I’m sitting beside Mom and across from Brett. The others are scattered about in no particular order. Most everyone keeps the conversation light andsimple about the weather, some talk of construction on the nearby highway, and bourbon. There is always talk of bourbon, but this is the first time this table has been full without the sight of a bourbon bottle.
"How were sales today?" Mom asks Brett. Mom would never even ask Dad this question. No one had to ask, because Dad would have a full report on the daily sales and stories of various conversations he had with local customers.
"Not bad," he says, peering up at me rather than responding directly to Mom. "We had a bunch of customers impatiently waiting for the Quinn Pine."
"They do every year," Mom says, clearing her throat and taking a bite of the lasagna.
As hard as everyone is trying to keep the conversation moving, it seems everyone is running out of words by the time we were taking our final bites. "I’ll clear the dishes," I tell everyone.
"No, no, allow me," Elizabeth says, following in suit.
"Really, I could use the minute to clear my head.” I smile to prove my honesty.
Elizabeth takes her seat and rests her folded hands down on the table. "Of course, sweetie."
I take my time collecting the plates and shuttling them into the kitchen, lining them up by the sink. This will take me some time; time I can avoid the dull conversations that should be distracting me.
We have a dishwasher, but using it wouldn’t take me long enough, so I soap up the first plate with the sponge. I stare out into the night’s sky through the window over the sink—the same kind of window I had to have in the house Ace bought for us. It reminded me of my childhood when I would help Mom dry dishes before we had a dishwasher. I would watch the trees sway in the wind, sometimes wondering if they were waving at me.
Those trees are bare now, anyway. Even if it wasn’t so dark out, they wouldn’t be waving.
I’m three plates in when Brett takes the dishrag from the oven bar and steals the spot beside me to dry the dishes. "Is the dishwasher broken?" he asks.
"No.” My response sounds too abrupt to avoid questions.
From the corner of my eye, I can see him nod with understanding. "Cleaning dishes always calms me down too." Now I’m giving him a side-stink-eye. Cleaning dishes is not fun or calming. I was just trying to get away from the table.
"Oh yeah?"
"No, I hate dishes," he says. “Which is why I use the dishwasher."
"Did you lose your girlfriend—Parker’s mom? Is that why you understand the pain of losing someone?" My question was blunt and inappropriate for the simple conversations we’ve exchanged these past few days, but the question came out on its own.
"Parker’s mom wasn’t my girlfriend," he says. My assumptions are wrong, and any thought I had of what happened to Parker’s mother might void. There are a million other logical explanations, I’m sure, but none I’ve considered.
"Abby, Parker’s mom, was my best friend. We served in the Marines together. Neither of us had many other friends for whatever reasons, so we became close and ended up renting an apartment together off base for a few years."
"Guys and girls can never just be friends, right?" I ask. The next thought of a possible drunken night leading to a surprise baby enters my head.
"No, Abby and I were never more than friends."
Except for friends with benefits?
"Oh," I say, unsure of what else to say, which is another hint I should take.
"A few years after Parker was born, Abby was killed—"
A mild squeak, loud enough to pierce ears, pauses our conversation. Brett and I spin around, finding Parker standing in the kitchen’s entryway. Her eyes fill with tears, and I want to take back every question I’ve asked, every statement I’ve made, every assumption I spoke out loud because this little girl is now in pain—the same pain I’m feeling, but as a grown woman.
"Oh my God, I am so sorry," I tell them both.
"No, no, it’s fine—" Brett says, falling to his knees in front of Park, pulling her into his chest and holding her head against his shoulder. "It’s okay, it’s okay."
"Can I do something?" I offer, my voice shaking, soft, meek.I screwed up.
“Can you let everyone know Parker wasn’t feeling well, and I had to get her home," he says, scooping her up and carrying out of the house without a goodbye to anyone.
My heart is already broken for me, but now, it’s also broken for them.
