I want to believe her, I do. But I think it will take a lot more than a change in the breakfast menu to convince me.
I flash her a smile though and take a bite, the crispy strip crumbling beneath my teeth. An explosion of flavor hits my tongue from the sugar-filled jelly I’ve been deprived of, and I cover my mouth with the back of my hand, groaning, “So good.”
She grins. “Good.”
“Holy shit. Is that bacon I’m smelling?” my dad hollers as he rounds the corner into the kitchen.
His flannel pajama bottoms come into view first, followed by his favorite T-shirt with the wordsI artedscreen-printed across the front. It was a gift he bought himself at Art in the Park the summer he met my mom. She sells her paintings there once ayear. Or at least she did, before the end of last summer when we left Boise for the last time.
I may have forgotten a lot of things, but my parents’ origin tale is not one of them.
As the story goes, my dad wandered by her booth and overheard a narcissistic balding man arguing with her over the authenticity of her hand-painted landscape of ocean tides. The man held her canvas up to the sun’s light, scrutinizing her talent, and then proceeded to barter with her over its worth.
I have no doubt my five-foot-nothing mother could have taken this guy with her words alone, but she wasn’t given the chance. My dad slid on in and hip-checked him to the ground. When the man landed on his arrogant ass, a foghorn sounded from his rear end. He scurried off faster than a toddler with a foreign object in their mouth.
My dad purchased her painting at full price, but that shirt from three booths down? That was his ultimate prize.
“Arch,” my mom warns as he puts four burnt pieces on an empty plate.
My mom might love to monitor his cholesterol levels per his doctor’s recommendation, but he loves his bacon more.
“Oh, come on,” he grumbles. “Teddy gets some.” He nudges my shoulder and smirks.
“Very funny,” she says. “Can I at least make you some toast to go with it?”
“Not today, Birdie. Today, I indulge.”
He winks at me, and it feels good to see this playful side of him again. He’s been on board with all of this, but he looks just as relieved as I am to take a break.
“So, first day at the big new job, huh, Teddy Bear?”
“Yep. Don’t miss me too much,” I tease, knowing full well they’ll both stake out the parking lot with a set of binoculars.
He stands from his barstool, rounds the counter, and circles my mom’s waist, kissing her neck.
“Oh, we won’t. We’ve got big plans today.”
She giggles and swats him on the arm with a spatula. “Archie!”
I groan. “Okay, too much.”
No one enjoys their parents’ blatant displays of affection. But there are times when it doesn’t bother me. Like when he tucks her hair behind her ear while she’s reading. Or when he squeezes her thigh to distract her as she flusters in five o’clock traffic. I catch them paving an example of what lasting love looks like, and I’m not ashamed to admit I want what they have someday.
He nuzzles her neck as he squeezes her waist, and she yelps.
“And I’ve lost my appetite,” I say, dropping my half-eaten piece of toast on the plate in front of me and escaping to my bedroom.
I listen for the familiar echo of someone following me or begging me to finish my food, but it’s only their laughter that travels up the staircase.
The real reason I left breakfast wasn’t their PDA. I’ve tried and failed to quiet the incessant thoughts about that sketch. I want to know if it’s him. Ineedto know.
I close the slatted door to my room for privacy. Like true vintage furniture, the center drawer of my vanity threatens to remain superglued shut unless you give it a good shuffle. I rock it back and forth until it gives way and lurches open.
There, resting in the middle, waits the book my mom showed me last night. I flip it open to the last page and gasp, taking a handful of steps until I feel the backs of my legs collide with my bed. When I fall, the mattress dips with my weight. My heart does this weird stuttering thing in my chest like a hummingbird that’s learning to fly.
I trace the tip of my index finger over the bill of a Dodgers baseball cap, down the sloping jawline, and pause at the square of his chin. Just when my finger is about to brush his lips, my breath hitches. Everything I believed to be true is staring back at me.
It’s him.
