“Since when do we lie to each other?”
Most people I knew would do anything – years of therapy, exorcism – to not end up like their parents. Me? I’d always asked why I couldn’t be more like mine. They always seemed to make healthy choices for themselves, and didn’t regret much in life.
Whereas I…
“How have you managed to not find one, but two amazing women who didn’t set out to change you, use you, make your life miserable, and then leave you in a pile of ashes?” I asked.
Dad’s eyes widened and he sat up, leaning his elbows on his knees as he considered me.
“Well,” he said, chuckling and then immediately looking guilty. “Sorry. I’m not laughing at you. I know you’ve had a bad go of things with the women in your life. The truth is, as wonderful as your mom was and Lisa is, it’s not always easy. We’re separate human beings coming together to form a life and bringing with us our own ideas and ways of doing things. And even if those things align, we’re still human. And humans are messy. There is no instruction manual on how to get through life. One person can live one way and be successful, and another can try mimicking it and fail miserably. We all have our own paths and you just hope you can find a partner with whom your paths can co-exist in a peaceful, if not fun, way.”
“But how did you end up with women that were innately kind and decent? And I’ve…” I let the sentence trail off, knowing I didn’t need to elaborate. He’d met them all.
“I have a theory,” he said. “And it’s only that.”
“Go ahead,” I said, leaning forward on my knees now, intently listening as always to the wisdom imparted by my father.
“You live a lot in your head. In worlds of your own creation. And when you come out, I think you realize that beyond your career, you haven’t built much of a life for yourself. It’s a great career, but when you aren’t writing or doing things related to writing, you aren’t doing much except visiting us and walking Brontë. I rarely hear you talk about any of your friends from school anymore. Whatever happened to Cooper? And I think you feel that ‘lack of’ more. So then you meet one of these women and they are full of life and laughter, and they sparkle and offer excitement and fun and parties and a social group. You get sucked in. You’re now part of something. It’s all good, son. But also not. Because the women who you end up with have a honing device, seeking a partner who’s seeking what they offer. Which is all very surface level. And you’re deeper than that. But you let them take over. For some reason you think you’re wrong and they must be right because they’ve curated a life that looks good. At least in pictures. Next thing you know, your home isn’t home anymore and your clothes cost four times what they used to. Ruining a t-shirt is no longer no big deal, it’s an investment down the toilet.”
“How do I stop it?” I asked, throwing myself back into my chair in frustration. “How do I identify these women before they get their hooks in me?”
He laughed. “One, don’t blame them. They know what they want and they go for it. It’s your fault if you fall for it.” He shrugged in response to my glare. “Two, get a life outside that house, Graham. Seriously, where’s Coop? You guys used to talk all the time and now you never even mention him. And also, for fuck’s sake, redecorate that house or sell the damn thing. Nadia ruined it. Someone will want it, but it’s definitely not you. And three, trust yourself. Trust what someone shows you about them the first time.”
“But what if the first thing she shows me is an emotional tirade because she’s going through something I know nothing about… yet.”
He peered at me, as if working something out and then?—
“Is this about the Meet-Poop Girl?”
“Jesus,” I said, running a hand over my face. “Did everyone read that article? Can we not call her that?”
“I read all your articles, you know that! Do you know her name then? Have you two run into one another again?”
“I do. And yes we have. A few times.”
“And?”
“And… I don’t know. There’s something about her. I assumed she was a brat after our first meeting.”
“Understandable.”
“And she didn’t dispel my idea of her after our next couple of run-ins. But after the last one…” I shook my head. “I think she might not be what I thought she was. I may have misjudged her. And yet there’s still the matter of her being famous.”
“She’s famous?”
I dropped my head into my hands.
“Yeah. Really famous. Millions of followers famous. Thousands of comments on a simple post on social media famous. Billboards and sides of buses and Times Square famous.” I dragged my hands down my face. “People prying into her life, the scrutiny of the press, paparazzi famous.”
“Ah.”
After my experience with Nadia, who had been hungry for that kind of rabid attention, my father knew well what my tolerance levels were for that kind of crap.
“Sounds like a no-go then,” he said.
“Yeah. Except…”
“Except what?”
