Me: Tell me where. I’ll be there soon.
On the way to the restaurant, I decide to call my dad, and just like always, he picks up on the first ring. He always drops everything he’s doing to take my calls. I’ve told him time and time again that he doesn’t need to do that.
“Hi, Jessie girl.”
I smile at the familiar greeting. “Hi, Dad.”
“How’s it going? Have you had a good week?”
“Oh, you know, it’s been … different. I’ve spent every night at Walker’s, trying to help him out. Tonight is my first night back to my normal routine.”
“Ah, poor guy. Are you sure he’s gonna be okay tonight?”
“I’m sure he’s fine, Dad. He caught on pretty quick. I’d thought he was a lost cause, but he’s really stepped up.”
“I’m not surprised. Good kid, that one. He’s going to be a terrific father.”
“Yeah, he might not know it yet, but I think so too. Anyway, how are you doing? Any plans for the weekend?”
He sighs. “Oh, your mother has our calendar filled with social events. I tell ya, she has more energy now than when I met her.”
Typical. Social status is very important to my mother. She has always put it at the top of her list of priorities—frequently over her responsibility as a parent.
“Why don’t you just tell her you don’t want to go? It’s your life too.”
He chuckles. “Because I love her and want to make her happy. Plus, it’s easier to go with the flow. Oh, she’s right here. You want to say hi?”
Before I can respond, insisting I have to go, he hands her the phone.
“Hello? Jessie?”
“Hi, Mom. How are you?” I ask, bracing for the answer.
She goes into a five-minute tangent about what Barbara down the street said about their friend Nancy. By the time she’s done,I’m standing outside of the restaurant, desperately trying to figure out how to get off the phone.
“Oh dear, look at the time. We have to be at the Walshes’ house in thirty minutes. I’m so sorry, but your father and I must go. Talk to you soon. Love you.”
Instead of dwelling on how little I have in common with my mother, I walk through the doors to the restaurant to find Melissa waiting at a high-top table just to the left of me. She waves and smiles enthusiastically as soon as she spots me, then holds up a glass of white wine as I approach.
“I ordered your favorite,” she tells me as I sit.
My shoulders sag with relief. “You’re the best. Thank you.” The first sip goes down easily, the stress of the day slowly melting away.
“Rough day at work?” she asks.
“I wish,” I reply as I take another sip.
What I wouldn’t give to be dealing with work-related stress at the moment. There’s always a solution or an end to it eventually. There are distractions after work, like friends or my favorite TV shows to offer comfort.
But I know what it’s like to cry myself to sleep over Walker. There’s nothing that makes it better.
Her tone turns more serious. “Is everything all right?”
She knows about Walker. I told her all about it my freshman year of college, when I was consumed with my feelings of regret and embarrassment.
“It’s … Walker.”
Her eyes widen with disbelief. “Walker? LikeWalker, Walker? The same Walker who broke your heart and made you feel small and insignificant?”
