“Why were you at the hotel?” I blurted before stuffing my mouth again.
Discomfort covered him completely. His posture changed. His limbs loosened. He bit into another tortilla chip with dip on top. He was in no rush to respond. I was in no rush to hear his response either, because it would only mean I was next up to speak again. I wasn’t ready.
“I went to meet my father. He didn’t show.”
My chest rattled with despair. His words were riddled with pain. Unresolved pain that was likely the purpose of his visit to Clarke.
“Has he ever?”
“Ever?”
“Shown?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“Nah.”
“Will you try again?”
“Fuck ‘em,” he tittered with a shrug.
“Understood.”
“Your father?”
“Dead.”
He nodded, accepting my indirect request to move on. My suffering since Richie’s passing would not be the subject of dinner. It hurt too much. It bruised too much. It shifted too much.
“Your mother?”
My smile lifted my cheeks.
“Rhea– her name is Rhea. She’s heaven on earth.”
“Yeah? Sounds like my old lady. Life would’ve been a shit show without her in my corner.”
I nodded.
“I feel the same about my father and my brother. Rhea has been the softest place to land since I can remember. But, I’ve never been a girl who wanted to land softly. I’ve always wanted to hit the ground running. For that, I had my brother and my father to count on.”
“Most girls– it’s their mothers wh–”
“I’m not most girls, Ishmael. Have you not taken note?”
“I have. My notepad is running out of space and my pen is running out of ink. I’ve been making notes since I met you.”
“Good notes or?”
“Notes. There’s not much that isn’t good about you, Royce. Aside from the fact that you don’t listen.”
I shrugged, sipping from the wine glass.
“I’m waiting to be given instructions worth listening to.”
Ishmael’s lips turned upward as his head lifted and then fell, numerous times.
“That won’t work for us.”
