Leave it to Ryan to sum up something so complicated in three simple words. My eyes trace the line of his jaw and the hint of five-o’clock shadow whose exact texture my skin knows intimately. He was beautiful enough without being so empathetic, so supportive, so…Ryan. His wonderfulness only enhances his looks a hundredfold.
“Have you ever told your mother about this?” he asks.
“I’ve never told anyone about this,” I say.
Maybe it’s how much time has passed, the wounds dulled and scabbed over, or maybe it’s just that I was ripe for oversharing after what my mom said. But part of me knows there’s more to it. That the reason I feel comfortable telling Ryan things that I’ve never told anyone, that I’ve never quite admitted to myself in so many words, is that he listens to me in a way nobody ever has. He gets it, or at least tries to with every ounce of himself. Makes it okay, somehow. Like he’s taken a heavy backpack off my shoulders, carrying it for me so I can be blissfully unencumbered for a little while.
“Maybe you should tell her,” he says. “It could help her understand, or at least lay off the passive-aggressive remarks. So you don’t crave space after five minutes of conversation.”
“Or move to New York to escape.” The words jump from my mouth, unbidden. I clench my jaw, damming any other confessions from leaking out.
But Ryan just nods. He takes my hand, threads our fingers together. The contact seems to stop the guilt from cinching around my throat.
“I thought Celine was going to go to NYU,” he says, his deep voice breaking the heavy silence. “She didn’t even tell me she’d applied to Berkeley. Didn’t want to open a can of worms when she didn’t know if she’d get in or not. And when she got her acceptance, she sat on it for weeks. Thought there was no chance I’d let her move across the country and didn’t want to confirm her fears, I guess.”
My mind is brimming with questions, but I try to take a page out of the Ryan playbook, staying silent and (semi-)patiently waiting for him to go on.
“I didn’t consider myself overbearing,” he says. “Protective, sure. Raising a child in the biggest city in the country, you have to be. She was so precious to me…Every decision I made was to keep her safe. But it read differently to her. She felt trapped. Suffocated.
“When she told me she wanted to move to San Francisco, she led with her arguments against all the reasons she assumed I’d refuse. It was eye-opening. Here she was, just trying to do the best thing for herself, for the future I’d worked so hard to safeguard for her, but overcome with the fear that I’d impede her.” He grimaces. “I felt like shit after that conversation, but I’m glad it happened. I needed the push to look inward, to take steps to change the way I related to her. To be what she needed me to be for her.”
I squeeze his hand, a small show of gratitude that he shared this with me. “You’re a good dad. Brother. Dad-bro.” I groan inwardly at myself. “She’s lucky that you listen. That you’re tuned in to her feelings and open to change. It says a lot about you.”
“There were—are—a lot of bumps along the way.Chilldoesn’t exactly come naturally to me.”
I hum. “I can relate.”
“No kidding,” he says, then winks at my faux-affronted gasp. “But if Celine hadn’t talked to me about it, I wouldn’t have had the chance to at leasttryto step up that way.”
Subtext:Give your mom a chance. Tell her how her actions affect you.I sigh. “It’s not that simple in my case,” I say.
“I didn’t say it was simple.”
How would I even approach talking to Mom about my needs when our dynamic has never made space for them? Not beyond the immediate, base-of-Maslow’s-hierarchy ones, at least, and it’s been decades since those were on her plate. Would she hear me? What would I even say?
I’ve been relying on the TV show as the thing that would finally neutralize Mom’s issues with my career choice and resolve this problem once and for all. But there are times when I question whether this is even a problem to be resolved. She’s just expressing her thoughts and feelings—it’s not her job to manage my reactions. Isn’t it just a matter of me being less sensitive? Letting it wash off my back? I was always so good at that until…Dad. His death stripped the buffer from my head, from my heart, and I could no longer absorb the blows.
But that was years ago. It seems ridiculous for me to hide from someone I love just because she says a few words that make me feel icky. It’s time I put on my armor, like the boss I am.
I should get back to her. Maral can only hold her over so long, and she has plans to meet up with friends from college—sheactually kept in touch with people—which is why she opted to stay in the city instead of Dorchester. Can’t say I blame her.
But I don’t move. Although I’m in no rush to get started on the next thirty-six hours with Mom, I’m in even less of a hurry to say goodbye to Ryan. Unwilling to examine why his hand feels so good in mine, so right, I opt instead to do something very out of character: Simply stay still. In this moment. With him.
As if he can sense what I’m thinking, he says, “You have my number. Call me anytime you want to talk.”
Anytime. Meaning if I need an understanding ear, a shoulder to lean on, a hand to hold. Someone to help carry the heaviness.
“Careful what you offer—I may be blowing up your phone all day,” I say.
His eyes shine with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his lips. “You can blow it up every day,” he says.
Heat prickles up my neck.
Forever, baby.
I swallow around an obstruction in my throat. “Don’t worry. Lucky for you, you’re officially off the hook.”
I don’t let him voice the question radiating off his expression, rambling on. “Tonight was the last tour event. You’re heading home tomorrow. Hopefully to a job you need to keep on the straight and narrow for. And the Bryant Park event on Tuesday isn’t even Woodsworth-related, so, you know.” I shrug, like,that’s all she wrote.
