25. Chapter Twenty-Four London
Chapter Twenty-Four: London
I have an incredibly embarrassing secret hobby.
Okay, maybe it's not as embarrassing as I make it out to be in my head, but what twenty-something guy living in L.A. practices woodworking ?
My woodworking studio is still on my parents' property, unfortunately, in the adjacent building off the Young Residence that was built as a second garage.
Nobody uses it to house cars, though. It's filled with old water skis, spare tires, and rusted bicycles that Brooklyn swears he'll clean out of there one day.
A few old trophies gleam faintly beneath a coating of dust: Savannah's dance recital awards, my piano recital awards, and Troy's badminton medals.
Nestled in the corner is my 'wood shop'.
I took up woodworking in high school because all the other electives were full, and I needed one that wasn’t as heavy academically as my other classes. The wood shop teacher, Mr. Bircher, was always nice enough to let me eat lunch in his classroom when I didn't have anyone to sit with.
I sit in front of the small table, whittling a small figurine out of acacia wood, peeling back the layers to reveal the shape I want to make—a tropical fish that reminds me of Gloria's tank of rosy barbs.
I miss her, but she texted me earlier today saying she had plans with Raina for the day, which is why I came here on a Saturday.
Usually, I do woodworking to decompress from a stressful workday, or, more often, to get away from my family.
Growing up, I would come in here whenever my siblings were engaged in one of their infamous yelling matches (Savannah would scream at Perry for using her hair gel because he wanted to look cool, or Troy and Brooklyn would argue over everything from who ate the last potato chip to who stole whose soccer cleats.) Mom never comes out here unless it's to complain to my dad about how we really need to declutter this space.
And Dad never comes here. He prefers the other garage, which is cleaner.
I move on from the tropical fish to a small rendering of Perry's motorcycle. Maybe I'll give it to him for Christmas. After I've been working on it for a few moments, I decide to put on some music.
Just as I'm flipping through my phone's music choices, a ringtone blares through the garage that definitely isn’t mine. I scramble to my feet and find the culprit: my dad’s beat-up Samsung. An unfamiliar number rings and rings until it goes to voicemail.
“Hi Mr. Young, this is Larry here from Fink Divorce and Family Law. We’re calling to confirm your appointment on Monday. Please give us a call back whenever you can. Thanks.” The message ends, but keeps replaying in my ears.
A divorce lawyer?
My entire body freezes, my heart dropping out of my chest. I thought I would be gripped by shock or anger, but this feels more like…
Like resignation.
Like acceptance of what I already knew, but was denying.
There has to be an acceptable reason for this.
Maybe he’s consulting for a case before he retires .
Maybe he’s just helping someone else with their divorce.
Family law doesn’t have to mean divorce, does it?
It can mean anything. It could be about… property. Or inheritance. Or a prenup? Maybe it’s for Savannah's prenup. That would make sense.
It doesn’t have to mean divorce.
It doesn’t have to mean my world just spun out of control.
When I get home from the woodshop, I'm more than eager for the distraction of work. I have a bad habit of taking it home.
Numbers make sense. Facts stare back at me from the page, logical and neat and orderly. Black and white charts and spreadsheets greet me, ready to be sorted into data analytics that make sense.
Unlike my family.
I can't think about that right now.
Can't let myself entertain the thoughts that my parents’ marriage will never heal.
That despite all I've done to fix us, we are irreparably broken.
That despite all I've done to try to make my mom happy, to be some kind of replacement for the love she couldn't get from her husband and other children—
I'll never be enough.
My presence in her life will never be enough.
Yet I hoped for so many years, prayed for over two decades, that they would love each other. That they would look at each other with more than contempt and disrespect and anger. That at the very least, they could tolerate each other's faults more than they have been.
But I guess not. They’re finally divorcing.
I lose myself in the numbers for a while, working through dinner. When it's nine pm and my stomach is growling, I pick up the phone I've ignored all day to order ginger beef—my secret guilty pleasure, even if it tastes nothing like actual Chinese food—and see three texts from Gloria.
Gloria
Hey!! How are you? Wanna join me and Raina at Scoops?
Gloria
Thinking of you! Hope you're having a great Sunday
Gloria
I miss you.
Those three simple words stare back at me. Mocking me. Reminding me that while I've been trying to outwork my self-loathing and inner turmoil, Gloria's been wondering why I'm ignoring her.
I call her. My eyes burn from staring at financial reports all day, and I'd much rather talk to her than think about my familial upheaval.
"Hi, Ria."
"Hey, Liverpool."
I chuckle at the sound of her voice, my whole body sagging into the couch cushions.
"I missed you, too. Sorry for not answering your texts. I've been dealing with some… stuff. Is it too late to ask if you want to join me for dinner?"
"I already ate." Of course she did. Disappointment floods me all the same. "But I'll join you for a late dessert."
"Perfect. How does halo-halo sound?"
"Only if you get the mango one," she says, referring to her favourite shaved ice dessert that's become one of my favourites.
"I wouldn't dream of getting anything else.
" I hang up the phone to run downstairs and grab a takeout container of the dessert from the local bubble tea shop a few doors down from my apartment building.
While I'm there, I also grab their wings—five dollars for a pound—and head upstairs, waiting for my takeout to arrive.
While I wait, I try to make the apartment somewhat cozy and presentable.
