6. Dining and Dodging with Parents
Iasked Naomi to take me directly home last night instead of taking me back to the café to pick up my car—a decision I’m now thankful for. This morning, I received a voicemail from Jeremy detailing how he waited for me before eventually coming to the conclusion that I wouldn’t return. Despite his repeated phone calls, which I didn’t answer, and his voicemails requesting callbacks to discuss things properly, I find myself unable to reach out to him. I’m still unsure of what to say.
Before bed, I was primed to confront him with the truth, but after a night of restless sleep, my resolve has faded, now overshadowed by a sense of embarrassment. Jeremy, with his keen perception, will likely connect the dots and conclude that my sudden departure was tied to some unresolved feelings I might have for his cousin—a notion that Naomi subtly suggested last night, even if she didn’t say it outright. Thankfully, I’m off work today. The Calypso doesn’t serve dinner on Sunday evenings, and for that reason, Randy usually takes that day off. Basically, there’s no risk of an awkward encounter between us until Monday. It’s then that I’ll have to be straightforward with him: us having sex must end. And with that, a chapter closes.
So this morning, before Calypso opened, I caught an Uber to pick up my car simply to avoid seeing anyone at all. Since returning home, I’ve thrown myself into a flurry of activities to keep my mind off things. My routine cleaning of the apartment, a task reserved for my Saturdays off, was where I started. Following that, I dove into baking, creating a large batch of raspberry vanilla swirl cream cro-muffins. I carefully placed these divine pastries into a large pink box, one that could comfortably fit two dozen treats. With the box of desserts and a hefty load of laundry in tow, I then made my way to my parents’ house.
Mom and Dad bought this enchanting Tudor-style house, constructed in 1902, when I was just six years old. They initially described it as a “fixer-upper,” yet it wasn’t until I reached the age of ten that it truly transformed into the dream home they had always imagined. I adore this house. Crossing its threshold instantly eases me; my mind halts its relentless strategizing of how to maintain distance from Randy, especially since I suspect he and Jeremy might have finally run into each other on the pier. I’ve even imagined their possible exchange:
“Hey, Jeremy. What brings you here?” Randy might have asked.
“I was on a date with Gina, but I think she bolted when she saw you. One minute she was right beside me, and the next, she’s running away,” the Jeremy in my mind replied, searching longingly behind him for any sign of me. Then he turned to Randy and asked, “Any idea what might have prompted that?”
In the comforting embrace of my childhood home, I find relief from dwelling on last night’s embarrassment. Since arriving, I’ve kept busy—preparing dough for bread to go with dinner, which will be my mom’s signature beef stroganoff, my favorite. She also asked me to sort through my bedroom for items to donate to charity. Although I live on my own now, that room still holds a special place as mine in what my parents affectionately call our “forever home,” free for me to use as I see fit. And of course, I’ve been washing, drying, and folding a mountain of laundry.
“Gina, dinner’s ready!” My mom’s voice carries into the laundry room from downstairs.
“On my way!” I call back, tossing my final load of damp clothes into the dryer.
Just as I’m about to head to the kitchen table, I grab my cell phone off the top of the washing machine. It immediately begins to ring. It’s Jeremy calling again. I hesitate, uncertain about answering. By the third ring, his call goes to voicemail.
Why didn’t I just answer? It’s not like me to shy away from hard conversations. This whole situation only stiffens my resolve to do whatever it takes to end the sex-only relationship between Randy and me.
Next, I elevate my avoidance tactics by intentionally leaving my cell phone on the washing machine. This way, if Jeremy calls again, I won’t have to handle it in front of my parents. They typically don’t pry into my personal life, but they are astute at reading my reactions. They would instantly sense something was amiss if they saw how I reacted to Jeremy’s name popping up on my screen. That’s precisely why I choose to leave it in the laundry room—so that won’t happen.
* * *
All day long,my dad has been isolated in the backyard casita, busy working on a mysterious project. In our household, we stick to an unspoken rule: we refrain from probing about our individual endeavors until we’re gathered around the dinner table.
Savoring the beef stroganoff, its flavors dissolving deliciously in my mouth, I pause before helping myself to another generous bite. Dinner has officially begun, so I’m able to finally turn to my father and ask, “Okay, Dad, what have you been working on in the backyard?”
My parents exchange a meaningful glance, and I immediately try to decipher it. My mom’s eyes sparkle with excitement, while a subtle smile plays on my dad’s lips. They’re at it again. I recognize the looks on their faces. They’re up to something exciting, innovative, or what some might deem unconventional.
My mom sits up straighter, exuding confidence. “Love Bug, you’re now looking at one of the cohosts of the Empty Nesters Who Lunch podcast.”
“Faye’s diving back into her comedic roots,” my dad says.
“We’ll be airing our shows Monday through Friday from noon to one, and we’ll also broadcast live on YouTube. We’re doing big things,” my mom adds, exchanging a wink with my dad. “And Harold here is the producer and director.” Harold, of course, is my dad.
I freeze midbite. “Wow. That’s quite the shift from dentistry, isn’t it, Dad?”
Sitting his fork in his bowl to proudly cross his arms, Dad announces, “I’ve retired.”
“Oh,” I manage to say as childhood memories float through my mind. As a kid, I spent so much time after school in my dad’s front office, doing homework while waiting for my mom, who worked at the municipal library, to pick me up.
“Yes. From dentist to director, Love Bug,” he declares, smiling as he dabs the corners of his mouth with his white napkin.
“Well, congratulations, Dad,” I offer before I continue scarfing down the best comfort food on the planet.
