Chapter 22 #2
His parents have provided a natural buffer between us all morning, but when I finally catch Ro’s eye to make sure I haven’t overstepped by sharing the good news, the rest of the room fades away.
Only for a moment, but it’s long enough.
My face splits into an embarrassingly proud smile at the quiet contentedness tucked behind his eyes.
And now that we’re finally really seeing each other, it’s impossible to look anywhere else.
My face heats when Ro’s dad claps a hand on his shoulder in congratulations, reminding me of our very real audience. His mom beams, but from her knowing smile, it’s safe to say Ro’s art isn’t the only thing on her mind.
A natural lull in the conversation brings out those standard getting to know you questions.
“My mom’s in medical sales,” I tell them. Which is partially true, though she’s had to work less and less with each divorce settlement.
Mrs. Jackson nods. “And your dad?”
Ro seems to be debating whether or not he needs to bail me out, but I’ve had to answer this question more times than I can count. I do it easily. “He’s a professor. But he’s not really in the picture anymore.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize,” Mrs. Jackson says. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“More of us with that story now than not,” Mr. Jackson says, folding his napkin and leaning back from the table. “My mama raised us on her own too. All five of us. Divorce is a damn epidemic.”
Well, that’s not the standard response to my brush-off. I don’t remember the last time I had to go off script like this.
“I see it as an adult, but when it first happened, I felt like I was the only one,” I say, surprising myself. “My family fell apart overnight, but all my friends’ parents were still together.” I gesture to their interlocked hands resting on the table. “Case in point.”
“Oh, this?” Mr. Jackson says, playfully pulling his hand away and flicking his napkin toward Mrs. Jackson for added effect. “Don’t let this fool ya for a second.”
“It’s unnatural,” Mrs. Jackson says, rolling her eyes playfully. “Two fully formed adults, havin’ to make every decision and work through every little thing together?”
“Well, you’re still doing it,” I say, laughing at their bit.
Mr. Jackson sucks his teeth, more seriously. “Ain’t nothing harder than staying together in a world that makes it easier to leave.”
Mrs. Jackson’s face is so warm when she says, “It’s all in the picking.”
And when she looks back to her husband, her eyes are soft, like there’s never been a harsh word exchanged between them.
What she says next, though, tells a different story. “Sometimes, especially at the start, love’s a feeling, but other times it’s a choice. You gotta find someone who’ll keep picking you every day. Even on the tough ones. And you gotta decide to do the same for them.”
They smile at each other—a shared secret decades in the making—and say, in tandem, “And therapy.” Without missing a beat.
I can’t help notice the way their hands find each other again, as if drawn together by a force too powerful to resist.
“Now that’s real,” Mr. Jackson says, breaking the connection between himself and his wife to bring me and Ro back in. “And at two hundred dollars an hour, you better believe I’m dropping knowledge on y’all whether you wanna hear it or not. We ’bout to get our money’s worth.”
We’re all still laughing when Mr. Jackson continues. This time, though, he gestures toward me as he speaks.
“Not like our folks did us when we were coming up,” he says, losing himself in my eyes. “Ain’t that right? Made us learn it all the hard way.”
I look to Ro’s mom to see if I’ve missed the joke, but her smile has fallen and for the first time, there’s a tinge of sadness in her eyes, where before there’d only been joy.
Mr. Jackson’s laugh is sharper this time. It pulls my eyes away from his wife, and when I turn back to him, I realize he hasn’t stopped looking at me.
“Tell ’em bout that time your daddy was sleeping out on the…shit. He was out on the…”
“Mr. Jackson?” I say, surprised by how small my voice sounds.
His words have trailed off, but he’s still searching. Rushing now to fill the space and the silence between us. Growing more agitated with each passing moment. Fear ghosting his usually proud face.
“On the porch.” He says it like it’s a guess. His eyes still tuned only to me. “Isn’t that right, Claire? He was on the porch.”
Seeing Mr. Jackson this way, frazzled and undone, is an unsettling departure from the larger-than-life character I’ve only ever known to be at the helm. Anxiety pricks at my skin as he watches me, expectantly—desperate for a lifeline. But it’s his wife who lifts him from the storm.
