The doorbell rings, mercifully cutting me off.
Patrick has to kick a giant box that’s been delivered into the kitchen because it’s way too big to carry.
“Whatcha got there, Cleveland Boy?” I ask.
“Seems to be from my parents.” He grabs a pair of scissors.
Before he’s opened it, I can see that it’s not prepackaged from a store, per the emails that go out from the school that make it easy toone-click and send a gift, especially during exam and holiday times. This one is clearly a personalized one from his parents.
Just after Patrick has finished unveiling a beautiful haul of healthy ramen, protein bars, peanut butter, crackers, homemade cookies, and such, I manage to wipe my eyes just in time so that he doesn’t see. I won’t be surprised if I don’t receive a care package, yet I’m hit with another stark reminder of my upbringing. Mylackof a healthy upbringing.
It’s not news. Not as though I’ve been unaware that my mother has never had a speck of maternal instinct.
She would never think to walk through a store and gather my favorite things—not that she’d know what I’d like.
She has never been my person. Never a soft place to land.
Mom always lets me hit concrete. It quite possibly may have brought her some kind of sick joy.
Still, there is no reason to be teary. Because I left. Got out. And I’m not going back to that shit.
As Patrick rightfully has joked over the years about the cliché, I am indeed thepoor little rich girl.
“Aww, this is so cool!” I say as I rally and start to help him put things away.
He must sense something is off with me because he taps me on the shoulder and asks, “Diana, hey, you okay?”
My spiraling is too much to share, and I try to rein it in. To get my head together.
I could tell him that my parents never hugged me or gave me kisses. That they never played with me. That while I had a room full of toys, I was mostly alone with them, largely left to my own devices. That I never even understood the concept of pretend play because no one ever engaged with me, and I had no playdates or friends until I went to school. That I had nothing a kid needed emotionally. That it still feels impossible to claim neglect because I had all of the things and yet none of the things.
That I’ve been a fucking adult since I was a child.
But Patrick clearly has wonderful, loving parents, and I’m not about to dump more crazy on him now.
I know how to shake this off, so I do.
“Hey, want to go to Mangia?” I ask. “Like, these ’ronis were really good, but how about a dinner that’s not college made?”
“Hell yeah!” He swiftly swings on his leather jacket and rushes me out the door.
But when we are buckled into his car, he grabs my hand and mercifully doesn’t say anything because nothing needs to be said.
There are hundreds of restaurants in An Arbor, and most near campus are—in my opinion—not great. They survive because they’re cheap chains. Mangia needs attention and mad love.
As we’re savoring pillowy gnocchi that float in tomato sauce, managing not to outwardly groan, I ask Patrick to ask friends to join us.
Eight of us salivate over the best and lightest fettuccine Alfredo, tossed with baby scallops and kale—one that doesn’t leave us overdosing in our chairs, like most Alfredo. As we work through more of the menu, the chef happily lets us customize dishes, and I’m loving that I’ve captured so much on video.
After we are all stuffed beyond reason, Patrick flings an arm around my shoulders as he walks me to my dorm. “That was so great. Thank you.”
“It’s my pleasure. All courtesy of my dad’s credit card. And my father’s an asshole, so it’s an exceptional pleasure.”
Before he can reply, I kiss him on the cheek and rush inside.
For the next few hours, I am wholly focused on editing the footage from tonight, and when I’m done, I upload a handful of restaurant videos with hashtags to my socials. I might not have much of a following, but I’m so motivated to yell out about deserving spots.
When I wake in the morning, I do an almost-cartoonish double take.
