Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
HATTIE
Margaret eyes me pointedly from across the living room. She’s sitting on the loveseat with Merrick—because of course she is.
Mom and Dad are on the sofa sectional. Dad’s got the Saints game on but Mom makes him turn the sound down when we’re together.
She says it’s for me—which I appreciate because the dissonant crowd sounds, announcers shouting, and the cutaway network music make me want to peel my skin off—but I think Mom hates it almost as much as I do.
She’s got her cross stitching in her lap, a set of pillowcases she’s monogramming for Margaret and Merrick, and she’d probably be happiest if the TV wasn’t on at all.
I am rocking. The Hadley double rocker used to be Mom’s favorite spot, but I claimed it as mine years ago. And even though it can seat two people, no one else in my family finds comfort in my double-time stimming tempo.
Grandma Eloise left a few minutes ago—thank God. She usually doesn’t stay long after Sunday dinner. (Thank you, God, for that too.) Things were definitely strained, today being the first time we shared space since The Cranky Old Twat incident.
No, I have not apologized. Yes, that was all Mom could talk about on the way to church today. I sat in the back of the car with my headphones on, pretending I couldn’t hear. I wore them in church, on the way home, and all through Sunday dinner.
I took them off as soon as the door closed behind Grandma Eloise.
Yes, my ears hurt, and I have a low-level headache from wearing them for four hours. Yes, I would do it again.
I really need a nap. But after my Hell-Yes-It’s-A-Real-Date-Coffee-Date yesterday, I did call Margaret as per her demands, and I did begrudgingly agree that I’d tell Mom and Dad that I’m going on dates.
I refuse to say dating. Although I would date Beck in a heartbeat, I cannot say that I’m “dating” him.
We’ve been on one date. But minus the Ms. Alicia Kiss Interference, it was hands down not only the best date of my life, but maybe even one of the best days of my life.
Still, to say that we’re dating would be wholly premature and even untrue since dating Beck would require his expressed consent.
Just like with the kissing.
Consent.
My circulatory system fizzes over when I think about that word and Beck. Beck giving it. Beck asking for it.
Consent is hot as fuck!
Margaret loudly clears her throat, puncturing my Consent reverie, which has left my face flushed and my fingertips tingling.
I scowl at her.
We need to go soon, she mouths. Get on with it.
This was part of the deal. That she and Merrick would be here while I told Mom and Dad and they would support me if things got weird. None of us has forgotten the fact that Mom already met Beck and she treated him like some kind of perv.
Heretofore known as the genesis of The October Skirmish.
And now Margaret is eyeballing me like countless teachers over the years, waiting for me to formulate a response that defies formulation.
How do you tell your overprotective parents that you’ve met someone you want to give all your consent to? I almost never say the right thing, but I know that if I open my mouth right now, I’ll surely say the wrong thing.
I glance at Merrick. He’s smiling gently at me. He’s ready to leave. I know he is. They have a pickleball game scheduled this afternoon with his best man and a few others. But he’s not wearing a look of impatience. He just gives me a secret nod of encouragement.
Merrick is the best. I swear.
But my awesome future brother-in-law’s support doesn’t make the right words materialize on my tongue, so I glance back at Margaret and let our sister telepathy do its thing.
Help me.
Her expression softens—by a lot—and she nods too.
Margaret leans forward, and Merrick puts a supportive hand on her back.
See? The best.
“Dad? Can you mute game for a minute? We need to talk about something.”
Mom and Dad exchange a look of alarm as Dad lifts the remote and mutes the TV.
“Everybody okay?” Mom asks, sitting up straight. She’s looking back and forth between my sister and her fiancé. And it hits me that she thinks this is about them.
Margaret waves a hand. “Everything’s fine, Mom.” Merrick nods in affirmation, wrapping his arm around Margaret and smiling like he’s got the secret of life all figured out.
Maybe he does.
“It’s just that Hattie has something to tell you two, and she needs a little help getting started.”
Both parents jerk their gazes at me. “What’s up, Hats?” Dad asks, looking wary. “Your classes giving you trouble?”
The question throws me because my classes are always giving me trouble. That’s nothing new. I don’t like them. They are stupid and boring, and if it were up to me, I’d never log onto my university ULink account again.
But I know this is not up for discussion. Mom and Dad want me to earn a degree, even if it takes me a solid Bronze Age to do it.