Mrs. Jackson wraps both her hands around her husband’s. His eyes fall to where they connect like he can’t quite make sense of her touch, and when he looks up this time, there’s a distance I hadn’t noticed before.
Mrs. Jackson is solid as she speaks only to him. Steady enough for the both of them. “They always did think they had us fooled,” she says simply.
Then she raises their interlocked hands to kiss his weathered flesh. And I know, just now, I’ve watched her choose this version of her husband, all over again.
—
Ro’s parents leave in a rush. An easy morning turned dark, and Ro’s mood turned right along with it. He hardly said a word as he helped them into their car. Speaking only enough to promise his mom he’d be by later to check in.
When it’s just the two of us upstairs again, I leave space for him the same way he’s done for me so many times. He’s folded onto the edge of the couch, elbows at his knees, palms steepled around his nose and mouth like an oxygen mask.
I should leave too. He never asked me to come in the first place, and he certainly hasn’t asked me to stay. But I can’t find the words to suggest it, and I can’t make my body move from this spot beside him.
Ro’s hands scrub at his face, until the pads of both palms settle over his eyes. And though he’s not making a sound, I know he’s crying.
“This is his,” he says finally, pinching back tears he never let fall. “All of it. This apartment, this garage.”
Ro’s long legs sprawl wide as he sinks deeper into the couch cushions.
“When I was little, we couldn’t get him outta here. That’s where Sunday brunch came from. Pops would work straight through the weekend if my mom didn’t force him to stop for a meal.”
A small laugh escapes at a passing memory, but just as quickly as it comes, it’s gone again.
“Now when he’s here, I gotta damn near babysit so he doesn’t get hurt. Or hurt somebody else. How fucked-up is that?”
For the first time since he started speaking, Ro looks at me, and the pain on his beautiful face is so out of place, so wrong, I can hardly make sense of it. I have to stop myself from turning away.
I hate seeing him like this. But I won’t abandon him.
His arms fall wide onto the back of the couch, and though he’s not touching me, I feel the heat of his arm at my back.
“Dementia?” I ask, finally speaking the word that’s been running through my mind for the past hour.
Ro nods. “It’s better when he’s working. Keeping his hands busy, being in the garage. It helps, I think.” His lips press into a harsh line like he’s trying to hold himself together when he says, “Fifty-six years old.”
I want to yell about how unfair it is—about how none of them deserve any of this, but I’m too busy putting the pieces in place.
“That’s why you came back.”
It’s not a question, it’s an understanding. Ro didn’t have to do it. He has a whole life in the city—I’ve seen it—but his family needed him home. So he came.
Ro’s fingers draw a lazy path along the length of my neck. Barely skimming my curls, before returning to the fabric at my back. I stifle my shiver, but can’t calm the goosebumps that bloom in his wake.
“Just till we get somebody to help out full-time. It’s too much for my mom to manage the garage and him.
But even with their insurance, home care is expensive as hell.
And he’s not ready to have somebody in his business like that anyway.
” Ro’s smile is sad when he looks at me.
I can feel how much effort the gesture requires.
“How’s he supposed to go from being everybody’s Pops to being… ”
“I get it,” I say, to save him from having to say it out loud. If only I could save him from having to live it. “I can’t even imagine.”
My words don’t begin to express what I feel for Ro, for this family that deserves so much better. I want to tell Ro that it’s okay, that it will be okay, but those words are even emptier. They’re lies. And I won’t lie to him now—not after he trusted me with his truth.
My hand finds Ro’s leg, and I mean for it to be a show of support, of comfort, but this is also the first time we’ve been alone since last night. The first time we’ve touched since our kiss. And it’s the first time I’ve felt brave enough to lean into Ro and kiss him again.
Last night, we’d been hurried. Greedy. Now, when our lips touch, it’s feather-light, but it’s everything. All the things we haven’t said, all the times we didn’t touch, all the promises we haven’t made. Everything’s here now. Another question awaiting its answer.