Thirty-Eight
Cary suggested a pizza place where they used to go in high school.
Shiloh told him it sucked now and proposed an all-day breakfast place near his hotel.
She met him there at seven. She wore a sundress over boot-cut jeans with a cropped cardigan. Shiloh loved the dresses-over-jeans
trend. Dresses had always been too short on her.
She almost wore heels... but something about heels would make this feel like a date.
She decided that eyeliner was platonic. Lots of people wore eyeliner every day. Not Shiloh—but Cary didn’t know that.
He was waiting in a booth for her. In another plaid shirt. Flipping through the oversized laminated menu.
Shiloh smiled when she saw him. “Hey,” she said, when she was still too far away.
Cary looked up at her. He smiled, too.
She squeezed his shoulder before she sat down across from him. “You look better.”
He still hadn’t shaved, but his eyes were clear. His hair was clean.
“Thanks,” he said. “You look great.”
“Oh, well... thanks. That’s the bright side of not having the kids, I guess. I get to pretend I’m human.”
“Does their dad have them every weekend?”
“No,” Shiloh said. “That would be awful.” She picked up her menu. “We split them fifty-fifty, actually. It’s complicated.
It’s called two-two-three.” She looked up. “This is more than you want to know.”
“Fifty-fifty,” Cary said. “Like, right down the middle?”
“Yep.”
“I didn’t know people actually did that.”
“When we were growing up, they didn’t. It was every other weekend. For dads.”
Cary looked like he wasn’t sure what to think. He wasn’t smiling. “How do you feel about the arrangement?”
“I hate it,” she said. “I actively hate it. But it’s probably good, right? None of my friends grew up with their dads. I don’t even know who mine is.”
“Well. You know. Me neither.” Cary turned back to the menu. “Though my mom is going to go to her grave without talking to
me about it.”
Cary had found some paperwork in junior high that showed his sister Jackie was his birth mother. His mom had probably never
even been his legal guardian. His dad was unnamed.
“She’s still never talked to you about it?”
He turned the page and shook his head. “Nope.”
“And you haven’t tried to talk to her?”
He sighed. “What am I supposed to say? Every version of ‘I know you’re not my mother’ sounds terrible. And she is my mother. What do I get out of rocking the boat?” He looked up at Shiloh. “What are you ordering?”
“Hot turkey sandwich.”
“There are ten pages of breakfast, and you’re ordering lunch?”
“I like hot turkey sandwiches. And I never make them at home.”
“I keep expecting one of my sisters to confront me with it...” Cary said, frowning down at the menu again. “Because daughters
are legally closer than a grandson when it comes to making decisions about the house and long-term care. And my sisters know
the truth—they were all teenagers when I was born. I’m sure Jackie would love to put me in my place... but then she’d have to admit to me, directly, what we are to each other.”
“You’ve never talked to her about it, either?”
He looked up. “Again, why would I? She’s a terrible sister; I don’t need her to be my mother.” He set down his menu. “I’m getting potato casserole with chicken and ranch dressing.”
Shiloh laughed out a breath. “Aw, Cary, I’m sorry—it’s all so messed up.”
“No new tale to tell,” he said.
“You know...” she said. “We grew up blocks away from each other, and neither of us know our dads... We could be siblings.”
Cary laughed through his nose. “Lois and Gloria would never bring home the same guy.”
Shiloh started laughing, for real. “Lois isn’t your biological mother, dummy!”
Cary broke down, too, rubbing his forehead. “Oh god, you’re right. I can’t keep it straight.”
Shiloh kicked him under the table.
He kicked her back. “I’m pretty sure Angel and I have the same dad,” he said, more seriously. “We look alike, but we don’t
look anything like Jackie.”
“Have you met him ? Angel’s dad?”
“Oh yeah. I’ve met him. And no thank you.”
The waitress came to take their orders. Shiloh asked her half a dozen questions about other things, but still ended up ordering
the turkey sandwich.
When the waitress was gone, Shiloh kicked Cary again. “They can’t be all bad,” she said.
“Who?”
“Your genetic contributors.”
“I like that framing—but you’re wrong.”
“How could they be all bad, when you’re so good?”
For all the time Shiloh had spent with Cary over the last few months, none of the circumstances had been normal. (Late nights,
emergency phone calls.)
And even this dinner wasn’t normal—Cary was deeply concerned about his mother. He wore it on every breath.
But it was somewhat normal. Sitting across from each other in a brightly lit family restaurant. It wasn’t the sort of place
you’d go on a date—unless you’d been dating for a long time.
Shiloh got to really look at him. She got to watch him while he talked and ate. Cary ate the same way he always had, and Shiloh
couldn’t even explain what that meant. Was it his posture? The way he frowned to show he was listening when his mouth was
full?
Their conversation kept coming back to his mom, and what might happen next, and what he had to do while he was here.
Shiloh had known Cary for years before he’d opened up to her about his family, and he’d never been especially descriptive
about his home life. He never told her stories. (Cary must have stories .) He had a very Walter Cronkitey way of discussing it all.
It was a relief that he was picking up with Shiloh right where they’d left off. As if she was still on the inside. Still a
confidante.
They finished their meals, and Shiloh ordered tea. Cary got cheesecake. She leaned back in the booth and rested her feet on
the seat next to him.
“I’m talking a lot,” he said.
“You are,” Shiloh said, smiling gently. “It’s unusual. Unless... is this usual now?”
He smiled back at her. He shook his head.
“I like it,” she said, tipping her foot against his hip. “I don’t like how awful this is—but I like listening to you think
out loud.”
“There’s no one else I could say all this to.”
“I’m sure you have people who would listen.”
“I’d have to tell them the whole backstory first,” he said dismissively. “It’s not worth it.”
“You could sum it up...”
“No. I mean, it’s not worth people knowing all that. It’s not worth carrying my past around and handing it to new people. That’s what I like about the Navy. Everyone who wants a fresh start, gets one. You are what you bring to the table.”
Shiloh wanted to keep arguing her point—that understanding the fullness of Cary wouldn’t be a burden. Didn’t he talk to his
friends or the women he dated about his family? And his childhood?
Maybe he just meant that there wasn’t anyone at the moment who he could talk to...
“I think there are probably people in your life who would be happy to listen,” she said. “But one of them is me. So...”
Cary rested his hand on her ankle and squeezed.
“Who’s managing the destroyer without you?” she asked.
“The rest of the Pacific Fleet.”
“Those good-for-nothings?”
The waitress came by with the check. Cary let go of Shiloh’s ankle to pick it up.
Shiloh tried to take it. “Let me.”
“No way.” He held it out of her reach.
“Come on, Cary. I’ve never bought you dinner. I don’t think I’ve even paid for my own dinner in your presence.”
“I like that so much about us,” he said.
She gave up.
They had to pay at the register. Shiloh waited in line with him.
“Thank you,” Cary said.
“Don’t thank me.”
“You said I could thank you.”
“Well, it’s too much,” she said.
Cary paid for dinner and bought them peppermint hard candy. He walked her to her car.
They stood there for a minute, clinking their candy against their teeth. Then Shiloh tugged on his sleeve. “You’ll call me?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.”