“But their hearts haven’t been broken. A broken heart tends to not want to venture out into love again. Different circumstances.”
“My heart isn’t broken, Mom. Dealia and I just wanted different things from life.”
“And what exactly do you want from your life?” Dad asks, his voice serious. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’re not happy with your job, you’re a recently divorced man who sits at his parents’ house on a Friday night rather than going out, and from the status of your sock you’ve apparently let yourself go.”
“It’s one pair—Jesus, Dad. You’re not even wearing matching socks.”
“And I am in a committed, almost fifty-year marriage with the love of my life. Unfortunately for her, I’m allowed to let myself go, and she just has to deal with it.” He gives my mom an apologetic look, but she just beams right back at him. “You, my son, don’t have that luxury. You need to figure out what you plan on doing with your life.”
I drag my hand down my face. Why is that something parents always want for their kids? For them to “figure” out their life? Why can’t we just go through trial and error as the years pass, never really figuring out anything, but just going with the ebbs and flows of life?
And who’s to say I’m not content right now.
Maybe I don’t want to “figure” things out.
Maybe I want to stay permanently in the rut that I’m living in.
Perhaps I am content . . .
I think we all know that’s a bald-faced lie. Divorced in my twenties, working a job I hate, spending Friday nights with my aging parents . . . not sure many would be content with that kind of life.
But I can’t possibly understand what my parents mean by “have fun,” or what that entails.
“So, what do you want to do? Take me out? Be my wingmen?” I ask sarcastically.
My mom’s eyes light up.
Oh fuck.
That was a mistake.
“I didn’t mean—”
“That’s a wonderful idea.” Mom claps her hands. “We should take him out, help him score with the ladies.” The sincerity in my mom’s voice is the most startling part about what she said. We’re the type of family where teasing is the norm. We joke around, lay down light jabs in a loving manner here and there, and my mom is an enthusiastic participant from time to time.
But she’s being serious. She actually wants to help me “score with the ladies.”
“Okay, no, that’s not—”
“Martin, go put on your conversational Christmas sweater and those plaid pants you love wearing with it.”
“God, no, Mom.”
Mom stands from the couch, hands clutched in front of her. All sanity was washed away with one sip of her cider. “I shall go and retrieve my Christmas vest, the one with the bells that you know I enjoy jingling.” She checks her watch. “Oooh, we will need to pack an overnight bag to stay at Cooper’s for the night, because the ferry won’t run again until the morning. Don’t worry though, sweetie—if you decide to bring a woman home, we can figure something out so you have privacy.”
Fucking . . . hell.
“Chop-chop, Martin.”
For some godforsaken reason, Dad must think this is a good idea, because without another word, he rises from his seat on the couch and heads up the stairs, Mom trailing after him.
“Wait . . . Mom.” But it’s too late; they ignore me as they retreat to their room to put on their Christmas garb.
What in the hell just happened?
How did I go from peacefully sitting on my parents’ couch to going out with them? I think they’ve lost their minds, because there is no way in hell I’m letting this happen. I’m putting a stop to it before they set foot outside this house. My parents will not be attempting to take me out so they can act as my wingmen.
Over my dead body.
“I think I’m having heart palpitations from excitement,” Mom says, giving my hand a squeeze as the ferry pulls into Elliott Bay.
“You know, I’m never one to insert myself into my children’s lives”—insert sarcastic cough here—“but I would have to agree with you, Peggy. I’m quite excited about scouting out a nice girl for our Cooper.”
Sandwiched between my parents on the ferry’s blue fiberglass bench, I stare at the dark water in front of me rolling and dipping just like my stomach. But unlike nausea that can be tamped down by some Dramamine, there unfortunately isn’t a sedative big enough to tamp down the wild ideas coming from Peggy and Martin Chance.
I hate to admit it, because I prefer to say I have control over most situations, but my parents’ little plan came together fast, too fast—there was no controlling it.
Before I knew it, Dad had on his “Christmas conversational sweater” and plaid pants, and Mom was jingling her “bells” at me as we headed out the door. I attempted to dig my feet into the ground as they pulled on my arms, but one trip on the sidewalk from my dad, saved by their carry-on suitcase, had me easing up.
Now I’m dreading what this evening has in store. They asked for some bar suggestions, and instead of giving them the bars I actually like to frequent, I told them the Dirty Beaver was a top-notch choice. I was kidding.
But guess who looks past sarcasm when they’re too excited?
My mother.
She said the Dirty Beaver sounded like the perfect place to find a “companion.”
I beg to differ.
No one finds companionship at the Dirty Beaver, just some questionable nachos and a possible staph infection.
“Oh, honey, this could be it—this night could change your life,” Mom coos.
“Yup, it will change it all right, into deeply emotionally scarred memories I won’t ever be able to get over.”
“I see that you’ve picked up your mother’s flair for dramatics,” Dad says. “How about this—instead of focusing on what could possibly go wrong with this night, tell us something positive, something else that’s happening in your life that brings you joy. We need to get you in the right frame of mind.”
Something positive . . . well, I do have something to tell them, something I’ve been working on for a bit now and that I haven’t told anyone. Maybe my news will make them think I’m not a total loser.
“I signed up for some classes at the local community college.”
“What?” they say at the same time, turning toward me.
I nod, staring down at my hands. “I’ve been tinkering around with Procreate on my tablet at night, just something mindless to do, and I started to realize that I’m pretty good at it. I thought that digital art might be something I could, you know, get into.”
“Seriously?” Dad asks, completely facing me now. “Do you have any of your work with you that we can see?”
Excitement blooms in my stomach as I grab my phone from my pocket and flip through my photos until I find some of the simple mountain designs that I’ve been working on. I’m surprised at how excited I am as I hand my phone over to Dad. He holds the phone an arm’s length away, just enough to be able to see it without his glasses.
“Wow, Cooper, you drew this?” When I nod, he blows out a low whistle. “This is really good, son.”