Chapter 18 #2
“Do you remember Celeste?” she asks, pointing a long-nailed manicured finger toward an older woman standing next to the piano. “She was your violin teacher.”
“Oh, right, yeah.” I squint at her. I don’t remember, but then again, I only did three lessons before everyone came to the conclusion that music was never going to be my thing. “I didn’t know you guys were close.”
“Oh, well, we ran into each other at tennis lessons and got to talking.” She waves a hand like inviting an almost-stranger to her anniversary party isn’t an odd thing to do.
She sweeps me around the room like a handler putting a show dog through its paces.
I find myself nodding and smiling like some sort of possessed bobblehead, fingers tapping on a ball glass filled with some type of alcohol I didn’t ask for, words nobody else asked for tumbling from my mouth the moment there is a lull in the conversation.
Judging by the looks I’ve been getting, nobody here has ever hauled a lobster trap nor weighed the pros and cons of porcelain over ceramic tiles.
“Where’s Father?” I ask at some point, looking around for a place to put my glass.
I’m pretty sure it’s bourbon, and I’m one hundred percent sure I don’t want it.
A waiter strolls by, and I place it on his tray, almost immediately wishing I’d kept hold of it.
Now I don’t have anything to fidget with.
“Oh, he’s in the lounge, having a cigar with the boys. You should go join him. Here, fix your tie first.”
“I’ll just stay here,” I say quickly, eager to not voluntarily stroll straight into the pits of hell. Having a cigar in the lounge with my father and his friends sounds like nothing but a punishment.
By the time I’ve been introduced to everyone in the room, I’m more than ready to go home.
No matter how many times I check the time, however, it doesn’t seem to be moving any quicker.
In fact, it appears to have stopped altogether.
Father, who finally managed to grace his own party with his presence, asks me questions at a volume just this side of too loud and then interrupts before I can fully answer, usually with a biting retort about how he only needs the pertinent information and not a dissertation.
I tell him about my house, leaving out some of the more colorful adventures, watching as his eyebrows climb his forehead by increments.
“For God’s sake, Oliver. If you can’t manage things yourself, just hire someone and be done with it.
I’ll pay for it,” he adds, as though I need his help when I’ve been independent my entire adult life.
I just shake my head, swallowing down the rest of my words and looking around helplessly for a distraction.
It’s not until later, when the party is winding down and I’ve slowly started the process of inching my way toward the exit, that they touch on the subject of dating.
It’s a miracle it took them this long when usually my lack of a suitable partner is their favorite topic.
An anniversary party would be just the place for them to remind me that the only anniversary I have to track is the years I’ve spent alone.
“Oliver James, come over here. I want you to meet someone.” Mother snags my elbow, grinning, and points toward a man who’s only just walked in the door.
Fashionably late, I notice, which probably makes him smarter than the rest of us fools who have been here from the beginning.
I plant my feet before she can tug me along too far.
“Who is it?” I ask warily, pretty certain I already know.
“David’s son, Smith. He’s a surgeon. Come along, I want to introduce you. He’d make an excellent husband.”
“David named his son Smith?” I ask.
“He’s a well-respected surgeon,” she repeats as though I’m daft.
“You could do a lot worse,” Father comments. Clapping me on the shoulder, he adds, “Although he could do better.”
He chuckles and pats my back like we’re having a good laugh at my expense together.
And honestly, if Dryden had been the one to say that, I would have laughed.
But my father doesn’t say things like that in good-natured joking; he says it because he actually believes it.
I’m so incredibly tired of being on the receiving end of the barbs, my armor long eroded from years of taking shots.
In front of a room full of his colleagues and friends, no less, because my father talks at a volume that ensures he will always be the center of attention. Despite myself, my face burns.
“Actually, Mother, I’m seeing someone. Smith is safe from me.”
She gasps. “Oliver James, how dare you. When were you planning on telling us?”
Next year. Ten years from now. Never. Clearing my throat, I glance longingly toward the door.
