Chapter Eight West #3
I try to shut out thoughts of her, to enjoy some “quality time” with my dad, who’s used the term enough times in reference to this outing that I’m beginning to worry I’ll be graded on quality at the end. So far, I think I’m failing.
“Have you thought any more about the program in Germany?” Dad asks, and what do you know? There is something that can sour my appetite even further than my recent roller coaster of a conversation with Cammie.
“Oh, uh, yeah. A little,” I answer vaguely. Not a complete lie. It was on my mind a lot the day we went into Naples, as I spiraled about my ability to function in the world outside my comfortable bubble. But my thoughts were more of an incoherent “aaaahhhhhhh” than anything productive.
Besides that, my mental space has been occupied either by math or by Cammie. Two areas that share an ability to boggle my mind.
I wish I could talk to my dad about Cammie, could have a sounding board somewhere outside my head so it’s not just me and myself talking in circles.
In theory, I could try one of the guys from school.
But our group chat, for all the time we (virtually, for the summer) spend together, has never had the vibe of a place to bring your girl problems. Or guy problems, or any form of interpersonal-relationship-related problems. It only occurred to me in the last couple days that I don’t know if any of them have significant others—the topic doesn’t come up.
Dad and I just aren’t on that level. But could we get there? Maybe my possible study abroad plans could be a starting point.
With that in mind, I break the lingering, uncomfortable silence by adding a very delayed, “I’m still not sure if it’s the right time for me to do it. I really liked being on campus at Elora this past year and feel like I’ve got a good thing going there—why upset that?”
Dad nods thoughtfully as he chews another bite of his funghi pizza, then washes it down with a glass of water from the carafe on our table.
“I understand the hesitation. I know the past few years have been challenging, and you have seemed to thrive in college, which has been great for both your pops and me to see. But if you think about it—this time last year, didn’t you have some of the same reservations around moving away from home, starting your studies, living on campus, all that? ”
I pick at my pizza crust like the answer to his question is baked inside.
I might have had those feelings, but had I shared them with him?
How much do he and Pops still talk about me behind my back?
I thought that was one of the benefits offered in the child-of-divorce package—no more interacting between the two people whose every interaction stressed you out.
“Maybe, yeah,” I admit.
“I’m not trying to push you any one way; all I want is for you to do what’ll make you happiest. Just offering a reminder that you’ve made scary leaps before and landed somewhere wonderful.
I hope you won’t let fear keep you from doing it again.
” He leans back in his seat, his gaze moving from me out to the quiet, small town street, to the view of rolling hills beyond it.
“I almost said no to the Villa di Bronzo job the first time—did I ever tell you that?”
I shake my head, both interested in this story and grateful that we’re moving away from West’s Life Choices. Dad nods, eyes distant as I assume he does some mental time travel.
“It seemed like terrible timing—I mean, it was, and I’m sure Pops would tell this story without my rose-colored glasses.
” He chuckles, shooting me a wry look. “We were brand-new parents, had just moved apartments. Pops was going to be starting a new job in the fall, and I got this call from a tenacious young woman named Alex, who I barely knew, asking me to come join her team. I was terrified of uprooting our lives for nothing special and almost backed out a dozen times. I wasn’t even sure by the time we stepped off the plane in Naples. But, well, we see how that turned out.”
He trails off and clears his throat, looking more bashful suddenly as his eyes dart back to me.
He takes another sip of water before adding, “It’s hard to believe how much of my life was shaped by doing this one thing that scared the hell out of me.
Wherever your path takes you, I hope you can look back at my age and be grateful for the times you just went for it, said yes, and figured out the rest later.
” Meeting my gaze earnestly, he adds, “And I’m very glad you said yes to this summer, son.
It may not have been your initial plan, but being back here with you is a dream I didn’t know I had. It…it means a lot to me.”
“I’m glad I’m here, too,” I say before I’ve really thought through the words, but I’m surprised to find they feel true. My stomach finally feels a little more settled, enough that I take a few bites of pizza. They help fortify me to broach a new subject.
“I have a…well, kind of random question,” I begin.
Dad looks up with open interest. “Okay, shoot.”
“Back in your first summer here, what did you—” I cut myself off, trying to figure out how to word the awkward inquiry. “I mean, I know it’s when you and Dr. Alex first became close friends. I’m curious what you know, or knew—what she told you about—well, about Cammie’s dad.”
His brows shoot up, the question clearly catching him off guard.
But he doesn’t shut down or deflect, which tells me right away he has nothing to hide on the subject.
“Honestly, West, I never knew much. Alex and I were close, yes. Her parents were back in the States, so she was sort of adopted into our little family. But when she told me she was pregnant, she just said the father was not going to be involved. Something along the lines of how it wasn’t ‘meant to be’ between the two of them but that she was okay. So I never pushed it.”
I consider this. “And it just…never came up again?” Out of all the wine-drunk heart-to-hearts I’ve overheard while pretending to be asleep? I add silently.
Dad shakes his head. “From the day Cammie was born, they were their own unit. It never seemed like anything—or anyone—was missing. And to have questioned her about Cammie’s father, well, it always seemed like that would have been…
” His gaze goes distant again as he thinks through his words.
“It would have felt like I was questioning Alex’s abilities as a parent.
I never would have done that to her.” He looks back to me quickly.
“Not that I think that’s what you’re doing.
But if you don’t mind me asking, what brought this up? ”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I say, tilting my head and looking over Dad’s shoulder like someone back there might be holding up cue cards.
“I guess I’ve just been thinking a lot since we’ve been here about what it was like back then.
And obviously there’s all this talk of the Bambina di Bronzo story…
for the documentary, and, well, I don’t know. It’s made me curious.”
I manage to veer us toward the topic of the documentary, asking Dad what he thinks of it so far, getting him to talk some shit about John Mark/Gianmarco again as he recounts an argument between him and Ilaria over areas of Villa Russo approved for filming.
We’re laughing by the time we head back.
Under the dark night sky, I feel the lightest I have in days.
My mind keeps returning to Dad’s advice about just saying yes.
I may not be ready to apply it to the Germany decision yet, but I know where else it’ll work.
After we say our good-nights and split off toward our respective rooms, I take the stairs to my floor two at a time, then walk down the quiet hallway and knock on the door beside mine.
A few seconds pass before it swings open, revealing Cammie in a baggy T-shirt and pajama shorts that barely qualify as shorts and make it difficult to keep my eyes on her freckled face. The surprise that paints her features is quickly replaced by skepticism, and her arms cross over her chest.
“Can I help you?” she asks dryly. Her hardened facade shouldn’t bring a smile to my face, but for some sick reason, it does.
I’m so screwed.
“I don’t know,” I say with faux nonchalance, “but I think I can help you.”