“Hi, Brad.”
“Hi, Lacie,” Brad replies.
There’s not much more to say, and we all stand awkwardly for a moment. I don’t know what I expected but this isn’t it.
“Okay, we’re leaving.” I grab my purse.
“Bye, Mom.” Lacie turns and puts the phone to her ear. “It’s my mom’s boyfriend.”
“Bye.” Luke raises his hand again without taking his eyes from the TV screen.
“Remember to do your homework and chores and clean up the kitchen,” I call out as I pull the door closed behind us with embarrassment.
I have no illusions that they’ll listen, and a tiny shred of guilt tugs at me. How do I balance my responsibilities as a parent with the essential respite from those responsibilities? I remind myself that it’s not all selfish. I’m investing in our future, our future as a family.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “They can be rude.”
I wait for Brad to take off running as we descend the cement steps from the second floor. I wouldn’t blame him. I often feel the urge to run away myself. Though I love my kids more than anything in the world, their ungrateful attitudes and the relentless uphill battle of my life often overwhelm me.
“They’re not rude. They’re teenagers,” Brad says.
“I guess that’s true.”
His comment pacifies me. He doesn’t even have kids of his own and he understands this.
“My parents had to deal with three boys. We were a real handful, awful sometimes,” he adds with a grin.
“You were?”
I smile as I try to picture Brad as a little scamp, tagging after his older brothers, causing mayhem in the household, exasperating their parents. I stop on the steps and fumble in my purse for my sunglasses.
“I’ll tell you what.” He stops on the bottom step and looks up at me. “I can put them to work next weekend. It’ll get them out of the house, and they can earn a little money.”
“That’d be awesome,” I say with delight. “Doing what?”
He shrugs as we walk toward the car across the rough asphalt. A boy sails by us on a skateboard, and my neighbor waves as she drops a bag of garbage in the big dumpster. Someone is barbequing on their balcony, and kids dart past us shrieking.
Brad holds open the passenger door, and I slide in arranging myself on the sun-warmed seat placing my purse by my feet on the floor. He patiently waits until I’m settled before he swings the door shut. He has impeccable manners. My kids could learn from him.
Once we’re ensconced in the quiet cocoon of the car, he turns to me to respond. “I have a little bit of landscaping at the house. Just some weeding and mowing, and I was thinking of putting in some plants along the front. I could use the help. Do you think they’d be interested?”
“They will if you pay them,” I answer enthusiastically.
I’m not quite certain, but it demonstrates his sincere effort to get to know my kids. Another crucial layer in the foundation of our relationship.
“Thanks, Brad.”
“No problem. It’ll be nice to have the help.”
“Maybe we can all go out to dinner after,” I casually suggest as he starts the car. I’d like for my kids to experience an upscale restaurant.
“Whoa.” Brad laughs. “They might not like me by the end of the day. One step at a time, V.” He pats my leg and carefully drives through the long parking lot avoiding kids riding bikes.
He navigates the busy Saturday traffic to a favorite restaurant close to the movie theatre. I’m hungry and can’t wait to get a glass of wine to unwind after the stress of the week. I marvel that Brad is still living up to my idealistic image. So far, my kids haven’t scared him off, and the unpleasant meeting with his parents hasn’t affected our relationship as I’d feared. I have more faith than ever that this will work out long term. My doubts have been wrong. Marcy is wrong. Despite everything, our relationship is strong, and now he’s making an effort with my kids. Things are going in the right direction.
I take off my sunglasses and put on my other glasses before we enter the soft lighting and low din of the restaurant. Enticing aromas waft between the tables as we weave our way through the crowded room behind the waiter. I feel a little pang of envy at all the families seated together and feel bad leaving my kids at home. Nevertheless, I’m sure they don’t mind the freedom. Besides, they get to eat pizza or fast food, which I don’t let them eat any other time.
Brad always selects the wine. I know nothing about wine, but he’s noted I prefer the sweeter wines, and he orders them for me. I sip from my glass, though I’d rather have a mixed drink. The wine sends a soothing current through me that is the prelude to an evening that will be filled with sensations. A basket of bread is delivered to our table, and Brad waits while I tear off a piece that I dip in the little white bowl of garlic and olive oil before I take a bite.
He knows this is my favorite restaurant, and I order my usual meal of pasta primavera. The vegetables are tangy fresh and the sauce is rich and creamy, and I always have leftovers to bring to work for lunch. I’ve grown accustomed to the familiar sounds of clinking glasses and muted conversations that envelop us in this world of superb foods and diligent wait staff. I’ve grown accustomed to the waiter holding out my chair and draping my cloth napkin over my lap and hovering to refill my wine glass. I like being pampered and spoiled for a change. I like being the one waited on instead of the other way around, but I feel like a visitor to this world when I’d rather be a permanent resident.
After we’ve ordered, Brad looks at me with a strange expression. I can’t read it. He looks ill at ease as if he’s about to deliver bad news. My stomach tightens ready for the blow.
“I have to tell you something,” he states and pauses looking around the room as if hoping something will interrupt this obligation.
“What is it?”
Anxious thoughts quiver in my head. Is he going to break up with me? No, why would he offer to put my kids to work if he’s going to break up with me? Is he sick? Is he moving away? What could this terrible news be? I begin to tremble.
“I feel really bad about this, V.” He leans toward me as if revealing a secret. “You know my birthday is coming up.”
“Yes.”
I’ve been wracking my brain about what to get him. He buys himself anything he wants. What could I possibly come up with? It’s been driving me nuts.
He takes a sip of wine and looks around the room again. It’s not like him to procrastinate.
“Tell me already.”
I can’t stand the anticipation. I take a gulp of wine. Have his parents demanded he break up with me? I wouldn’t be surprised, and I probably wouldn’t blame them. Maybe he’s come to the rational conclusion that we don’t belong together. Why does there always have to be an obstacle to happiness? Whatever it is, I prepare to debate it. If I can just find the right words, the right logical argument, I can persuade him.
“My parents are throwing me a birthday party. You know, mostly their friends and…” He clears his throat. “It’s not about me. It’s all about what they want, and since I rely on them financially for my business…”