Page 16 of Meant to Be

“Well, then that’s evenworse. Look, Joe. You know full well you didn’t study for this exam.”

“Yes, I did!”

“Having sex with Evie doesn’t count as studying for biology, Joe,” she said, rolling her eyes.

I tried not to smile, thinking of the study session I’d had with my hot TA—and how we’d gotten a little sidetracked. I was also wondering how Berry always managed to keep such close tabs on me. I shared a lot with her, but even the stuff I didn’t tell her, she’d always somehow discover.

“Well, itwasan anatomy exam.” I grinned.

Berry made a face and told me not to be a pig. I would have been offended, but I knew she didn’t mean it. I was far from perfect, but I treated women with respect. I never cheated, I didn’t lead them on (not purposefully, anyway), and I kept my promises. If I said I would call, I would call.

“Just try to do better, Joe,” she finally said with a sigh. “You don’t have to be your dad. Just beyourbest self.”

“And what if thisismy best self?” I said.

“It’snot,” she said. “And we both know it.”

—

I took Berry’swords to heart. For my remaining three years at Harvard, I managed to stay out of trouble and get mostly decent grades. When I did screw up here and there, I took my lumps and apologized with as much sincerity as I could muster. Generally,that was enough, as I discovered that just being a decent, humble guy went a very long way. Unfortunately, humility didn’t earn me as many points with my mother, whose bar for me was considerably higher. In fact, I think she sometimes wished I were a little less down-to-earth, seeming to believe that a certain aloofness carried more gravitas. It wasn’t so much that she was a snob, or even an elitist, and I never heard her talk down about people, at least not directly. She just wanted me on a certain path—myfather’spath. That was the difference between her and Gary, I think. Gary wanted me to be the best version ofme,and my mother wanted me to be likehim. I can’t entirely blame her for that—for wanting me to carry his torch and legacy. Perhaps she also felt a responsibility and duty to her dead husband. When I didn’t uphold his honor in a certain way, whether it came to my résumé or my relationships, I think she felt that we had both failed him.

The good news was, after going out with a string of girls my mother didn’t approve of, I finally found one she really liked. I’d met Margaret Braswell the first week of college; she was one of Berry’s three suite mates and by far her favorite. Margaret was intelligent but quiet and unassuming—not hell-bent on proving how smart she was, like a lot of girls at Harvard. She was also very pretty, with big brown eyes and dark hair cut in a short glossy bob. A former ballerina, she was slight—almost wispy—not at all my usual type. The more time I spent with her, though, the more I liked her, and I could tell she liked me, too. It took a while, but we finally got together during the fall of our junior year. My mother was thrilled. Margaret checked all the boxes, including the fact that she came from a “good family”—whatever that meant. In some ways, it seemed as if my relationship with Margaret made up for my lackluster transcript.

“So, Joseph, do you think Margaret is ‘the one’?” my motherasked one cool June evening after finding me on the back porch of our home in the Hamptons.

I’d just gone for a long run on the beach and was enjoying a rush of postexercise endorphins, along with a cold Schaefer, straight out of the can.

The question caught me off guard. Margaret and I had only been dating a year, and I said as much.

“Well, for what it’s worth, I think she’s perfect for you,” my mother said.

I nodded—because in many ways, I did, too. Margaret had such a kind soul, and I loved how nonjudgmental and laid back she was.

“And she’d be a wonderful First Lady,” my mother said, staring at me over her glass of chardonnay.

“Jeez, Mom,” I said, laughing. “Jumping ahead a little, are we?”

“Perhaps. But I know quality when I see it. She’s so smart and elegant and gracious.”

“Okay. Yes. She is all of those things,” I said. “But you do realize that for her to be a First Lady would require that I not only marry her but, you know, alsowinthe presidency?”

My mother waved this off, as if it was just some run-of-the-mill job that anyone could apply for and get. “I realize that, Joseph. That’s my point.”

I took a sip of my beer and laughed.

“What’s so amusing?” she asked.

“I don’t know, Mom. That’s sort of like saying you want me to be the starting pitcher for the New York Yankees.”

She shook her head. “No, it’s not. You weren’t very good at baseball.”

“The hell!” I said. “I made the All-Star team in the fifth grade.”

“But that doesn’t translate to pitching for the Yankees,” she said.

“Well, I wasn’t eveninstudent government.”

“Believe me, I’m aware.”

---