Candice finds another musical to watch in the living room, so I join her.
It’s not a bad day. Candice and I might not be close, but we’re getting along fine so far. I enjoy sightseeing and museums, and being in a city like Rome is new and exciting. If this is what the job will entail, then it will be the easiest and best money I’ve ever earned in my life.
I go to bed fairly early, pleased about the day, and I sleep in until almost eight the next morning.
The next few days follow in a similar manner. Candice and I leave midmorning, do one site or museum, have lunch at whatever café or restaurant catches her interest, and then wander around a bit before we return in the mid to late afternoon. I’ll make dinner for the three of us. Then Hugh works while Candice and I watch a musical.
It’s working for us, so there’s no reason to change it.
On Friday, Candice and I go to tour the Vatican and see the Sistine Chapel. She wants to stay there longer than normal and then seems tired, so we return to the apartment right after a late lunch.
She disappears into her room like normal. I’m pretty sure all she does in there is lie on her bed and look at stuff on her phone, but that’s got to be fairly typical for a teenage girl.
I’ve had a good week and have no complaints or major worries, but I feel kind of lonely and restless as I putter around the apartment for a longer afternoon.
I’m used to working most of the time. Doing my job at the bookstore, completing my schoolwork, trudging through housework, or making half-hearted efforts to exercise. I rarely have this much time to lie around with nothing but myself to occupy my attention.
I call my parents and then my sister and then Giselle, who’s excited to hear how the week has gone and sounds pleased with how relaxed and smoothly the job is going for me.
Evidently, during the first week of her extended job with her now-husband, Steve, she’d already had a couple of emotional breakdowns.
From what she’s told me, it’s obvious that Steve was already all the way into her from that very first week, even though she wasn’t aware of it at the time, so it’s completely different from this job.
Hugh isn’t into me. He’s always perfectly polite, but he’d much rather work alone in his bedroom than hang out with me.
If he wasn’t working, he’d be spending time with his daughter. And that’s exactly as it should be.
I’ve never been a dedicated chef, but cooking dinner has given me something worthwhile to do with myself in the late afternoons. I’ve actually been enjoying it, so today I work on roasted chicken and vegetables.
Hugh comes home like normal just after six thirty. His office is only a few blocks away, and I’m pretty sure he leaves at exactly six thirty every day because he arrives back at the apartment at the same time.
Candice seems kind of tired and droopy, and she isn’t as responsive to her father’s attempts at conversation as normal. I fill in the gaps as much as I can, providing details on what we did today.
If I were Hugh, I’d back off for a while, since Candice clearly isn’t the mood to chat, but he continues his normal pattern of conversation, repeatedly asking her questions when she provides only one-word answers.
I spent most of the day with Candice, but I don’t actually know what’s wrong. She seemed tired but in a decent mood earlier.
Maybe something happened over text this afternoon between her and her father. I can’t think of any other reason her mood would have declined to such an extent.
As the meal goes on, I get more and more uncomfortable. I’ve always been a conflict-avoider. It’s one of the reasons I stayed married to Nick for far longer than I should have. And I can sense both Hugh and Candice becoming annoyed and frustrated even before it’s reflecting in either of their expressions.
It’s been such a nice, low-key week. I hate for it to fall apart just before the weekend.
Twice, I attempt to introduce another topic of conversation, hoping Hugh will get diverted by talking to me instead of pushing Candice. But he won’t stay distracted for long. He keeps trying to pull her into the conversation.
A perfectly reasonable thing to do but often ineffective when dealing with a teenager.
He knows her better than I do, so maybe I’m wrong.
But I don’t think I am.
I can see an argument spiraling out of this conversation, so I’m not a bit surprised when Candice finally snaps.
“What does it matter?” she bursts out in response to Hugh’s renewed questioning about her impressions of Michelangelo’s art. “You don’t give a fuck about me anyway!”
Candice hasn’t used language any stronger than “damn” in this past week, so her outburst makes me blink.
It clearly does Hugh as well. He stares at her without moving for a long moment before he says quietly, “You know that’s not true.”
I don’t know if Candice is embarrassed or trapped by the obvious truth of Hugh’s comment or just wants out of the conversation. She focuses down on her plate and doesn’t say anything.
“I told you we could make a trip out to Tuscany next weekend. I can’t do it this weekend.” Hugh’s still talking in that soft, careful voice.
So that’s what happened over text this afternoon. Candice must have texted her dad, asking about making the weekend trip, and he had to tell her no.
It’s understandable that she’s upset and also understandable that Hugh couldn’t accommodate a last-minute whim.
When she doesn’t reply, Hugh prompts, “Candice?”
“I heard you!”
“Then answer me when I say something to you.”
“Why bother? It’s not like you listen to me anyway!”
My chest clenches. My stomach twists. I’m intruding in a private family moment just by the fact of being seated at the table. Since everyone is finished anyway, I get up and start clearing the dishes, mostly to remove myself from the vicinity of the conversation.
I can still hear everything that’s said because the kitchen is divided from the dining area only by the granite-topped island.
“I do listen. I listen to everything you tell me.” Hugh’s still managing an impressively composed tone. “You don’t always tell me things. Is there some reason the trip this weekend and not next weekend is so important to you?”
Candice mumbles, “It just is.”
“Why?”
I want to jump in and fix this. It’s so obvious to me that Candice wants to feel she’s a priority to her father—even over his work. She is. He loves her more than anything. So all he needs to do is make a focused attempt to make sure she sees it.
There are no irreconcilable differences between them. They love each other so much.
I wish it was my place to help them break through an unnecessary stalemate, but all I can do is rinse the dishes with my back to them so they don’t think I’m intruding.
“It doesn’t matter,” Candice says in that same slightly pouty mumble.
“Candice.”
“It doesn’t matter!” This time the words burst out loudly as she jumps up and runs down the hall to her room.
I turn around from the sink, a wet plate in my hands. Hugh is still sitting frozen at the table, staring in the direction his daughter ran.
His expression is still perfectly composed and his posture upright, but for some reason he looks exhausted. Defeated. His jaw is darkened with a day’s worth of stubble. His eyes look almost green beneath heavy lids. He’s still wearing the dress shirt he wore today with a suit, but he’s taken off the jacket and loosened his tie.