“About what?”
“You and May. I’ve apologized for what I did.”
“To whom?” I challenge him.
His eyes shift back and forth between mine as if trying to read the script of what I expect him to say. As always, he has nothing.
My mom places her hand on my arm. “Liem, this really isn’t the best time.”
“Then when is? It’s been five years.”
“Let him talk, Mom,” May backs me up.
“You came back. I get it. You should have spent every day apologizing to May for not accepting her, for making her feel like there was something wrong with her. But I needed my dad too.”
Dad doesn’t say anything. His eyes are cast down, mouth tilted into a frown; for the first time in a long time, he seems to be listening. Maybe he hears me now.
“I don’t need anything from you anymore, Dad. I really don’t. So stop expecting anything from me.”
The silence that follows is awkward to say the least. I tip my glass back, draining the rest.
Finally, May breaks the silence. “So, is there any cobbler?”
Mom and Dad exchange a look then leave the table together to fetch it.
May squeezes my arm, giving me a proud smirk. “Did that feel good?”
“Yeah. It kind of did.”
She shares my shit-eating grin for a moment, letting me bask in the catharsis of speaking up for myself and setting a boundary. Then I bask in the reality that I just told off my dad in front of my mom.
“We should probably go, though, right?” she asks.
I push away from the table to stand. “Yeah, we should.”
We run out of the house, jumping into May’s car. On the way back to the city, I start a text to Bri and hesitate. I’m not sure whereourboundaries lie anymore.
“Not to get mushy or anything,” May says, “but I like the new you.”
I do too. And I have less than a month to show that to Bri.
Thirty-three
Bri
It happened this morning. Two weeks before my birthday, and the stars are finally beginning to align for me.
The email makes my heart race with excitement every time I read it.
We would like to invite you to interview with us early next month. Please let us know what days and times work best for you.
Lisa
The first thing I wanted to do was scream and, directly after that, call Liem, but it’s still so hard for me to trust that good things willhappen. Imposter syndrome, having a chronic illness, being a Black woman in a professional setting—whatever the source of my trepidation, it makes me want to keep the news close to the chest until it’s real.
After a quick,My schedule is open. Whatever works best for you, it’s become a waiting game again, making me check my email every thirty seconds in case I somehow miss a notification. I want to pindown a date expeditiously, make sure it’s—
My phone vibrates the pattern of my email notification, and my heart races.