I want to go to my hotel room and text Nils.
I want to be lying in bed, watching videos of how to properly apply caulk.
Actually, what I really want is to not stay at the hotel at all.
I want to drive back to Siren’s Point tonight, take a deep breath of salty ocean air, and then crawl into bed with Nils for a deep breath of man.
Before I can reply, she adds, “Tell us about him. You should have brought him along! Shame on you.”
She squeezes my arm to let me know we’re meant to be kidding around. Luckily, her version of jokes is a degree less poisonous than my father’s.
“Uhm, he was busy. His name is Nils Lee. We actually work together on the Drifter.”
“A fisherman?” Father clarifies, voice disdainful as though one of the two people standing in front of him isn’t also a fisherman.
“Yes,” I agree firmly, hackles already rising. There’s something particularly distasteful about hearing him put down other people. I may be weak and spineless and allow the abuse when he does it with me, but I won’t stand for it with Nils.
“Well, I’m sure you have a lot in common,” Mother says. “I hope he’s supportive of your dreams to be a chef.”
“He would be, if that was still something I was going to pursue,” I reply, fingers worrying at a loose thread in the cuff of my shirt.
The conversation after that devolves into the usual spiral of guilt-tripping as they remind me I’m wasting my life, ruining any chances of a career, and mostly just making heaps of mistakes.
Before I can finally escape to my hotel, Father reminds me to forward any bills his way if I’m “unable to handle things at home myself and need to hire someone.” I pass Smith on my way out the door, ignoring the hello, who are you?
look he sends in my direction and slipping out into the night.
Exhausted, I bring the evening full circle by sitting in my car in silence for a few moments.
When I think to check my phone, there’s a text from Nils waiting.
I smile down at the chicken photograph, throat a little tight.
I always walk away from my parents feeling like a punching bag and a little ashamed that I’m not tough enough to take it.
The reminders always do the job they intended, recharging the voice in my head that feeds my low self-esteem and reminds me of all the ways I’m a failure as a son and a person.
They would have been so much happier with a Smith as a son instead of an Oliver.
Going back to the hotel is the last thing I want to do, but I’m in such a rotten mood it’s better than driving home to Siren’s Point.
Waking Nils up in the middle of the night just to be a grump seems unnecessary.
Besides, I haven’t really been in a bad mood around him yet, and I don’t know that we’re far enough along in our relationship for me to do so.
I’m well aware of how unattractive it is for a grown man to still have daddy issues.
Responding to the chicken photograph with a heart emoji, I drop my phone into the cupholder and leave the parking lot.
I sleep like crap at the hotel and wake up with a headache.
I didn’t drink any alcohol at the party, but neither did I drink enough water.
After a shower, which unfortunately does little in the way of helping me feel better, I get dressed in the plain boxer briefs I brought and scowl.
I feel like only half of me is here right now, and the better part is back in Siren’s Point, waking up in Nils’ bed, satin slip smooth on my skin.
I can close my eyes and picture it—feel it, almost—the warmth of Nils’ back against mine, the slow pattern of his breathing, and the dip of the mattress when he rolls over to wrap an arm around me.
But when I open my eyes, it’s not that Oliver I see in the mirror but the other one.
The one whose hair is a little too long, underwear too boring, and eyes too dull.
Swiping the fog from the mirror, I blow out a breath and get ready.
The sooner I leave, the sooner I can get home.
Hopefully, the bad mood will stay right here where it belongs, in my parents’ town and not mine.
Singing “Business” by Eminem under my breath in an effort to pump myself up, I toss my bag in the trunk of my car after checking out.
Texting Nils that I’m on the way back, I finally point the vehicle in that direction.
Fifteen minutes later, a text message from my mother comes through, asking me to join them for breakfast. I ignore it.
I’m driving, I reason, and texting while driving is dangerous.
Because of this, I also ignore the three other texts she sends, as well as the one from my father.
I’ll meet them for breakfast next year. One annual visit is all my psyche can handle.