Chapter Ten A Fine Line #2
“That’s true,” I reply. “But here we are, almost twenty years later, and I’m afraid he’s turning into his father.
” I take another sip of wine. “Not because he’s controlling or intimidating.
He’s not that way at all. It’s kind of the opposite, actually.
He’s so obsessed with earning that Michelin star that he doesn’t seem engaged in his kids’ lives at all, which I’m afraid makes them feel like he doesn’t care. ”
Becky fiddles with an earring. “Have Connor and Amanda ever expressed that to you?”
“Connor hasn’t,” I reply, “but I sense how he feels. You saw it in the car. And yes, Amanda has talked to me about it because she’s sixteen, and as you know, she expresses her emotions openly.”
“And dramatically,” Becky replies with a wink.
The oven beeps to let me know it’s reached the set temperature, so I rise from the stool and slide the casserole dish inside. I return to Becky and refill both our wineglasses.
She lets out a woeful sigh. “I’m sorry you’re going through this. I wish you were married to someone who could put you first, like Jacob would have done.”
I close my eyes for a moment, take a breath, and open them. “Please don’t compare Nate to Jacob. That’ll never be a fair fight.”
Becky rubs the back of her neck. “Sorry. You’re right. Because Jacob was a saint. We’ll always think of him that way because he never had a chance to go through life and disappoint us.”
We sit in silence, pondering the deeper connotations of that statement.
I sit forward and touch her knee. “Thank you for being here for me. But when it comes down to it, I can’t bear to live with any more could-have-beens.
I married Nate because I loved him, and I enjoyed giving him what I knew he was missing in his life—which was love and support.
And I enjoyed watching him thrive when he worked for my dad and did well in cooking school.
I was so proud of him. I’m still proud of him—that he overcame that awful pressure from his father.
It’s why I’ve let him get away with so much. ”
“I get it,” Becky says. “You don’t want to crush his dreams like his father did.”
“I definitely don’t.” I sit for a moment and reconsider everything I just said.
“But now it sounds like he was a project for me, but that’s not how it was.
We were both damaged, which is why we were good for each other.
We were ready at the same time for a fresh start.
That’s why we connected so deeply and so fast. We helped each other through some big changes. ”
Becky listens to all this but doesn’t let me off the hook.
“Okay. I get all that. But that was then, and this is now, and it sounds like you both need to find a new common ground. And don’t feel guilty about that.
You’re not Nate’s father. You’re his wife and the mother of his children, and his children need him. ”
I think about all this—about us being parents—as I fiddle with a hangnail on my thumb.
“It’s been years since Nate has spoken to his father,” I tell her.
“And I’m pretty sure the real reason he wants that Michelin star so badly is to impress him.
I think, deep down, Nate’s real dream is for his father to walk into Oblique, have the best meal of his life, pull Nate into his arms, and say, ‘Well done, son. I’m proud of you.
’ But it bothers me that he’s trying to fix something from the past instead of being grateful for what he has today. ”
The front door opens, and I jump.
“I’m home!” Amanda shouts from the front hall.
“We’re in the kitchen!” I reply and speak quietly to Becky. “Let’s talk about this later.”
“I’ll pencil it in.”
I rise from the stool to greet my daughter, who has just come home from her part-time job lifeguarding at the indoor pool.
“Are you hungry?” I ask.
She stops and stares at me. “Not really.”
“It’s chicken lasagna,” I reply, knowing it’s her favorite, but I recognize that something’s not right.
Amanda shrugs and continues to stare at me because she knows I can read her like a book.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
She quickly shakes her head.
“That girl again?”
“That girl” is the bully I want to strangle.
My daughter nods, and with a mixture of sympathy and rage, I pull her into my arms. “What happened?”
She buries her face in my shoulder and speaks angrily. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
There are times when my daughter speaks these words, but she means the opposite. Sometimes she wants me to drag the truth out of her. Other times, she wants to escape from the problem at hand and do something fun. I’m not sure which of those scenarios applies presently.
Amanda lifts her head, peers over my shoulder, and becomes instantly cheerful. “Is that Aunt Becky?” We step apart, and Amanda strides into the kitchen. “I didn’t know you were coming over.”
“I went to Connor’s game.” Becky stands up to hug Amanda. “I figured I might as well get a free meal out of it.”
Amanda turns to me. “The chicken lasagna smells yummy. Can I help? I could make a salad.”
