Chapter 7 #2
It wasn’t meant for us. Turning, I find a stern dad in the corner booth. His storm cloud eyes are set on his kids, who’d been giggling as they blew bubbles in their milk. The pair now sit as straight as boards. Unfortunately, so do I.
The tone may be deeper, but he sounds exactly like Uncle Orson did—back when he was alive, back during one of his bad days.
Being a famous musician, he was a public figure, someone who people would watch, take photos of, and the fans knew everything.
They knew the way my parents died, how he became my guardian.
Overnight his image of a “partying bad boy” turned carefully curated, something the label assumed would have happened with his marriage and becoming a father years before.
Uncle Orson was generous enough to take me in, take responsibility, donated to charities to stop drunk drivers, and was always gracious to fans.
With so many eyes on him, it was important that when Jenna and I were in public, we were to sit still, be quiet, be good.
We were to never make a scene—unless you’re an adult, then it’s apparently fine.
There were plenty of tabloids about his meltdowns on tour, but with us?
He was always the perfect family man—which was true some days.
But this is now. Now, I’m on a date and can’t be distracted by the ghost of my uncle shouting at me from my past. I try to find something—anything—to focus on.
I flick open my phone out of habit. Grams has sent me several photos—mostly of raccoons, but there’s one blurry selfie in the mix, but that doesn’t help.
I tap and drum, trying as hard as I can to not scratch at my skin, when suddenly, the lights of the claw machine near the door grab my focus.
My gaze combs over the colorful plushies, and I finally find a lopsided clown fish to fixate on.
Until I hear the dad heave a sigh … and apologize.
All at once, my jaw goes slack. What I would have given to hear those words growing up—even once.
I force myself not to stare, focusing instead on the clown fish plushie pressed up against the glass of the claw machine. It’s soft, fuzzy-looking body is pressed so tight the fur is sticking up and—I bet it would feel as soft as a pillow under my fingers.
“Marina?” Gil’s voice is gentle, urging me back to the present moment.
“Hi! Sorry!” I say, shaking my head as if to remove the thoughts.
I force my lips up in a smile, a clumsy attempt to mask the feelings I don’t want to process.
It’s been years, and I still haven’t been able to tolerate the sound of yelling in any circumstances.
Even friends ranting about their favorite television shows or books they’re hate-reading makes me freeze up.
Don’t even get me started on “friendly gaming nights.” Getting through the rule book without someone shouting is an impossible task that has me either stress-snacking everything in sight or frozen in my seat, waiting for the night to be over.
“Why do you have to be so sensitive?”
“It was just a joke!”
“You never let me rant about stuff.”
I have heard a few well-earned criticisms I’ve heard over the years, and I know it’s not fair to ask people to quietly walk on eggshells to spend time with me. So, I simply stopped going to game night; the terrible thing is, no one bothered to really ask why.
Maybe that’s my fault. I’ve never been good at asking for help, even when I’m metaphorically drowning. But one day I’d love for someone to care enough to look for me if I disappear.
“Still with me?” Gil’s voice is gentle, another nudge to come back to this plane of existence.
“Yeah, no—just thinking. Sorry, it’s, um.
.. the yelling.” I nod toward the table with the children, and notice there’s an array of toys laid out alongside a rainbow of crayons.
Instead of storming off, the parents are playing.
I bite my lip, as relief and sadness fight for a seat at my table of emotions.
When I look at Gil, there’s an expression I know all too well.
Grams would have this look sometimes too.
I remember it from when I was little. She’d be smiling, making silly voices while puppeteering my stuffed animals during a tea party, existing both right in the moment with me and a million miles away.
I’d wonder if there was anything I could do to make the people around me less… well, sad.
“Sorry.”
“You don’t need…” he starts. I can’t let one more person tell me I don’t need to apologize for behavior that will drive them away. Especially since I’m getting strangely fond of this particular one.
“Let’s talk more about you!” I pivot because I’ve proven I can’t drive this conversation, and I’d like to save what’s left of this date.
Gil is 23 years old.
He comes from a big family, the second born sibling of four. Goldie, Finn, and Angel—seems like his parents definitely went with an aquatic theme.
I can’t imagine a house that full, but from the smile on his face as he reminisces, it sounds like it was a happy one—despite his father passing when he was young.
His memories are bright, colorful, and filled with love.
They grew up in these springs; from what it sounds like, they spent most of their time in the water.
His job, on the other hand, removes the joy from his eyes and replaces it with neutrality.
Keeping books for the family business—I hope, for his sake, it’s less drama than shifts at my aunt’s boutique, but I can understand it’s complicated to untangle your life from people you’re related to.
It’s probably even harder when you actually like each other.
