Of course not. Fake dates and dry runs don’t include humping on her couch for a few hours after the fact. Get a serious grip here, asshole.
That’s right. I am an asshole. I called myself an asshole all night, and I’m starting to realize that even in the light of morning, I’m still an asshole. Maybe if I hadn’t acted like an asshole for so many years, I wouldn’t be here now.
The windshield finally clears off, along with the windows. I put the car in reverse and back down the driveway. When I hit the street, I turn on the music, which is paired with my phone. It’s Sunday, and normally that means game day somewhere, a few beers here or there, or good BBQ, but I don’t currently feel like doing any of those. I do want to talk to someone—if just to work through my confusion and frustration—but there isn’t a single person I can think of who I’d actually want to do some serious unburdening to, which says a lot about me and my current choices over the years.
Actually, I can think of one person, but she’s off-limits. Totally off-limits.
What did Rowan say to me last night? Right. That I’m basically an immature trash can with a pile of rotting garbage—like garbage in the summer heat. It pissed me off to hear that last night, but after a night of unfortunate soul searching that I should have followed up with a cold shower to show my dick who’s boss, I can see how the things she said to me might have some merit.
Instead of hitting up a coffee shop, I find myself en route to my parent’s house. It might be lame to unburden myself to my dad, but I happen to know my mom has a crocheting circle with her friends on Sunday mornings every week. My dad does all his errands on Saturday, so Sunday morning, he saves for doing absolutely nothing.
We’re not one of those families who knocks. I know the passcode for the door, so I let myself in. I find Dad in the living room in front of the TV, enjoying what is probably his eighth cup of coffee for the morning, and it’s just past ten.
Dad always did get up early, even on the weekends.
Neither of us says anything when I walk into the room and sit down on the other end of the couch. It’s leather, but it’s well-worn in and comfortable now. I wait. Dad waits. I wait some more. Finally, Dad sighs.
“Do you want a cup of coffee?”
I already know what’s coming, but I play along anyway. “Sure.”
“Kitchen’s that way,” Dad points. “Help yourself.”
This is an old joke between us. My dad stopped doing things for me around the house when I was about twelve and was old enough to learn how to put my own dishes in the dishwasher and pack my own lunch. The same went for coffee. If I wanted it, I could make it for myself.
I nod and plod into the kitchen. My parents are old-school and have a regular coffee maker. I think it cost twelve dollars when it was new, and they’ve had it for somewhere right around five hundred and forty-two years. The coffee is still hot, so I help myself to a cup and add a splash of cream and indulge in the sugar since there’s a bowl full of it on the counter. The bowl is also about five hundred years old. I think it actually belonged to my grandma. It’s made from extremely fancy crystal, and it is heavy enough that if it got thrown at someone, it would probably cause some first-rate damage.
It was actually my contingency plan as a teenager in case someone ever broke in. True story. You can’t make this shit up.
I take my coffee and join my dad back in the living room. He’s watching the news, but the TV is on silent. Probably because it’s his third or fourth go of the same broadcast. I stare vacantly at the TV. Another few minutes of silence that isn’t strained or awkward goes by. It’s just silent. I’m used to that with Dad. He’s always been like this—quiet and thoughtful. Mom is boisterous and loud enough for us both.
“Cliff,” Dad starts. He trails off, but I know he’s going to restart. He always does. “You know that I—that this—I support your mother in her decisions. We both talked about this. I just—we’re worried about you, that’s all. We really do want you to be happy.”
I seem to have matured a little in the past forty-eight hours and after two technically failed dates, because I don’t respond with something biting or snarky like I did before. I don’t challenge him about how their definition of happiness differs from my own. I don’t accuse him of ruining my life or tell him that threatening to cut me off from the company is bullshit.
“Yeah.” I sip my coffee. My parents might have a cheap coffee maker, but my mom buys this fair trade coffee that is dark and delicious with notes of caramel. “I know.”
Dad’s head cranks around with an audible crunch of vertebrae and whatever else that didn’t get stretched out yet this morning. “You know?” It doesn’t make me look or feel very good when I hear the clear astonishment in his tone.
“Really.” I nod slowly. “I don’t know if this will work. I’m actually pretty sure it won’t, and not just because I’m apparently hopeless, but I get it.”
“Your mother thought you wouldn’t listen or take her seriously if she didn’t lay down the law.”
“I get that. I wouldn’t have. She’s only been telling me to settle down since I was eighteen.”
“I think she started after you were done with college, to be fair.”
“True. You’re right.”
“Anyway.” Dad sighs and takes a sip of coffee. “I just wanted to make sure you’re alright.”
“I think so.”
“She doesn’t expect you to just pick someone and get married. She just wanted to—uh—shake things up a little.”
“She definitely shook it.”
“She thinks you have a negative view about marriage that isn’t exactly, well… fair or right.”
“I know.”
“She wants to see you take responsibility for your own life.”
“I do have a job. I am good at it. I did go to college. It’s not like you guys just handed me a position at the company.” I hate that Rowan pretty much said the same thing to me. She assumed I was spoiled and called me entitled even though my parents have taken care never to treat me that way. I had to earn everything, just like everyone else.
“Yes. That’s not exactly what she meant.”
“I think she has this image that I enjoy not fulfilling her desire for grandchildren. Or that I’m always going out with guy friends and doing dumb things because I went to one—seriously, just one—stag in Vegas months ago. Just because I don’t date doesn’t mean I don’t believe in relationships or marriage. I just haven’t found someone I want to put in the time with. She knows that, doesn’t she?”
When Dad doesn’t respond, I bite down hard on my bottom lip. I take another sip of coffee and allow the sweeter notes to play over my tongue. Maybe she doesn’t know.
“She just saw you in this rut…” Dad trails off. He’s clearly embarrassed.
It makes me wonder how many conversations they’ve had about me and my ruts. And how many might have involved Amy’s name. Jesus. How pathetic do they actually think I am? How much truth is there in that patheticness? A few days ago, I would have denied it completely.
But now…