I smile at Vincent.
“Are they always like this?” Vincent asks Louis.
“Always.” Louis leans over and grabs Gillian’s hand. He kisses her knuckles, and once again, I’m grateful my daughter has such a loving husband.
Closing my eyes momentarily, I take a breath and smile. A gentle warmth washes over my hand, bringing a sense of comfort. It’s Vincent. His fingers take mine, and a soft smile greets me when I look at him.
“But yes, they’ve always been this way,” Louis says.
“Before the glasses, Dad couldn’t see. He was constantly tripping over things,” Gillian says, the verve back in her voice.
I dip my head.
“Including his own feet,” Gillian adds.
“Anyway,” I interject, “I got my glasses when you were five, and things got better.”
“Marginally,” Gillian adds.
We finish eating while my daughter and her husband continue to tease and embarrass me, and my heart swells, knowing it comes from a place of love. When the brisket has a small dent in it (Louis swears it will “feed us for a week”), and the table’s cleared, Vincent’s yawning cues me it’s time for us to go. He’s had a long, rough day, and I should get him home.
“Thank you for the lovely evening,” Vincent says at the front door, wrapped in his long caramel-colored wool coat. “And the brisket,” he says, turning to Louis. “It really is life changing.”
“You’re welcome anytime.” Gillian opens her arms, and Vincent hugs her.
“Call me this weekend,” she says, kissing and squeezing me tight. With her head nestled in my neck, she whispers, “He’s hot.”
My stomach flutters because she knows. And she’s right. Vincent and I head out, the full moon casting a glow that lights our path to my car.
We drive quietly along, and while Vincent seems more himself, calmer than at school or in the bathroom, I’m still not convinced he should be alone.
“After I take you back to your car, would you mind if I just followed you home?” I ask.
Vincent stares out the passenger window into the darkness. He’s quiet. Thinking. Finally, he replies. “I had a lovely evening, Kent. And thank you. But remember, we’re keeping this”—his hands move between us—“strictly friends.”
My head knows this. My heart isn’t sure.
“I know. I just want to make sure you get home safely.”
“You’re a sweet guy, Kent. Do you know that?”
“I’ve been told.”
Back at Vincent’s, sitting in the driver’s seat as I gaze at the front walkway leading to his building, I am transported back to that first night. I do my best to squash the memories. His bathroom. Music blaring. Standing over him.
Stopped in his condo’s small parking lot, I wave to him from my car and put the car in reverse to head home. Before I back out completely, Vincent’s voice pierces the silence.
“Kent!”
