Page 129 of Butter My Biscuit

I kick off my boots, leaving them by the door, and sit in one of the recliners. We watch an entire episode before Mom starts yawning. They take one look at each other, and I know they can hold conversations without speaking.

“Did you want to talk?” Dad says.

“Yeah.” I look between him and Mom. “When you two got married, did you have any doubts?”

Mom laughs. “Of course. Love ain’t like the movies, honey.”

“I know that.” I look between them, not sure what to say.

Dad chuckles. “Son, when you find that person in your life, you know. But that doesn’t mean it’s gonna be easy. It’s normal to have doubts in any relationship.”

Mom pats Dad’s leg. “I didn’t know if I was ready to get married and start a family when your daddy proposed. Now, I wouldn’t change my life for nothin’, but marriage is a huge commitment. It can be scary as hell because it’s a big life decision.”

“I’m glad you woke up and stopped playin’ hard to get.” Dad shoots her a wink.

Mom folds the blanket they were covered with and places it on the back of the couch. “Being married to someone and spending forever with them is a choice you make every single day. I mean, I know we make it look easy, but it hasn’t always been. And it won’t be. But when you exchange your vows, you’re vowing to work through your issues and at least try. And if you can’t, divorce is the other option, but no one gets married to end things. We’re all making it up as we go. From being married to being parents. Nobody is perfect, and you learn to love the imperfections.”

I search between them.

“Is everything okay?” Dad asks. “You look kinda shaken up.”

“I think it’s just pre-wedding day jitters.”

“It’s happening fast.” Mom looks at me. “You’ll be ready.”

“I will. I am,” I correct and stand. “This was a good chat. Thanks.” As I pull my keys from my pocket, I think I hear the strumming of a guitar.

“It’s London. She’s been practicing in the tree house. Said she’s found a lot of inspiration in there. You should go say hi.”

I nod, turning toward the back door. “I think I will after hearing her play at Boot Scooting.”

“Have a good night,” they tell me at the same time, then laugh.

“Night, y’all.” I push my hands into my pockets, listening to London sing and play from the back porch.

The starlight is so bright that it casts shadows on the ground. She sings out into the night, and I think about everything my parents said. I feel numb, thinking about the ultimatum I gave Grace … that she needed to be sure. My father wasn’t even sure about my mom, and their relationship is what I strive to have. Could things have been different?

When the strumming comes to an end and I hear her sigh, I clap.

London’s head pokes out from the side window. “What are you doin’?”

“I’m wonderin’ the same thing,” I tell her, walking down the steps and into the backyard.

She waves me up, and I take the worn wooden boards that act as a ladder. Then, I pull myself up and sit on the floor and look around. The space is smaller than it used to be, but that happens when a person grows up.

“So,” London tells me, lightly strumming her fingers on her guitar, “I’m kinda pissed you didn’t ask me to sing at your weddin’.”

“Shit.” I run my fingers through my hair. “I’m sorry. What a fuckin’ prick.”

“That’s what I was thinkin’.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve just been …”

“Out of it? Yeah, everyone has noticed lately.”

We sit in silence, and she goes through a few chords, humming over it.

“That song you were playin’ when I walked up, it was depressing.”

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