3. tallulah
TALLULAH
FUTURE SON-IN-LAW
With my sporadically scheduled finals, I couldn’t visit my family before my big trip to Canada. I missed the reservation desperately. I missed my family. My parents decided to drive down from the Cherokee Nation instead, to say goodbye.
In the hotel room, my dad hung off the bed. His head was about three inches above the ground, his long braid tucked under his back. “You’re really going to Canada, Lulah?”
They never missed an opportunity to express their surprise. “The ticket’s already bought, Dad.”
“What’s even in Canada?” He shot me a lopsided grin. “Moose?”
“You have cousins in Canada.”
“Bah. I hate those cousins.”
“Let’s gooooo!” my mom sang from the bathroom, clapping her hands. “I’d kill for jalapeno poppers, I’m starving—”
Before I could grab my purse, my dad headed to my mom, wrapping an arm around her waist. “I’m starving too, sugar puss. I’m so hungry—”
“Ew, no, no, no,” I motioned them out of the hotel room. “Don’t put my ears through that.”
My parents burst into laughter, following me to the elevators of the only hotel on Marrs campus. Surely, after more than twenty years of marriage, my parents would’ve learned to be subtle. Nope. If anything, the decades made them more handsy with each other.
They were the kind of parents every kid wished for.
When I was fifteen, my mom loudly proclaimed that the box of condoms in the bathroom cabinet was for me on a special “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy.
My parents never let me open my report cards unless I verbally acknowledged that my grades didn’t define me.
And they sat me down numerous times to say if I was ever drunk at a high school party, they’d pick me up no matter what.
They’d rather have me safe than in a drunk driving accident.
Growing up, all the other parents on our block rolled their eyes at them and my classmates were so jealous.
The thing was, I never went to any parties in high school. I was a straight-A student, active in my school’s newspaper. I didn’t even kiss a boy until the summer before college.
The truth was, I was a “good girl” and I hated it.
Last summer, my parents and I played charades at a neighborhood cookout. My dad pointed at me, trying to get my mom to guess the color of my shirt. My mom shot out with ‘dependable! Reliable!’
Seriously?
Dependable?
She would’ve never meant it as an insult, and they were nice attributes, but I was hurt just the same.
Was that how people saw me? I didn’t want my defining characteristic to be how I always turned in homework on time or the doctor appointments I was never late for.
I didn’t want to be a good girl. Not anymore.
“You could always back out of Canada,” my mom suggested on our walk to Gianna’s.
I sighed, holding the door open. Gianna’s was about as busy as it’d been the last two weeks. It was hard to shuffle inside. “Mom, it’s an amazing internship. An amazing opportunity! I’ll be living in the Olympic Village—”
“Why don’t you do something fun? With the Luxury Flyer thing, I have unlimited airline miles!” she pushed. “Use them, Lulah! Go to California, New York, Chicago—”
“Ooo, Chicago.” My dad smirked.
My mom’s smirk matched his. “What a trip. The markers, water balloons, edible underwear—”
“You should be happy I picked the internship,” I interrupted, purposely switching topics to avoid throwing up. “I made a concession to have fun. Before, I was going to work for a Houstonian congressional leader. This internship is like…a fun compromise!”
My parents glanced at each other, they clearly didn’t believe me.
I knew they had opinions. I never took time to do the things that I wanted and I had a tendency to work too hard.
They knew that, I knew that, and maybe the internship itself wouldn’t be the epitome of fun, but I did want to go to Canada for a very important reason.
Before I could argue, my attention was taken away. A familiar figure walked along the windows, a bag tucked under his arm.
Oh no.
I shrank in my seat, trying my best to disappear. Was he…? A quick scan around Gianna’s said he wasn’t arriving to spend time with the rest of his hockey team. This was too much of a coincidence. Especially when his eyes lit up when he saw us.
“Why is Fridge walking this way?” I whispered under my breath.
My dad feigned ignorance. “We didn’t tell you?”
“We always get brunch with Fridge when we’re here,” my mom replied. “When did that end?”
“Are you serious? When we stopped dating!”
Fridge broke into one of his perfect grins, his lips curving to show his pearly-white teeth.