“Music to my ears.” I’m relieved that she’s not dwelling on whatever happened with the malicious brat on Instagram. “Check the vegetable drawers. I’ve got cucumber and tomatoes that need to be chopped. And there’s a can of black olives in the pantry cupboard if you want to go Greek.”
“I’m on it.” Amanda strides to the refrigerator just as the house shakes from the woofer speakers in the basement. More gunshots and explosions. People running and screaming.
This is my life. Teenagers. Food. Movies. Bullies.
Sadly, Nate has not been a part of it for a very long time. He has no idea what he’s been missing.
The chicken lasagna, as always, is a hit, and Connor goes for a second helping, which he shovels into his mouth with the same speed and tenacity he exhibits on the ice.
I offer Moose Tracks ice cream for dessert, but Connor asks if he can take his bowl downstairs and finish watching the movie.
I say yes because he asked nicely, but I also want some time alone with Becky and Amanda because I’m troubled by how quiet Amanda was during the meal. She barely touched her food.
“Two scoops or one?” I ask her and Becky.
“Two, please,” Becky replies, and Amanda nods in agreement.
As I rise from the table, I’m aware that my daughter occasionally opens up to Becky about things she doesn’t tell me.
I once asked Amanda about this, and she explained that it was because Becky was “single and stylish,” and she had a different perspective about life compared with mine.
I appreciated my daughter’s honesty, but there have been instances where I’ve felt hurt by this.
I try to resist any inclination to resent my best friend for this connection she has with my daughter because I’m conscious of Becky’s disappointments in love.
Her most serious relationship was with her boyfriend Mark, whom she’d wanted to marry, but after four years, it didn’t work out.
She’s alone now, but she never complains.
She’s embraced her “single and stylish” life, so I’m grateful that Amanda has someone mature to talk to—someone I trust—about things she might not wish to reveal to me, her not-so-stylish mother.
A few minutes later, I return to the dining room with three bowls of ice cream on a tray. “Two scoops for all.” I hand them out, and we all dig in.
We revel in the creamy vanilla ice cream, chocolate swirls, and peanut butter cups until we all sit back, groan over our full bellies, and push our bowls away.
“That was yummy,” Becky says as she leans back in her chair and pushes out her belly. “I think I’m going to have a food baby.”
Amanda laughs.
Becky sits forward again. “Now tell me what’s been going on in your life, kiddo. It’s got to be something because you barely ate your supper. What’s up. Is it a boy? Are you failing geometry? Do you have a wart on your foot?”
Amanda glances at me. “Did you tell her?”
“I didn’t say a word,” I reply defensively, raising my hands in surrender.
Amanda exhales. “Okay, fine. Mom knows most of it, so you might as well hear it too.”
“Spill it, kiddo. I’m all ears.”
The floor rumbles with another explosion in the rec room below us, but we’re immune to it now.
Amanda sits back and twirls her long dark hair around her index finger. “There’s a guy at the pool that I like, and we’ve been flirting a bit.”
Becky nods with approval. “Good job. Is he a hottie?”
Amanda and I both chuckle.
“Yes,” she replies. “Very hot. His name is Jeff. But he goes to a different school, so I don’t know any of his friends, but I can’t imagine we’d ever be a thing if we went to the same school.”
“Why not?”
“Because I can tell by his Instagram that he’s super cool and popular, and . . . well, that’s not me.”
“You’re super cool!” Becky replies, frowning and clearly offended by the idea.
Amanda grins. “I love that you think that. But anyway . . .”
Becky and I share a look as we wait for Amanda to continue. Most of the story I already know, except for whatever happened today that put her in a funk when she walked through the door.
“So we’ve been friendly at the pool . . .” Amanda continues. “We started following each other on Instagram, and he’s been liking my stories. But then I started getting these rude DMs from some girl who starts calling me a bitch and a whore and—”
“I beg your pardon!” Becky sits forward in shock.
In an effort to keep silent, I rake my fingers through my hair, because I’ve already shared my opinions with Amanda on the matter and I don’t need to do so again, but it’s not easy to keep my mouth shut. But I’m interested in what my best friend has to say.
“What’s her name?” Becky asks.
“Marissa.”
“I hope you blocked her.”
This is, of course, good advice.
“I did,” Amanda replies. “But then she went old school and actually called me—I don’t know how she got my number—and she threatened to cut me up if I kept talking to Jeff.”