13. Nick #2
As soon as he opens the door to the restaurant, I inhale roasted garlic and smoky chipotle, and my stomach rumbles.
We seat ourselves in an old, rickety booth.
Ethan orders two double margaritas without consulting me—and water, thankfully—then food.
He waits until we demolish half the mountain of guacamole before asking, “So. Anything you want to tell me?”
“This guac’s really good.” I don’t know why I’m stalling, but I also don’t know how to tell him without sounding like a child throwing a tantrum.
“Definitely what I wanted to know about. How about this, did anything happen at the fair that I, your very bestest friend, should know about? Perhaps with a certain lady friend?”
I snort into my drink. “Yes, actually. But not the lady friend you think.”
“Huh?”
“My dad has a girlfriend.”
Ethan pushes back from the table, fingers tapping wildly against the wood. “We don’t like her?”
“Of course we like her.” I sigh. “It’s Shelley.”
“ Shelley ? As in Shelley Williams, Shelley?”
“Yep. My dad hasn’t once mentioned that he’s dating the director of the Conservatory I teach at. Wait … he’d said he wanted me to meet a friend when I went to pick him up for physio yesterday. He was acting all weird too, and—oh, fuck.” I was so, so dumb.
“Don’t keep me in suspense!” Ethan complains, mouth full of tortilla chips.
“Usually when I go over to pick him up for PT, he’s waiting for me.
But he was in his bedroom, with the door closed, and there was music playing.
And when he came out, he looked … disheveled.
I figured he’d been napping. But he was …
you know .” Imagining what Dad was up to, coupled with the double marg, has my head spinning.
“Holy shit, you cockblocked your dad!” Ethan crowed.
“Say it a little louder. The wait staff in the back didn’t hear you,” I hiss.
“I fucking knew it.” He bangs a fist on the table. “Didn’t I say I thought Shelley was getting some?”
“Please don’t call it that.”
“Quit clutching your pearls. So, your dad and Shelley, they’re pretty serious?”
“That’s just it, I have no clue. He hasn’t mentioned dating anyone since my mom died.”
“So you’re upset because he never told you, not because he’s dating again?”
“I’m not an asshole, I don’t want him to be lonely. I want …” I run a hand through my hair. “I want him to tell me this shit. Life shit. Without it being weird, but it’s never been like that.”
“I wish I knew what to say,” he admits. Ethan was raised by his single mom, and they’ve been close his whole life. “Have you told him any of this?”
I prop my elbows on the table and drop my head in my hands. “No.”
“Maybe he wants to be the dad whose son tells him all the shit going on in his head.”
“Maybe,” I concede. “But why is it always the kid who has to reach out? Sure, I’m an adult now and I need to see my childhood from my dad’s perspective. But Don’s been an adult this whole time. Why does the burden fall on the child?”
“It sucks.”
“Thank you.”
Ethan straightens in his chair, focusing on me. “It’s not fair to you to fix your relationship with your dad by yourself.”
“Exactly.”
“But your dad can’t help fix what he doesn’t know is broken.”
“Ugh, why did you choose right now to say something insightful?” I whine.
“I’m insightful as fuck, thank you very much.”
“I don’t even know where to begin having that conversation with him. I’ll probably screw it up and make everything worse. Why bother?”
“Yeah, you’ll probably screw it up.”
“Gee, thanks.” I jam a chip in my mouth.
“But here’s an idea—if you screw it up, try again.”
All at once, I understand June’s words from the other day. Ideal Son is a role I play, and maybe my dad loves that version of me, but it’s not real.
The waiter sets down trays of shrimp tacos. I finish the first in two bites, then force myself to eat slower. Ethan stays quiet, either ignoring my inner turmoil or giving me space to work it out.
The thing about talking to my dad is … if I ask him to be more open with me, I have to be more open with him.
And it’s become second nature to hide things, especially after Mom died.
I hid how much I missed her, because he took her death so hard and I didn’t want to add to his grief.
I hid how I live and breathe music, because she did too, and I don’t want to be a painful reminder.
If I made myself smaller, I’d be easier to love.
I was a kid back then, but I’m grown now and still tucking away pieces of myself. Because as soon as I give those feelings, dreams, wants , a voice? They’ll become real.
June fills my mind, her smile, the feel of her in my arms, her intoxicating scent—the way our connection is real, and deepening. “Maybe I’ll talk to him.”
“Good,” he says, mouth full of food. “You gonna talk to June, too?”
I roll my eyes. “And the hits just keep on coming.”
“Don’t deflect. It’s unbecoming.”
“We did talk. Sort of.” Those last two words remind me of my dad.
Guess I know where I get my conflict avoidance from.
Technically, June did the talking at Shaker’s last Friday, but things between us have changed this week.
Especially today. Her touches linger now, her eyes heat with more than a friendly warmth when she looks at me.
“June—I think—likes me?” Heat burns a line across my cheekbones.
“And it only took you two weeks to figure it out, despite it being obvious to everyone that first Sunday night. I can’t wait to show you that the sky is blue, it’s gonna blow your mind.”
“Don’t brag, it’s unbecoming,” I mimic his tone.
“It sounds annoying when you say it like that.”
“Wonder why.”
“So.” He blows out a breath. “What are you going to do now?”
“I don’t know. We’re still figuring things out.” I know what I want, but what are we to June? We need to talk. That’s what Ethan, my new resident therapist, would say.
But I’ve held everything back for so long that once I start speaking—feeling—I won’t know how to let it out in drips and drops. It’ll be a damn bursting. And what if all those words lay waste to what I’m already building?