I open my mouth to answer, but this isn’t what I want to talk about, so what comes out is less than optimum. “You know that asking me two questions at a time is really rude and confusing, so why do you keep doing it?”
Mom and Dad both jolt like the sofa cushions are charged.
Yep, that was the wrong thing to say.
Mom frowns. “What’s rude and confusing is that response, Harriet. Your father asked a simple question—”
“Two questions—”
The parents speak at the same time.
“This isn’t an attack, Hats—”
“Do you think this is helping?”
I cover my ears and screw my eyes shut. Too much. Too loud.
“Whoa. Hey—” Margaret intervenes. “Everybody take a breath.”
She looks between my parents and me, making sure we’ve heard her. I make a show of taking in a big inhale through my nose and letting it out through my mouth.
Okay, maybe it helps. A little. It also makes me realize I’m pretty nervous about this.
“Mom and Dad, maybe save your questions for a few minutes,” Margaret says before turning to me. “Now, Hattie, maybe you could start by telling them what you did yesterday.”
There’s that little jolt again, both of my parents stiffening, but they say nothing. And this is exactly why I need Margaret here. Unlike me, she knows just what to say to them to keep them from spiraling. Which, of course, keeps me from spiraling.
We listen to her. All of us.
Shit. What am I going to do when she and Merrick move to Colorado?
But I have to shove that worry aside right now or I won’t be able to deal with what I need to deal with today.
So I take another deep breath instead.
“Yesterday, I went on a date.” The sentence plops like dropped Jello.
“You what?”
“With who?”
“Mom. Dad,” Margaret cautions gently. “Let her talk. Let her go at her own pace.”
I spent the morning telling myself I would not cry even once during this conversation, but my eyes prickle because Margaret is so good. She’s just so, so good to have in my life.
I inhale again and blink fast, for once holding my tears at bay.
“I went on a date yesterday with a really nice guy named Beck Olivier,” I say, pride surging in me when I speak his name.
Mom and Dad blink their surprise and glance quickly at each other, their own married telepathy at work.
I’m sure they assumed it would have to be someone they knew.
Someone from church or the son of one of their friends because who else would I know?
And I must admit that it’s kind of gratifying that they don’t know him.
That knowing him belongs to me.
“We are getting to know each other.” I look away from them and think about Beck.
“He’s really kind… And calm… And he doesn’t freak out when I cry…
And he thinks I’m funny, but he doesn’t laugh at me…
And his mom died a few years ago, and I can tell he’s still really sad about that.
And his dad has Parkinson’s and I can tell that’s really hard on him.
And he works really hard. He gets up stupid early because he’s a farmer.
And he’s outside all the time. I think he needs to wear sunscreen because his skin is—”
“Wait—” Mom interrupts. And, wow, thinking about Beck and talking about him sort of put me in a little Beck fugue state, which was pretty nice, actually, and coming out of it to see the look on Mom’s face is less nice. “Is this the boy from the alley? The one with the sweet potatoes?”
“Sweet potatoes?” Dad asks. He looks at Mom. “The stock boy?”
“He’s not a stock boy,” I squawk, grossly offended on Beck’s behalf.
“He’s a farmer. He runs a whole sweet potato farm, and it’s peak season right now.
And even though most of his crop goes to a cannery in Opelousas, he still delivers to local restaurants and grocery stores.
Which is why he was at The French Press the day I met him. ”
I’m already defensive, and frustration tightens my throat. Crying would give me the release I crave, but I sense that if I start right now, my parents will stop listening and start reacting. And I need them to listen.
So I fight the tears harder than I’ve ever fought them before.
“Mmmm… Mmmmm… Mmmm.” The humming eases some of the tightness in my throat, and I focus on rocking, letting the rhythm and the pressure of my back against the upholstery ground me a little.
In the moments I turned inward, I must’ve missed something passing between my parents and Margaret—maybe Merrick too—because their eyes are trained on each other, not me, and for that I’m profoundly grateful.
I inhale and exhale again. “Margaret said that I should tell you about him—that we are going on dates and talking to each other.” I think about the kissing and the consenting, but I clamp my mouth shut as these thoughts fire.
Merrick told me he talked to his mom, and she’s not going to say anything to my parents about what she saw yesterday, so no need to mention the kissing.