“What was your talent?” Jonah asks from beside me.
“You don’t even know that much about her?” Meg is looking right at us now, her gaze sharp once more.
Jonah rubs the space between his eyebrows, and Jack takes a few cubes of cheese off of the plate on the coffee table and shoves them into his mouth.
“Maybe we should just eat?” Jonah offers.
His mom and dad both nod, and I sigh in relief. I didn’t really want to get into the specifics of pageants—especially not my talent. Singing still hurts too much. It still remains the single thing I love doing most in the world and the one I’m most afraid of. My memories of singing up on stage are tainted by the endless critique from my mom and dad after I’d finish.
I follow the Smith family into the kitchen and sit across from Jonah at the thick planked wooden table. I run my fingers over it, feeling the grain beneath them.
“Jonah and I made that together, you know,” Jack says. “When he was twelve. First piece we ever finished.” He shoots a fond look at his son, and Jonah smiles, his expression open and at ease.
Jonah actuallylikeshis parents, and they like him too. They all seem to genuinely enjoy spending time together. My heart starts to ache with wanting, and with envy. Because I have noidea what that’s like. I glance around them at the table, and feel like I’m looking at them through a window. Like I’m standing outside on the street in the cold, looking in on them as they sit together, happy, warm, and content.
Try as I might with my own parents, I’ve never been able to get through that glass barrier between us. Even as a kid, I was met with annoyance or derision. But I’m not going to let that stop me from getting to know Jonah’s family.
“Are you working on anything at the moment?” I ask Jack.
Jack starts telling me about the wooden canoe he’s building in his workshop in the garage, detailing the process and things that he’s had to redo. “I’m by no means a professional woodworker. It’s just something I picked up and started to do here and there.”
“That is not true.” Meg waves her fork at her husband. “He made me a folding bed tray to use when I was really sick from the chemo. I used it to balance my e-reader and tea on.”
It’s the first time Meg’s cancer has been mentioned all night, and despite the casual way she slips it into conversation, I still see Jonah tense up across from me. I want to reach out over the table and grab his hand to let him know that I’m there for him. That it will be alright—his mom survived.
His parents are talking about their plans to take the canoe out in the summer, and all of the different lakes and rivers they want to visit with it. Jack makes a joke about how he has to paddle twice as hard to compensate for Meg’s wimpy arms, and Meg responds by rolling up her sleeve and flexing her muscles.
But despite the humor, all Jonah manages is a weak smile, and I can tell that something else is going on behind his eyes. His mom might be alive, but Jonah is clearly still carrying the weight of her illness around with him.
I just wish there was something I could do to help him with it.
When we get homefrom dinner, Jonah immediately heads into the small room he’s using as a bedroom and office. I told him I was happy to sleep in there, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He closes the door, and through it, I hear the faint sounds of an acoustic guitar. I hover by it, wanting to knock, but unsure if he really wants to talk.
Jonah and I might be married, but the first time he met me, he called me a ditz and I thought he was an asshole. We’ve come a long way since then, but would he really wantmeprying and asking him how he’s doing?
I think back to the first time he told me about his mom having cancer, and to his face earlier this evening. He may not want me prying, but he clearly needs something. Maybe I can help him with this in some small way. Maybe I could distract him, or make him laugh.
I quickly gather what I need from the closet, and change my clothes. I redo my hair, and then rummage through the kitchen until I find a metal rolling pin. Then, I send Jonah a text.
Me: If you want to know what my pageant talent was, come into the living room.
After a few minutes, Jonah pokes his head out of his room and eyes me with interest. I press play on the Bluetooth speakers and music that I once heard my friend Claire use during her talent routine fills the room. Claire’s talent was baton twirling and she was genuinely really good at it.
I, on the other hand, am not. I twirl and prance around the room, tossing my makeshift baton up and spinning it around. I drop it about half the time, and when I do, I make anexaggerated oops face and make a big show of picking it up. I eye Jonah’s reaction, and see that he’s smiling at how ridiculous I am. I do a little spin, and the short red skirt I’m wearing flares out around my hips.
I attempt a particularly difficult twirl with it, one that I saw Claire do many times, and the rolling pin smacks me in the face.
“Ow,” I say, rubbing my cheek. “That kind of hurt.”
Jonah, who is now sitting on the couch, is clearly trying not to laugh, and is attempting to arrange his features into a sympathetic expression. But a smile splits his cheeks anyways, and he rubs his face with his hand.
“Didn’t know my pain was that funny.” I stare at him with my hand on my hip, the other pointing the baton at him.
“It’s not, but Christ Winnie, how’d you win any pageants with that as your talent?” he manages to get out between laughs.
“I’m a bit out of practice.” I wink at him, and give the rolling pin another exaggerated flourish, trying to channel Cheryl from Miss Congeniality.
“Please, dear God, put my poor rolling pin out of its misery.” Jonah is laughing again, and I flop onto the couch next to him, happy that I’ve accomplished my goal and cheered him up.
