“I knew you would be,” he grinned.He went on to tell me about Wren, who recently graduated from high school and has gone to Europe.It was his gift to her, funding her travel during her gap year.
“We’re meeting her there,” he explained after telling me about his planned trip with my father.“The International Horticultural Society’s convention in Belgium, followed by a week in Paris, time in Spain, and then backpacking with Wren.It’s the trip of a lifetime.But you know all about that—you’ve been everywhere.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so he solicited my help in setting the table for dinner.This involved linen napkins, a rustic, floral tablecloth, silverware, and a vase of wildflowers as a centerpiece.At first, I thought these items were superfluous, more to clean up.But now, I understand how it makes the table more pleasant.
We sit in mismatched chairs at the round table overlooking the garden and woods.It’s warm and humid, but Christie, who was an electrical engineer before retiring to be a stay-at-home dad, has made several upgrades to the property, including installing ceiling fans along the underdeck and pergola.
He’s also installed an ingenious misting system in the greenhouse that recycles water from our in-house dehumidifiers.He calls it the Misty Christie.
Ivy’s full laughter pulls me into the present.She leans closer to Christie.“He tried on four shirts before finally deciding on that one, and they were all the same, just different shades of blue.”
They laugh.
“I appreciate a man who dresses up,” Christie says.“It’s not every day that you meet your love’s father.It’s a dressy occasion.”
“I don’t own a dress,” I blurt.I run my finger over the long oval of my mood ring, finding some comfort in its smooth surface.“Or dress clothes.”
Ivy smiles.“Don’t worry about it, Vee.You didn’t know about tonight’s dinner, either.We understand.”
“You’re here,” Christie smiles.“That’s all that matters.”
The night passes pleasantly enough, especially once I make myself a Vodka Cranberry from Dad’s bar cabinet.I observe their interactions and show customary interest in Gil’s job as a software developer, his gaming hobby, and his large family, as well as Christie and Ivy’s mutual appreciation of the romance genre.Everyone enjoys Christie’s lasagna.Buster settles after seemingly pointless running, wrapping himself into a tight ball under the table.
I long to get up, explore, and be on my own.Prolonged conversation exhausts me.I imagine it’s like a muscle that must be exercised daily over time to succeed in a long marathon like this.But I endeavor to see this through, to once more feel a part of the family.
Still, I don’t belong.The couples engage in what I can only assume is their typical affection—holding hands, occasional kisses, and constantly leaning in toward each other, as if they’re unable to communicate effectively outside of a three-centimeter range.This creates two pockets, one on either side of me at the round table, and highlights my aloneness.I don’t say much at dinner, unless asked directly.Keeping my head down and mouth shut preventsdifficulties.
But once the vodka achieves its numbing effect, impulse takes over, and I blurt the question that’s bothered me since learning that my father has succumbed to romantic feelings.“What happened to romantic love being a construct, perpetuated by society, religion, and the need to procreate?Independence showed true strength, you said.Depending on another person to feel complete undervalues our worth and makes us reliant on a fantasy for our happiness.Makes them reliant, too.Romantic love is aburden.That’s what you told me.”
Despite my conversational tone, the table falls silent.A Carolina barn owl hoots overhead, as if citing my faux pas.People don’t like being called hypocrites, I can hear Dr.Broderick saying.Ivy’s obvious irritation strangles me from across the table.
Dad sets down his napkin with a thoughtful, “Hmm.I failed to factor in the soulmate equation and the immense power of a… what do you call it?A meet-cute?”
Laughter roars across the table, and Christie practically falls out of his chair, gushing, “Yes, a meet-cute!You’re learning my book terms!”
“Meet-cutes are my favorite,” Ivy coos.“Gil and I met over a game board—he let me win.That’s how I knew!”
“Seeing you smile mattered more than winning,” he grins, slipping his lanky arm around her shoulders.
Flummoxed by Dad’s non-answer, I sip my drink and say nothing as stories about how they met and when theyknewfloat blissfully across the table.
Iknewmany times with Henry.Though I didn’t understand my feelings then.At the time, it felt sacrilegious, or at least disrespectful, not to put my complete trust in my father’s words.His lifestyle and our unique family unit proved his claim against romance to be true.
Even so, Henry was different.
Iknewwhen we first met in second grade.He cut through our property to go home rather than take the bus, and, so surprised to see someone inmywoods, I fell out of a tree right in front of him.
Or maybe I fell on purpose—my motives are murky now.
He dropped to my side and asked,“You okay?”in a tone that suggested genuine concern.Once I assured him I was fine and that falling out of trees happens to me frequently, he laughed and joked,“That’s because people don’t belong in trees,”and I couldn’t fault his logic.He helped me up and asked how to get home.I understood his confusion.Things look different in the woods.We talked the entire journey to his house, the longest conversation I’d had with a peer.
I knewalmostright away that I’d love him if romantic love existed.I couldn’t decide without further evidence.At the time, all I knew was that he didn’t seem to mind me—not my scientific facts, my lazy filter, or my so-called difficulties.He was curious, insightful, patient, more intelligent than most, and had a smile that favored his left cheek in a delightfully asymmetrical way, like a lopsided ice cream cone—sweet and tempting me to catch it before it fell away.
When that lopsided smile sat across from me at lunch a few days later, my endearment grew into hope.
Iknewlove existed the first time he held me close amid a loud and tumultuous storm as we hovered, scared, in our lean-to.We were eight.He latched onto me when the crack of lightning hit nearby, shaking the ground underneath us.“I don’t like this, Venus,”he said, voice trembling as his breath tickled my neck.“It’s okay.You’re with me.Everything’ll be okay,”I said, pulling him tighter, and feeling, all at once, this beautiful relief, like his touch untied the knots inside me.The tighter he held me, the better I felt, like he was an anchor holding me in place.
When the danger ended, we slowly let go, but he said,“Thanks, Venus.I, um, didn’t mean to be a baby.”
