“Just keep cooking. It’ll get you followers,” I encourage, rationalizing why I keep my camera on him.
My followers and I are obsessed with his cooking. Mussels with artichokes, dill, tomatoes, jalapeños, broth, and a touch of cream—it’s not any kind of dish I’ve tried before, and it’s gorgeous. Within minutes, there are demands for an official recipe and multiple people drooling. Some over the recipe, some over Dave.
My live post might be good, but Megan will share this again and on my website to include a full recipe once I get an actual recipe out of Dave.
While I know he doesn’t like to admit it, he’s digging the fun and new attention.
After dinner, he pours drinks, and my nerves are still settling after that car-in-the-ditch situation.
This place has a large deck/patio with a tall outdoor fireplace that he lights.
“We’re going to sit outside in this weather?” I ask incredulously.
“It’s only a bad storm when you’re driving. It’s fun outside when you’re at home with a fireplace.”
The cozy chairs are impossible to refuse when he leads me out there, so I fall into one and promptly bang my goddamn cast against the arm. Dave winces as hard as I do.
“I’m okay,” I say preemptively, but this pain sucks. “I don’t know why that Top Cat hates me so much. He wasn’t on the streets that long. He shouldn’t even be that feral, right?”
Dave settles into the chair across from me. “Not sure there’s a timeline on that stuff.”
“Evidently not. Maybe he’ll just be a bathroom cat forever. At least he won’t be dead. Maybe never nice, but not dead.” I swirl my wine and take a sniff. It’s a really nice vintage and just what I need tonight.
My phone dings, and I groan when I see a text from my mother.
Dave asks what’s up now, as he’s seen me get too many demanding messages.
I sigh. “My mom is freaking out about house stuff. I just have to arrange to send out a few people to deal with plumbing issues. And apparently, the roof is falling apart. And there is some kind of city sewer issue she is supposed to respond to.”
“That’s on you?”
“It is.” I inhale and exhale so very deeply. “Even the short version is shitty. We can skip that.”
To his credit, he doesn’t hesitate. “I want the long version.”
Patrick was the only person to have ever heard the long and true version of what my childhood was, and how these people who never should have had a child did so. But it might be nice to share my horrors with another living person.
After an hour of my unloading, he’s still here. And somehow, his head hasn’t exploded. “Okay, so your dad was clearly…not well.” He puts it kindly.
“And a criminal of undetermined sorts. Mafia undertones.”
“Okay. What about your mom?”
“That’s another psycho story. She was so fucking depressed, but also so focused on appearances, so she’d make us get all dressed up, go to the country club to socialize a few times a week. Then we’d be back home, and she’d collapse. I couldn’t have friends over because she wasn’t up for it. My mother was hyper focused on her persona as the PTA president, on manners, presenting oneself as well dressed, yelling at me if my appearance wasn’t up to par. She’d come home from an event, then sink into a chair and stare at a wall for days. Always in some kind of survival mode, trying to tolerate her own misery. There wasn’t room for me, for any kid.
“I truly don’t know why they even agreed to have a child. Nobody played with me, hugged me, pushed me in a swing. Nobody read to me. Nobody indulged in make-believe play or taught me how to be silly or have fun.
“And because I had so much, I’d hole up in my room and pack up clothes and toys to give away, always afraid that people didn’t have as much as I did. Routinely sneaking out trash bags full of gorgeous stuff. I always knew there was something wrong with the disparity in our town, but nobody else seemed to care.”
“But you did.”
“Always.”
“And your parents were, well…”
“Awful.” I can fill in the blanks. “I don’t like them. I don’t even think I love them.”
“I’m so fucking sorry, Diana.”