At six-foot-eight, Fridge was the tallest person in the restaurant and girls across the tables craned their necks to gaze in appreciation.
He looked good. He always looked good. My ex was packed with muscle, his fade impeccable.
My parents loved Fridge. Adored him. They’d gushed to everybody on the rez about him. A month into the relationship and my neighbors knew Fridge’s list of awards by heart.
One time, I’d walked in on my dad chatting with a cousin over the phone. “First Black hockey player to win the Southeast Regional Award, can you believe that? Oh, yeah, Fridge is our future son-in-law for sure.”
Future son-in-law…now my ex-boyfriend.
The breakup had shattered my parents.
Fridge held his long arms out for a hug, the grin morphing into a soft smile. “Jacoby. Kendra.”
My parents scooched out of the booth to hug him tight—oh my god. I stared at my glass of water, embarrassment eating me alive. How could they invite him to lunch?!
“We’ve missed you so much,” my mom gushed.
“We’re still good for next Saturday, right?” Fridge asked, sliding into the seat next to me. The booth barely offered any space between us. I was crammed against the wall, heart lodged in my throat. “I bought the drink tickets.”
My dad quickly shook his head, making a slicing motion at his neck for Fridge to stop talking.
I blinked, confused. “Saturday?”
“It’s an outdoor concert—” My mom winced. “They offered me free tickets, and you know Fridge loves The Head Bobbers. How could I say no?”
They were going to a concert together? Taking a drink of water to avoid saying something, I struggled to keep calm. Everything in me wanted to bolt and I couldn’t do that with my ex blocking the only exit.
Fridge brought the bag to his lap. “I packed you an extra bag for your trip, everything to remind you of home." He unzipped it to show me. "Don’t worry about the bag fee, I’ll send you the money.”
“That’s so sweet,” my mom cooed.
Was it? Because I certainly didn’t ask him to pack a bag for me. I ran my thumb along the glass. “Great. Thank you.”
I glanced his way and wished I didn’t. His eyes were so beautiful, with long, pretty eyelashes. I used to be enraptured by them. Now, all I felt was the overwhelming sensation to run into the parking lot.
“I’m going to miss you,” he said gently.
I attempted a smile. “Mm.”
My parents fawned over him, demanding to know how his family was doing and what his plans were for the summer. I remained silent.
It wasn’t like Fridge was a bad person—he wasn’t. He’d been my first and only boyfriend. As far as the metrics go, he was, on paper, the best boyfriend anyone could’ve asked for.
Which made this so much worse.
Fridge paid the bill—of course he did—and my parents were quick to hug him outside, playfully chastising him to text them more.
The embarrassment was never ending. I stood unnaturally stiff, and when Fridge walked to me, I couldn’t turn fast enough.
He enveloped me in a warm hug, squeezing me tight.
I awkwardly patted his back until he let me go.
Painful. The whole experience was painful.
My parents’ stares burned into my skin. Thankfully, they waited until Fridge was halfway across the parking lot to bombard me.
My dad mussed up my hair. “When are you two getting back together?”
I gave him a look that said the question wasn’t worth asking.
Because the answer was never. Maybe never ever.
Both were acceptable answers but ones my parents didn’t seem to believe.
Their love story was one of those rare moments when fate collides two people together.
It blinded them to everybody else’s experiences.
They couldn’t understand why Fridge and I wouldn’t give it another go.
And the real reason for our breakup was too humiliating for me to explain.
I ignored my dad’s question, bypassing them to their hotel. My pace quickened, putting distance between us.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I unzipped the bag and took a look at its contents.
Salted Morton pretzels instead of my favorite everything bagel pretzels.
A collection of chargers that didn’t work with my phone.
Compression socks in bright, neon green, my least favorite color—one I never kept in my closet.
The bag was almost perfect.
Almost.
It was that teetering edge between perfect and not. A nice, physical reminder that Fridge had been emotionally checked-out of those trips to the grocery store, the car rides, the conversations I prompted not knowing why I did.
Yes, I was the one who broke up with him. The relationship ender. But the truth was, I wasn’t the one who cut the cord. I was just the one who noticed out loud that it was cut in the first place.