Page 87 of Meant to Be

Elna spoke first. “Chip?”

I nodded.

“He’s such adick,” she said.

“Yeah,” I said, still processing everything. For one second, I felt better about my mom, even a little guilty that I had rushed to judgment. But she still shared the blame, as Elna always said about her. At most, she’d been a coconspirator; at the least, she hadn’t defended me. She never did.

I glanced at Joe, who looked confused and concerned. “Was that your stepfather?” he said.

“Yes. That was my mom’shusband. And Elna’s right. He’s a dick.”

I knew I was in tricky territory—and that the last thing I wanted to do was air more of my family’s dirty laundry. So I stopped there.

I think Elna must have sensed that Joe didn’t know the truth about how I’d grown up because she quickly changed the subject. “Okay. Screw him. What should we do tonight? Can I be your third wheel?”

“Absolutely!” Joe said so enthusiastically that it warmed my heart.

“Should we call Curtis, too?” I said.

“Yes! Call Curtis,” Joe said.

“Sure,” Elna said, then smiled at Joe. “But warning: he probablystillhas a poster of you on his bedroom wall.”

Joe laughed and a feeling of relief washed over me. Yes, my mom had let me down, and Joe’s mother and Berry sucked, too. But those weren’t things that either of us could control, and they certainly weren’t reasons to throw in the towel on our relationship. If anything, I could feel those things bringing us closer together, and I was reminded of what I already knew. That Elna and Curtis were more my family than my actual flesh and blood were. That you can make yourownfamily.

I called Curtis, filling him in on everything, including Elna’s joke at his expense. He laughed, then said he’d be right over.

Over the next thirty minutes, Elna, Joe, and I finished our beers, chatting about lighthearted topics, telling Joe funny stories about Curtis. The stage was perfectly set by the time he waltzed into the living room, sat down beside Joe, and whipped out his ancient autograph book. I knew that he was just going along with the fanboy shtick, and that the book mostly contained signatures from Disney characters that he’d gathered as a kid. Honestly, it felt a bit too close for comfort to the posters-on-my-wall story line, but I bit my tongue and let Curtis be himself. I watched as he flipped open his book and handed it to Joe, along with a ballpoint pen clipped to one of the pages.

“First things first,” he said, crossing his legs. “Can I please have your autograph? I’m your biggest fan—”

Elna shook her head and laughed.

“Jesus, Curtis,” I said. “You don’t think I’ve been embarrassed enough today?”

“Oh, stop!” Joe said, swatting my leg, laughing. “I’m flattered! Should I sign here on this page?”

“Yes, please. Right under Mickey’s signature.”

“Mickey Mantle?” Joe said.

“No, sir,” Curtis said. “MickeyMouse.”

Joe’s eyes widened. “Wait. Hold up. You’ve metMickey Mouse?”

“I sure have,” Curtis said, sitting up straighter. “And Minnie, Pluto, Donald, and Daisy.”

“How ’bout Goofy?” Joe said.

“Yes, Goofy, too.”

Joe nodded, pretending to be impressed. “Where’d you run into them? Disney World? Or Land?”

“Neither. We met at the Philly Spectrum. Summer of ’seventy-four. Disney on Ice. I still get chills thinking about it,” Curtis said. “Life highlight for sure. This is second.”

Joe laughed and scribbled his autograph right under Mickey’s, then shut the book with authority. He put it down on the coffee table in front of a beaming Curtis.

“So,” Curtis said, pointing at our empty shot glasses. “It looks like I’m behind.”

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