My mom watches me with an inquisitive gaze. “What’s going on with you?” she asks.
I halt, my fork halfway to my mouth. “What do you mean?” I reply, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.
“You’re eating very quickly. Plus, you’ve been somewhat distant since you got here. So, what’s bothering you, Love Bug?”
“Nothing,” I assert, even though my voice betrays me with a slight crack. Deep down, I’m yearning to break down in my mom’s embrace and confess the entire debacle of last night. It would sure be nice to tell her about my decision to end things with Randy, one that’s tearing me apart. She always knows what to say to make me feel better. But I can’t tell her what’s wrong with me. I’ve never engaged in a relationship like the one I’m in with Randy. Casual sex is not my style.
My parents know me to be someone who holds off being intimate in a relationship until I’m sure there’s reciprocation. The mere acknowledgment that my libido and not my brain has been driving my relationship with Randy feels so wrong, especially against the backdrop of my parents’ thirty-year testament to love and companionship. They are not just spouses but best friends, always there to support one another through thick and thin.
Growing up, I would come home to find them at the kitchen table, working through whatever challenges they faced with open communication and understanding. And here I am, entangled with a man I can’t stand, trapped in a cycle of frustrating conversations and interactions coupled with fleeting but highly enjoyable passionate encounters. Randy is stubborn and never admits fault. Sure, there are moments when his better qualities peek through, but those are too often eclipsed by his insufferable behavior.
“Oh, it’s definitely something,” my dad interjects, his intuition clearly catching the nuances in my voice.
I’m so on the spot that I can feel my shoulder blades begin to pinch.
“Is it Randy, the one who introduced himself to me yesterday?” my mom asks.
The fact that my dad doesn’t ask, “Who’s Randy?” and instead waits for my response clues me in that they’ve already had a conversation about him. That’s how well we all know each other. It has only been the three of us, all of our lives, living, learning, and loving one another. We have all gotten pretty good at picking up on things.
“No,” I respond, my voice pitching higher in a less-than-convincing attempt to deny it.
“He was really smitten by her, Harold.”
“I heard,” my dad says.
I’m shaking my head vigorously, eager to correct their misunderstanding. “He’s not smitten by me, Mom. Actually, it’s the complete opposite. Right before you came in yesterday, he was lecturing me about using too much flour. So, no—definitely not smitten.” Also, there’s the fact that last night he was on a date with another woman, but I wouldn’t dare mention that to them.
“Using too much flour?” My dad sounds genuinely baffled by the concept.
“Yes, according to him, I apparently use too much flour when I make my cro-muffins, which he’d prefer I didn’t do for some odd reason.” I lift a finger, suddenly experiencing a lightbulb moment. “Ah, now I get it. It’s because he doesn’t want me to succeed,” I say, my tone reaching a dramatic crescendo.
My parents give me a look that suggests they think I might be spiraling a bit. Admittedly, discussions about Randy have a unique way of getting under my skin. Not wanting them to see me like this, I plaster on an exaggerated smile, which only prompts my dad to arch an eyebrow in response.
Great.Now I’ve managed to make myself come across as not just upset, but slightly unhinged as well.
“I don’t know the details of what’s happening between you and Randy, but don’t be too hard on yourself,” my mom offers gently.
My jaw drops. “What?” What does she mean? What does she think she knows? Does it say, “I’m having sex with Randy Thorn” on my forehead?
My eyes are wide with surprise and confusion. There’s a flurry of thoughts and questions I want to unleash, starting with why my mom sounds like she and Randy are old friends.
“There’s chemistry—that’s all,” my mom says, exchanging a knowing look with my dad, who seems to find the situation endearingly amusing.
“There’s no chemistry,” I retort, feeling a bit defensive.
My dad leans in, offering a reassuring presence. “Everything’s going to be okay, Love Bug.”
I’m on the verge of questioning, “What do you mean by ‘it’s okay?’” but I halt, realizing that more protest will only confirm their suspicions.
Taking a moment to collect myself, I breathe deeply, finding clarity in silence. When I speak next, I shift the focus. “Mom, diving back into comedy is incredible. You’re truly my inspiration.” Then I turn to my dad. “And Dad, retiring to embark on this new adventure with Mom is fantastic. You’ve always been her biggest supporter, even organizing stand-up sessions for your patients. That was amazing!”
My mom, catching on to my tactic, leans forward with a playful accusation. “Oh, so we’re switching topics now?”
I can’t help but grimace. “Was it that obvious?”
“Painfully,” she teases. “I taught you to be smoother than that,” she adds with a wink.
I can’t help but laugh, conceding with a playful groan as I go back to my beef stroganoff. “Fine, I admit it. There’s something going on with Randy. But I’m dealing with it.”
My admission prompts a silent exchange between my parents—a nod from Mom, returned by Dad—signaling their unified support, no matter the topic at hand.
“Whatever’s clever,” my mom quips with a gentle smile.
“And Gina,” my dad interjects, drawing our attention with his serious tone—a natural command that silences the room. “You are a unique kind of woman, exactly what your mother and I hoped for. You’re not someone who can be easily understood. And trust me, Randy is both fascinated and frustrated by that fact.” He then looks lovingly at my mom. “The challenge and reward of loving a truly remarkable woman is one of the greatest joys of my life.”
Mom responds by blowing him a kiss. “Likewise.”
They share a moment of silent communication, their affection evident. Then, shifting his gaze back to me, my dad continues. “All right. Now that we’ve addressed that, let me share the plans for our first podcast episode and how you can be involved.”