17. The Thaw
THE THAW
"Hi, Lena."
"Hi, Dad. I'd like to come for dinner this weekend. Just me. I need to tell you and Karen something."
"Of course!” He sounds eager. “Saturday?"
"Saturday is perfect."
We talk for two minutes about the weather. He mentions the neighbour's fence situation. I don't pay attention.
On Saturday evening, Karen served lamb again—the one with the rosemary she sources from a specific farmer's market.
The dining room smells like wine and olive oil. Karen talks about the book club. My father talks about work. The conversation has its usual rhythm.
I eat and make small talk. I wait for a pause in my father's analysis of the neighbour's fence situation, and then I set my fork down.
"I have something I need to tell you both.”
My dad smiles at me. “This sounds serious. Are we getting some good news?”
“Are you finally seeing someone?” Karen asks.
“You tried out that dating app didn’t you?”
“I'm gay."
The sentence takes three seconds to say and has been thirty-two years in the making. The light from the window catches the good china. Nobody moves.
My father's jaw drops.
Karen sets down her wine glass. Carefully.
"We appreciate you telling us," Karen says. And I’m pretty sure she is reciting something she read in an article about How To Be A Supportive Parent.
"I'm dating someone," I say. "A woman. She's a musician. She makes me happy." I keep my voice level. Factual. "She's kind. She's thoughtful. She makes me better at being a person."
My father nods and looks down at his lamb. He picks up his fork. He eats a piece of lamb.
"So how long have you been dating?" Karen asks.
"Just about short of one year."
"A year?" Karen's surprise is visible, a small rupture in her careful composure. "That's quite serious."
"Yes."
My father eats and says nothing more.
It’s Karen who says it, right at the end, over the last of the crumble, not quite looking at me. “Maybe,” she says, “it’s time we had your sister over for dinner. If she’d come.”
My father nods but doesn’t say anything.
“I’ll ask her,” I say. “I can’t promise she’ll say yes.”
“No,” Karen says. “I don’t suppose she will. But ask.”
I sit at the table for another twenty minutes. I eat Karen's potatoes because they're good and because eating is an acceptable activity that doesn't require conversation. I drink the wine. I accept my father's silence as the response it is—maybe he was trying his best to process this.
Karen talks about a book the club is reading. My father discusses the neighbour's renovation plans. The conversation carries on as if I haven't just reorganised the shape of my life on this table.
I say thank you for dinner. I put on my coat and walk to the car. I sit in the driver's seat and grip the steering wheel and breathe—in through the nose, hold for four, out through the mouth.
Then I call Jani.
She picks up on the first ring. She's been waiting.
"Hey."
"Jani, I told Dad."
Silence. Three seconds. Four. Five. I can hear her breathing on the other end—the particular rhythm of a woman processing information that touches her deepest wound.
"Whoa. How did he take it?"
"He was very quiet."
"That sounds about right." Her voice is soft. "Did he say anything?"
"No but did nod."
"That's the most Dad could possibly do."
I laugh—a short, wet laugh.
"Lena?" Jani's voice shifts. It gets softer. "You okay?"
"Yeah. I'm—yeah. I'm just. I've been so afraid."
"Of Dad?"
"Yeah and of everything."
"Is she good to you? This woman?"
I think about Rhonda. About a year of trying to be invisible. About a woman who finally, today, decided that visibility mattered more than fear.
"She's getting there," I say. "I think she’s trying to be good to me."
“Okay.” Jani’s voice levels out again. “Okay. Then I’m proud of you.” And then: “Don’t tell anyone I said that.”
"Thank you, sis.”
"Was it worth it?"
"I don't know yet. Ask me again in a month."
She snorts. "I'll ask you on Sunday."
"Alright fine."
“Oh—one more thing,” I say, before she can hang up. “Karen said something tonight. She said maybe it’s time they had you over for dinner. If you’d come.”
The line goes very quiet. “Really?”
“Dad nodded.”
A long breath. “I’ll think about it,” Jani says. “I might give him a call. But no promises.” Then, lighter, steering hard away before it can undo her: “Anyway. More importantly. When can I meet you and Rhonda together?”
“Soon,” I say.
“Soon. You keep saying soon. You do realise our two bands hang out every now and then? I’m being a gracious, patient sister and you are not appreciating it.”
“You’re the least patient person I have ever met.”
She sighs. “Fine. But come to the band’s joint Christmas dinner—its at Sandy and Erica’s new place, both bands will be there, It’s half a housewarming party and half a launch party for the Belladonnas’ single.”
“That sounds like fun.”
“It’ll be wonderful. And you’ll finally meet Riley.”
“Oh my gosh. Of course.”
Marnie: There’s Sirens acoustic set Friday. It’s going to be at a tiny wine bar, forty seats, super intimate. No pressure, but if you don’t come I will be so angry.
I stare at it for a long moment.
Me: I’m in.
Marnie: WAIT. Really. You never say yes anymore. I’m so happy I can cry.
