24. Kellen
Twenty-Four
Kellen
I forgot how exciting it is to watch a teenager grasp a new concept. Jake had mixed up his formulas for friction and gravity, but as soon as I got him on the right track, he was racing through his homework problems like they were rudimentary, rather than advanced physics.
“You’re a freshman in high school?” Elizabeth had failed to mention that her son was a damned genius. “I didn’t even take physics until my senior year.” The year I met your mother. I shake that thought right off.
A sound from the front room pulls my attention, and I look up to see Elizabeth struggling with a bag and a huge pan. “I made dinner,” she says. I hurry over to help her and notice that Jake is still sitting at the table.
“Come on and help,” I tell him. He looks startled at the suggestion, but rises and stands in the living room.
“Jake, can you put this pan on top of the stove?” Elizabeth gently prods him and I realize he must not be processing what to do in this, an unusual situation for him.
I recall how important it was for him to eat in the back yard and realize he and Elizabeth must not carry food to other people’s houses very often.
There’s a lot I have to learn about how Jake experiences the world. There’s a lot I have to admire about how Elizabeth works to guide him.
“This smells amazing,” I say, clearing off the table and ushering her into a seat as I fetch plates and silverware.
“Chicken parm,” she says. I halt in my tracks. I hear Elizabeth chattering, talking about how it’s her go-to meal when she wants to impress someone. “Big flavor, low effort,” she continues. “Jake, can you grab me a glass of water? Thanks, honey.”
Chicken parm was the meal Helen requested on her last good day. She smiled at me and Orla and suggested we make it together. Our family favorite. It was Helen’s go-to as well, for all the reasons Elizabeth listed. Orla and I have avoided it since.
That meal was sacred for us. A last supper. I can remember every facial expression, every time one of us flung bread crumbs at the other as we coated the meat. We all knew it was the end.
“Everything ok, Kellen?” I realize Elizabeth has risen and come to my side, where I’m standing in the middle of the kitchen, holding a stack of napkins.
“Oh.” I feel tears in my eyes. “I just…” I look at her lovely face, so hopeful, so kind. “It’s been a really long time since someone cooked food for me,” I say. I can tell this was the right answer, because Elizabeth beams.
“I wanted to do something kind for you.” She walks back to her seat at the table and I slide into the chair next to her, squeezing her hand.
Elizabeth and Jake start eating and I cut into the meat slowly, twirling the pasta on my fork to form the perfect blended bite. I close my eyes, feeling conflicted, hoping the meal doesn’t taste like Helen’s recipe.
It does not. This food is spicy and bold, garlicky with a zing of basil. Not at all like I feared. The relief is palpable. I can do this. I can create something new with Elizabeth, enjoy the experience of receiving someone’s kindness.
“Hey,” she whispers, leaning close to me. “What’s wrong?”
I reach under the table and squeeze her leg, shaking my head. “This is wonderful,” I tell her. “Thank you.”
She sits back up, as if she can tell I’m holding back on her. Shit, this is hard to navigate. I clear my throat. “I was just having a small moment of grief about Helen,” I tell her, shrugging. “She used to make chicken parm.”
Elizabeth clenches her hands into fists. “Oh, Kellen, I’m so sorry,” she fusses. Jake looks up at us, surprised.
“Nothing to be sorry about,” I assure her, squeezing her leg again. “I really am glad to have you here and it truly is nice to have someone cook for me.”
We eat in awkward silence for a bit until Elizabeth asks Jake if he feels better about his physics class. “I can still get a 94 by the end of the semester,” he says, nodding. “Kellen can help me if I stray again.”
I laugh. “I’ll help you any time, Jake. Really. I like this stuff.”
“Did you use physics in your work today?” And with that question, the air clears and the three of us are off on a deep dive, discussing the engineering projects I’m supervising.
It feels so natural and easy, so right to be having this conversation here in my house, with my hand roaming around Elizabeth’s body.
It’s hard to believe a month ago, I was convinced my life was fine as it was.
I look at the room, how rich and full it feels.
I feel emotional in a way I can’t describe. I feel gratitude.
The front door bursts open and Orla walks in, lugging her laundry and rumbling about parking. She looks up and sees the scene in the dining room, and I watch her realize what’s happening. I know exactly what she sees, but this is the first I’d considered her reaction.
Elizabeth’s face brightens. “Orla, please join us,” she says. “I made plenty. I wasn’t sure which days you come eat with your dad.”
Orla walks a little closer, looks around the kitchen and dining room. “Is that chicken parm?” Her voice is cold and I can tell she feels betrayed.
