“Right this way,” the hostess said.
“They’re both Irish,” I said as we sat down.
“Yeah, I guess so. My dad’s Irish. Yours? Lay it on me.” Emerson rested her elbows on the table and leaned forward, her eyes open and welcoming.
Shit. I shook my head, clearing it of my crazy touchy-feely thoughts.
“What?” Her green eyes looking almost blue today, encouraging me to bare my soul to her.
“Do you ever let a person breathe?” I took a sip of the water and almost spit the shit out. “What the ...”
“It’s sparkling.” She laughed at me, or with me, while patting my forearm. She quickly removed her hand, but not without staring for a second at her fingers, as if she were surprised at their forthrightness. “So, tell me.”
We were interrupted again by the server, asking for drink orders. I ordered a beer and Emerson a diet pop.Excuse me. Soda.When the server left, I paused for a second, choosing my words.
“Here’s the short version. My mom met my dad when he was doing some kind of internship in Philadelphia. He’d come to Hershey to meet with some smaller companies. She was a young, easily impressionable, blue-collar girl, smitten with the handsome guy from out of town. Of course, he took advantage, and she became his main squeeze while he was in the States. Then he went back to where he came from, but not before knocking her up. Apparently, he was the son of an Irish guy and an Arabic woman. A forbidden tale of its own ... I don’t even know it or care. My mom knew way back when and told me some of it, but I never really paid attention. Anyway, she kept me, and he stayed out of the picture until recently.”
Emerson sat quietly, her gaze intent on me throughout my whole monologue. When I finished, I took a gulp of my hideous sparkling water, wetting my tongue and cooling my emotions. I’d never laid it on the line like that before.
The server brought our drinks (thank God), along with a basket of bread and a bowl of olive oil and balsamic vinegar. I waved him off.
“My dad kept me,” Emerson said quietly. “Even though my mom didn’t want me.”
“I’m sure he’s a good man like my mom.”
She shrugged. “A bit overprotective.”
“Already told you, I’d tend to agree with him.”
“So, what happened? Is he back? Your dad?”
“Nice way to deflect. And, yeah, he drove down our driveway one day in his limo, waving money and promises of a free education, demanding that I be more than an ordinary farm boy. Apparently, he’d kept up with me, knew all about me. My mom had stayed in touch with him, never expecting anything in return. All I wanted was to run the farm with my stepdad, Bruce, but here I am in the Big Apple, set up in some posh apartment with a healthy allowance.”
“I’d say it all sounds pretty nice.” Emerson looked up, an eyebrow raised, one side of her red lips upturned. “Independence, freedom, bills all paid.”
“Eh, it kind of sucks. Well, up until now.”
“Oh, really? I can’t be that much of a salve.”
“We’ll see about that, Bender.”
This got me a full smile, her white teeth on full display.
“Wow. Who knew that calling a little lady by her last name would get such a reaction?”
Her smile dulled a bit, and she stared at the white tablecloth and rows of silverware. “Back home, my dad’s friends call him Bend. I know I’ve pissed him off, and I feel bad about it. He was strangling the life out of me ... but he also gave life to me. Lord knows, my mom didn’t. So I’m torn. And my old boyfriend, he apparently is an ass, and now he’s moving here. It’s everything I originally wanted, but now I’m not sure.”
“Sounds like you need a bartender.”
“Sorry.” She swirled the straw in her soda. “I tend to ramble when I’m upset.”
“That’s what I’m here for. The rambling.” I reached out and stilled her hand with mine.
We were quiet for a few beats, and it was calming in a way I hadn’t known since coming to this city. Her without a mom, me without a dad, both searching for a slice of the elusive happiness pie.
“Hey,” I said, “want to blow off this joint and grab some pizza?”
If I’d thought her smile was big before, this time it was epic.