Ravita: It’s a miracle!
Me: I’m saying yes.
Marnie: YAY! Is it deranged that I’m nervous to see your sister again. She’s your SISTER and also so cool.
Ravita: I think she’s my favourite now.
Me: She’s just Jani.
Marnie: I will not be normal. See you Friday.
The Sirens acoustic set is in a wine bar with forty seats, and we don’t sit in any of them—because Jani has parked us on the little reserved bench three feet from Riley’s stool. “Sisterly abuse of power,” she called it, delighted. Ravita has not stopped vibrating since we walked in.
“I’m going to be normal about this,” Marnie announces, gripping my arm. “I am going to be so normal.” She is not normal about it. When Riley counts in the first song, Marnie makes a sound like a kettle. When Jani catches my eye mid-set and mouths hi to my friends, Ravita nearly goes off the bench.
Afterward Jani comes out, hugs me for two seconds, then stands there with her arms crossed while the two of them talk at her for twenty minutes.
She answers in the fewest words each question will take, and she doesn’t smile once—but she doesn’t leave, and she doesn’t tell them to stop, which from Jani is a love letter.
At some point Marnie turns to me, eyes shining, and whispers, “Your sister is so cool and I would die for her,” and I laugh, because that’s the correct response to Jani.
At work I'm alone at my table, eating the salad I brought from home.
Then Ravita arrives with two coffees.
She sets one on my side of the table without being asked. She doesn't say anything about it. She sits down and opens her salad and starts talking about her clients, some logistical nightmare with a rebrand they're working on.
"Font choices are killing me," Ravita says. "Client wants modern but not too modern. Professional but not boring. How is that even—" She stops. She looks at me. "You're smiling."
"I just missed this."
"Missed what?"
"Our conversations, I feel like I can finally be honest." I pick up the coffee. It's still hot. She must have gone to the coffee bar right before coming here.
"I was worried about you," Ravita says. "I know you were dealing with something and you didn't want to talk about it, but I was worried.
And I didn't know how to push without pushing too hard, so I just stopped pushing at all, and then we weren't having lunch anymore, and then we weren't friends in the way we used to be. "
"I'm sorry."
"You should be. But you're back. So we're fine." She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand once. "Just don't disappear like that again. Okay?"
"Okay," I say. "I won't."
Ravita grins. She points at her salad. "Now eat. You look like you haven't been eating properly."
That evening. I pull up the group chat after work. A new Riley practice video. She's posted it an hour ago. I watch it on the train home, earbuds in, the city flowing past the window.
I open my notes. I start to write: Riley's incorporating what looks like a modified moeller technique for the bass drum footwork, which is unusual for drumming in this genre. The mechanics suggest she's been working with a new teacher or focusing on cross-discipline training.
Then I stop.
Riley Puth is still the best drummer I know. She's just not the centre of the universe anymore.
I delete the half-written post and close the app. But the appreciation remains. The fondness stays. That's more than enough.
On Wednesday evening I call Rhonda. She's back from the cottage.
"I've been thinking about what you said." she tells me.
"Okay."
" I watched Sandy and Erica on the porch. Just standing there being normal and happy. And I thought: that's what I want with you.”
"That's what I've been saying."
"I know. I wasn't listening. " She pauses. I can hear her breathing. "But I don't know how to do it."
"What do you mean?"
" I don't know how to just—be with you in front of people."
"You just do it," I say. "You walk with me, hold my hand and just ignore everyone."
"What if they—"
"What if they what? Judge you? They're judging someone they think doesn't exist."
“Okay.” Rhonda lets out a breath.
“So there’s going to be a party in a few days,” she says. “We’re going to have a launch party at Sandy and Erica’s.”
“I know,” I say. “My sister already invited me.”
A pause. “Oh.”
“Mm-hm.” I let her sit with it, enjoying myself a little. “So I’ll be there in the same room as you. Whatever will you do?”
“That’s the thing.” The bravado goes out of her voice. “I don’t know how to do it. Be with you in front of everyone. I’ve spent a year making sure nobody could see it. I don’t know how to just—stand next to you.”
“You just stand next to me,” I say, gentler now. “You hold my hand. You let people see. It isn’t a skill, Rhonda. It’s a decision you make over and over.”
“You make it sound easy.”
“It’s the hardest easy thing in the world.”
The call goes quiet and I can’t help but feel disappointed.
"I should go," she says.
"Okay."
"Goodnight, Lena."
"Goodnight."
The call ends. I lie in my bed with the phone on the pillow. I lie there and wait for the panic. But the panic doesn't come. There's just the waiting. The patience. The knowledge that the next move is hers, and the trust that she'll make it.
Next morning. A text from Rhonda: I'm going to figure it out.
I stare at it for a long time.
I don't reply right away. I just read it again and again, letting the words settle. Then I set the phone down and look at the ceiling and feel something unfold in my chest—hope, maybe.