I nod. “Elizabeth made dinner while Jake and I worked on his homework,” I tell her, my voice drifting off at the end.
“Chicken parm?” She puts her hands on her hips and I see tears well up in her eyes. I’m not sure what to do about any of this. “May I speak with you in private?”
I glance at Elizabeth, who seems perplexed and hurt, and I place a hand on hers. “Please stay,” I tell her. I gesture my head toward the back deck and Orla stomps outside to the far end of the railing. I follow my daughter, gently sliding the door closed. “What’s wrong?”
“Chicken parm, Dad?”
“Orla, I didn’t know she was making dinner and it would be unspeakably rude to refuse it.” Orla breathes through her nose, her nostrils flaring. “Honey, it’s not like I sat down and explained every grief trigger to her.”
“No shit, Dad. You’ve been with her for like five seconds and you guys are what? A cozy instant family?”
“What? Orla, did you not encourage me to ‘get out there’?” I throw her words back at her, trying to keep my voice down and not wanting Elizabeth to hear.
My daughter moves her hands to her hips. “I meant like go to bars and get laid, Dad. I didn’t think you’d…”
“You didn’t think what, Orla? Please don’t be crass. I am not now and have never been someone who goes out and sleeps around.”
My heart sinks when I see tears falling down Orla’s cheeks. I step toward her and pull her into my arms. “Baby, what is it?”
She shakes her head, then rests her forehead on my shoulder. “I didn’t know it would feel this way to see you with someone.”
“You’ve seen Elizabeth here for meals before.” Has so much really changed since the last time we were all here for post-podiatrist burritos?
“Dad, do you know what it looked like when I walked in?” She meets my eyes, her head tipped back, tears welling up again. And I do know what it looked like, because it felt amazing.
“It looked serious,” I tell her, nodding. “Honey, it feels serious. You were right about everything, Orla. About me needing to feel alive again, needing company. Needing to do things on week nights that don’t involve my nephews.”
She steps back out of my hug and starts pacing the boards of my deck. “It’s too fast, Dad. It’s too convenient. Your high school girlfriend and her kid move in across the street and you’re just what? The kid’s new Dad? Playing house?”
“Orla, you’re crossing a line.” She closes her eyes. “I’m setting a boundary and asking you to go process what you’re feeling and come back when you can speak rationally about what’s bothering you.”
Orla flings her arms up in the air. “You’re such a god damned cyborg sometimes. It’s like living with Liam.”
“You haven’t lived here for years, Orla. This is always how we’ve approached problems.”
She rolls her lips between her teeth and I watch her counting to ten internally. “You’re right,” she says. “I need to process. I’ll come back. We’re not done talking about this.”
Orla stomps off through the house and out the front door. I note that she doesn’t grab her basket of laundry. I sigh and look to the kitchen, where Elizabeth is drying her hands.
“You shouldn’t have cleaned up,” I say, looking around. Everything is put away. Jake is gone. The kitchen is just as it was before they arrived today—sterile and photo-ready. Nothing out of place. Nothing spicy or vibrant. All the things Beth has brought into my life.
“It’s ok. I felt…” Elizabeth sighs. “I put the leftovers in your fridge. You’re the only person I know with an organized Tupperware cupboard.” She huffs out a laugh.
I swallow. “Orla just needs some time to adjust. I haven’t dated anyone else…”
Elizabeth nods. “I know, Kellen.” She leans in and kisses my cheek. “It all feels fast.”
I grab her hand and bring it to my lips. “It is fast, but it’s also not fast enough. Beth, I’m…you make me feel so alive,” I tell her. “You and Jake. Both of you. I need you,” I tell her. “Orla will come around.”
Elizabeth cups my cheek. I can’t get a read on what she’s feeling.
“This was a lovely day,” she says. She stretches up to quickly kiss me, a brief, chaste pressing of her lips against mine.
I want to prolong it, to press her against the wall or sneak into her kitchen like we’ve done every night since our Star Wars date.
But she retreats, both physically and emotionally.
“I’ll text you tomorrow,” she says and makes her way toward the door. When she’s gone, I open the fridge and stare at the leftover forbidden meal. I open the lid to the container and inhale, savoring the smell one last time.
I think about Orla, about her sense of betrayal at seeing me all in for this relationship. It did feel like an instant family. Elizabeth and Jake fold into my life as if they’ve always been there. But they haven’t always been there, and my obsession with this new phase has hurt my daughter.
I dip a finger in the dish, tasting the lemon and black pepper one last time, and then I throw the food in the garbage.