“When I was in grad school, I thought it did.” I’m not sure whether the hole in my heart isstudying art history-shaped orhaving any kind of purpose-shaped. “I haven’t felt strongly about anything in a very long time,” I reply.
“Come on. There has to be something you’re so passionate about no one can stop you from doing it.”
For a long time, that answer would’ve been drawing. There were times in my life when a pencil was affixed to my right hand. When I would feel an intense satisfaction from executing a sketch on paper exactly as I pictured it in my mind. When I’d show my dad or a teacher or the internet a drawing and bask in the glow of their approval. But how passionate could I have been if one mediocre critique stopped me from pursuingit?
“I guess I haven’t found what I’m looking for yet,” I say.
He points at his shirt. “They have a song about that.” I stare at him blankly. “Oh, come on, you don’t know it? I’ll have to play it on the way home.”
We each take bites of our chicken rings. Nick valiantly pretends to enjoy them.
But I’m still thinking about his question. About being unstoppably passionate about something. What surfaces is my dad. The way nothing—including his own child—could stop himfrom doing the thingshewanted to do. The way I admired that trait on some level, even when it hurtme.
I cannot picture my dad sitting in a White Castle, telling someone that having a kid was the best thing he’s ever done.
And I think my mom is probably right. Nickisa good man.
16
“Can you text Jan andyour cousin Amanda?” My mom is going over a guest list that is much longer than I would’ve expected a year ago. “They haven’t RSVP’d, but I thought they were both coming.”
She and Perry are in the kitchen, updating the status of every action item in their wedding to-do list while I make a fourth attempt at a perfect cat eye in the bathroom mirror. I’m not totally satisfied with my eyeliner application, but it will have to do. I’m doing too much for a literary circle jerk where people pretend to pay attention to some pretentious writer droning on. But the fact that Hal reconfirmed with me yesterday has to mean that we’re over the weird pseudo-argument about Nick.
“Didn’t you say you only need a ballpark estimate?” I shout from the bathroom, doing my best to participate while multitasking. “There’s no seating chart.”
It’s kind of sweet that Mom and Perry include me on these wedding-planning sessions even though they are both too skilled at logistical coordination to need my help.
“The caterers need an accurate head count,” Perry says. Instead of a formal meal, they decided to hire a handful of food trucks to offer different dishes throughout the evening.
“And we need to send the estimate for the chair rental for the ceremony,” Mom adds. “Is your friend Hal still coming?”
After aggressively misting my face with finishing spray, I emerge from the bathroom in search of a snack. Treehouse has been the scene of several boozy hookups, but I don’t want to get too drunk tonight.
“Yes,” I assure her. “Include him in the chair count.”
I search the pantry for the box of cereal that I’m certain still had at least a bowl or two left inside. I move Houdini’s food, seeing nothing but cans of soup and my mom’s cookie stash. “Didn’t we have some Cinnamon Toast Crunch in here yesterday?” I ask.
“Oh. Sorry, Sam,” Perry says with too much sincerity for me to show any annoyance. “I finished it this morning. We must have the same taste in cereal.”
I guess I wouldn’t know that because Perry eats breakfast at an hour when I’m barely conscious enough to turn off my alarms.
“Do you need my help with anything?” I ask, noticing the time on my phone. “I have a thing tonight.”
Mom raises her eyebrows. “May I ask where you’re headed?”
“It’s a book event,” I reply. “A reading or something. Hal wanted to go. I’ll probably just stay at Romily’s after.”
We’ve never quite landed on the right balance of “informing” versus “prying” when it comes to my whereabouts. Occasionally Mom will send me a link to a video series from a woman who claims to do “coaching for emerging adults and their parents.”
I prefer the “ignorance is bliss” approach.
At first, I was completely honest with her about going over to Hal’s and spending the night. She, of course, assumed that meant he was my boyfriend. When my overnight absences continued without any further mentions of some kind of official relationship, I changed my story. I’m still not sure if she really believes that I crash with Romily in her parents’ basement as frequently as I claimto.
Mom puts her hand on my shoulder. “Can you stay just a few more minutes? There’s something I want us all to talk about together.”
Those words make me shiver. It’s worse than “we need to talk.”
“What is it?” I ask, joining them at the counter. “You’re making me nervous.”