“What about you?” he asks, but there’s something cloudy in his eyes, something I can’t quite figure out. “Are you … close with your family?”
“I mean, there’s my Grams. I probably like her more than she likes me,” I say, with a laugh that’s so obviously forced I can’t help but cringe.
“I say this with all the kindness in the world, but your Grams has sent you ten pictures of racoons in a row.”
“You noticed?”
“Couldn’t help it,” he admits with a slightly sheepish smile. “Didn’t mean to snoop, but the way you had your phone turned gave me a glimpse.”
“Their names are Coco and Baxter. We’re pretty sure they’re in love and… why are you looking at me like that?”
I pause, noticing the silly grin that’s covering his face; sure, it’s a lot of backstory for some racoons, but when it comes to Grams and me, it’s all pretty run-of-the-mill.
“This ain’t lore you make up with anyone,” Gil insists with his grin still firmly in place.
“I didn’t say that we’re not close or anything, but I do love her more. That’s fine.”
“But is it true?” he asks, seeming annoyingly unconvinced of my statement. It’s not fair. Gil and I have only known each other for barely a day, and sure, we’re hitting it off, but he shouldn’t assume details about my life—or the people in it.
“Yes,” I say in a tone that leaves no room for argument. “What about your family? Are you close?” I ask between bites of pie, in an attempt to push the conversation back on him. “I mean, you sound really close…”
Awkward. Why do I sound so awkward?
“There’s actually a big festival this weekend we’ll all be at—lots of food and music,” he says with a little smile. “All the little guppies will be splashing around with the elders looking on—”
Guppies. What a cute nickname for kids.
“That must be nice,” I say, wondering what kind of festival it is.
My imagination swims with tables filled to the brim with food and laughter, of family coming and going, and the words ‘one more hug’ met with open arms. I’ve always wanted to be a part of something like that, but the idea of a family of my own has seemed too far away to bother to chase.
“You could come,” Gil says the words easily, not looking up from his plate.
“What? This weekend?” I blush. We just met, and he already wants me to meet his whole family?
“Sure.”
“Wouldn’t they think it was strange for you to bring home someone you met a day ago?” I ask. Family get-togethers seem like they should be reserved for serious girlfriends.
He shrugs, as if the idea is of no consequence. I don’t understand. Is he the type to bring a new date home to every party? My chest squeezes tight, and I can’t even blame it on heartburn.
“So long as you don’t mind my Grampy planning a wedding behind our backs, but everyone is always welcome,” he says grinning ear to ear.
The idea of his family plotting to keep me around forever scratches an itch in my brain.
He’s joking, I know that, but for a moment, it’s nice to pretend it’s a possibility.
“Can I think about it?” I ask and hate myself for not being able to make a commitment, especially when the feeling of wanting to be surrounded by warmth like that is as appealing as a freshly steeped cup of tea.
But what I’m feeling is new; I’m not even sure if it’s real.
I’ve known this guy for what… hours? I can’t meet his family.
“Of course, Splenda, I didn’t mean…” The mock seriousness in his tone has me snorting again. Does this count as an inside joke? I don’t think I’ve had one of those since—
“You’re good, Sweet-and-Low,” I chirp, a flutter in my stomach when I meet his strange eyes. His gaze is expectant somehow; does he want me to talk more?
“Um, other things, let’s see…” I ramble. “I’m auditioning for a band next week. The first audition went well, and now, it’s just up to whether they like me in person.”
“Who wouldn’t?”
So many people. But that’s something even I know not to say on a first date.
“I’m happy for you,” he says. “You’ve always wanted that, haven’t you? To make music?”
I laugh. Am I that easy to read?
“Yeah.” I nod. “And if it works out, I’ll be joining them on tour—a dream come true.”
“A dream come true,” he echoes, paying the bill before I have a chance to even try to reach for my wallet. Just like that, we’re leaving together. I blush and thank him for the pie. Gil stops short before we reach the door.
“Now, just a moment.” He fishes a quarter out of his pocket. Gently, he takes my arm, guiding me over to the claw machine. “Which one did you have your eye on?”
He taps the side of the claw machine with his knuckles and gives me a knowing look.
My cheeks flush—this guy really pays attention. “You don’t need to…”
“Oh, I ain’t making any promises.” Gil holds my gaze with calm sincerity. “But I’ll sure as hell try.”
I’ve been caught. There’s no use lying about it now.
“The clown fish,” I admit, pointing to the orange and white stuffed animal that’s been staring at me from across the restaurant.
“Clown fish it is,” he repeats with a boyish grin. I watch as he eagerly slides a shiny silver quarter in the machine; not only does it come to life with lights and music, but I also think I might too.