The kitchen-slash-dining room is sparely decorated, like most of my living space.
I light some candles that Savannah gave me for Christmas a few years ago, and do the dishes that have been languishing in the sink all day.
After giving the floor a quick vacuum, I think I've done a pretty good job.
The intercom buzzes, letting me know my food is here.
I tip the guy, and just as I'm about to close the door again, Gloria appears in my doorway, clad in a bubblegum-pink dress that reminds me of a Barbie.
Only, not the fake, plastic kind. More like the kind from the live-action movie, beautiful and glowing and suntanned.
"Hey," she says. "I brought drinks."
She holds up a tray with two cups, one of them holding a simple lemon honey drink with chunks of aloe, and the other bearing her usual bubble tea order.
"Thank you." As soon as she sets down the tray on the little entry table by the door, I wrap my arms around her.
We hold each other for a long moment, and I savour her presence. Then, all too soon, I let her go and we set up our food and drinks at the kitchen table.
"How was your day?" I ask her before she can question me about the 'stuff' I mentioned I was dealing with over the phone.
"Good!" She launches into a description of her day. I just listen to her talk, her voice a soothing balm to my ragged nerves. "What did you get up to?"
"Just some woodworking." Then I found out my parents are getting a divorce. "And some actual work."
I gesture toward the pile of papers strewn haphazardly on the coffee table behind us .
"I didn't know you did woodworking," she says. "You've never brought it up before."
"It's not exactly a cool hobby like rock-climbing or motorcycling, so I never felt like it would be an interesting topic of conversation."
She rolls her eyes. "Are you saying you don't think your hobby is 'impressive' enough so you never brought it up around me?"
"Perhaps." I shrug.
"We've known each other for almost a decade. You don't need to impress me."
"Maybe, but it would be nice if you were impressed by me," I admit as I take a sip of the aloe drink. She steals one of my wings.
"I am. Mostly impressed by your ability to finish that much food and not gain weight." She gestures toward my two takeout boxes.
"It's because the rest of the week, I eat like a bachelor who has nothing but ketchup and Monster energy drinks in his fridge." I try not to let my hunger overpower me by eating like a starving caveman as I spoon rice into my mouth.
"True." She delicately wipes the grease off her fingers with a napkin. "What stuff were you dealing with today?"
"A…" I don't want to lie to her. I've never lied to her—unless hiding the fact that I knew about her boyfriend list counts—and doing so now would feel like I was becoming my father.
"Just some family things. I don't want to bore you with the details.
I'm sure you're sick of hearing about my family by now.
I know I would be, and I'm the one who has to deal with them. "
"I like hearing what's on your mind, though," she says, reaching out and placing a hand on my forearm.
"I don't know if you could handle what's in my mind," I say, spinning around in my chair to face her, our knees brushing.
"Oh?" She arches an eyebrow. "Why is that? "
"You'll find out later."
Gloria shakes her head. We finish our meal with companionable banter, her occasionally stealing my wings and me letting her.
After dinner, we clean up our few dishes side by side, and my heart aches from the domesticity of it all.
From how right this feels, to share a meal and a kitchen with Gloria.
From how impossibly easy and simple it is to just be with her, without needing to put on a front or act like I'm happy when I'm not.
I dry our plates and silverware, and ask her, "How's the trip planning going? Have you talked to your family about it yet?"
"Not yet. I'll do that tomorrow," she says. "I'm sure they'll be excited to hear you're coming, too."
"Should I book a hotel room?" I ask. I don't know how traditional their family is.
"No, you can stay with my brother Paulo. That's what my cousin Isla did when she came to visit," she assures me.
"Are you sure your family is okay with that? I don't want to intrude on their space." Growing up, we never had friends sleep over despite having plenty of rooms in our house—none of us wanted to subject our friends to the turmoil within our family.
"No, they love having people over. And you're not just anyone, you're my…" She flushes, turning pink. "Boyfriend."
I reach out to cup her face, tracing my thumb over the blush on her cheeks, then lean forward and kiss her.
She gasps, as if she wasn't expecting it. I love that about her—-that even though I've known her for so long, so much of this is new. So much of her is new to me. Like how she tastes. Like the soft, hesitant way she rests her hand on my bicep, the gentle, unsure movements of her lips against mine .
She's been my friend for so long that I never thought I'd get the chance to be anything more than that. I love every moment we spend together, whether it's at work or carpooling or even babysitting my nieces while horseback riding, but this moment has a magic all its own.
Frustrated by the gap between us, I set my hands on her waist and lift her onto the counter. She's taken aback, her fingers digging into my biceps, her other hand curling around the back of my neck.
I love how her body tenses against mine before relaxing again, love hearing the little hitch of her breath and the sighs and gasps she makes.
I want to know every hidden, vulnerable part of her, all the secrets she's never let anyone see before.
I want to unravel her and piece her back together again—because that's what she's done to me.
To my heart.
She's unwound me, all the masks I wear and the insecurities I hide, and broken down my walls, transforming me into a different kaleidoscope image every time she looks at me.
We break apart, both of us breathing heavily, but she's still close, close enough that our noses brush.
"I love you," I whisper, feathering a kiss on her temple.
"I love you, too." She nuzzles her face into the crook of my neck.
So why do I have the feeling this is all too good to last?