I sigh and shove my hands into the pockets of my pants. “Understanding your daughter.”
She gives me a knowing look. “Sounds like I’d better make you some soup.”
“Okay.”
“And there’s leftover zucchini-banana bread! Would you like me to heat it up for you?”
“Oh. Okay. Thank you. Yes.” The banana-zucchini bread does get better as it gets older.
“You two had a fight?” she asks while taking the bread out of the microwave. As if it’s not the end of the world.
“Not exactly. I don’t think?”
She leads me over to the kitchen table. It’s the same table I sat at with Nathan so many mornings, whenever we weren’t allowed to eat while watching TV. I learned about family at this table. I learned about Olivia’s eating habits at this table. I know I will learn something important at this table today—I just don’t know what it is yet.
Steph Montgomery places a mug that saysMama needs some coffeein front of me, as well as a plate of the bread she made for me, and I realize that it never even occurred to me to call my parents yesterday or today or to go to their house to be with them. And they never called me. They just emailed to confirm they’d be at the restaurant for the event.
That really fucking sucks too.
My eyes are a little moist, and my lower lip seems to be quivering. Probably because I’m so hungry. I’ll have to learn how to control that.
Mrs. Montgomery smiles her lovely warm smile and rests her chin in her hands, her elbows on the tabletop. “Oh, Johnny. It’ll be okay. You know, all I’ve ever wanted for my girl was that she’d find someone who loves and adores her and is as dedicated to her as she is to dancing. And guess what? She met you even before she took her first ballet class.”
I nod, trying to swallow a bite of bread, but there’s a lump in my throat and my mouth is dry. I start choking. It’s not a good look. Mrs. Montgomery gets me a glass of water and waits for me to get control of my fucking body, which apparently doesn’t work anymore if Olivia isn’t near it.
“Better?” she asks kindly.
“Better.”
She goes back to the stove, where she’s heating up a can of soup.
I blurt out, “I can’t think straight anymore when it comes to your daughter, Mrs. Montgomery.”
“Then don’t think straight,” she says with a shrug. “Think in circles. Think in swerves. Or don’t think at all.”
Think in circles? Think in swerves? That last thing is impossible. But the other concepts are intriguing.
“I think I might have messed up.”
“You didn’t treat her badly, did you?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“I’m sure you didn’t. I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding,” she says. “That’s usually what all fights are, in the beginning.”
“I hope it’s just the beginning.”
This is my chance to ask Steph Montgomery what I could never ask my own parents.
“How do you do it? How does marriage work?”
“Ah. Well.” She turns off the burner and ladles some soup into a bowl. “Every marriage is different, of course. But I think what makes marriage work is you’re forced to try to work things out. When two people are committed to living together. When you get curious instead of defensive. When you slow down and pay attention and see the person you love is hurt, that they aren’t just trying to hurt you. It’s amazing what can happen if you give it time.”
“Do you and Mr. Montgomery have fights? If you don’t mind my asking.”
She laughs and waves her hand dismissively as she brings the bowl of soup over to me, putting it on one of the placemats that are always set at this table. “Of course we do! I’m sure you’ve heard them. But they’re only fights. It’s part of the dance. You learn how to fight fair eventually. You’ll see. And sometimes you realize they aren’t fights at all. Just give her some time.”
“But what should Ido?”
