Leslie continues talking. "My parents always put a tremendous amount of pressure on Meri and me, but it wasn't just them, you know? We lived in the suburban midwest. That means the majority of our peers looked a lot more like my mom than my dad. It also meant that I felt like I had a lot more to prove because I looked more like my dad."
"I'm sure this was tough." I don't know what else to say.
"You know, it was never something I thought about myself. I was just me. Mom is Mom and Dad is Dad. They're from different cultures, but it's not like I know anything different. What about your parents? Are they from similar backgrounds?"
The moment she mentions my parents—using present tense—it's like the world stops. Usually I know a conversation is going in this direction and I can mentally prepare. I thought we were going to get into a deep discussion about race. Instead, I'm now blindsided by all the feelings I don't want to have.
Even after all these years, the anger is still raw. The injustice of it all. The fact that I can't call my dad to tell him that I finally finished my show, and that people are actually interested in hearing some of it. Or that I can't call my mom to tell her that I was hanging out with the Sassy Cats. She loved them. I can still see her, driving me around in her Honda Odyssey, dancing behind the wheel to "Here Kitty Kitty."
It's not fair.
But Leslie doesn't know this. Of course, she doesn't, because how would she?
And then, my anger goes directly to her.
She should know.
"I don't want to talk about it," I say gruffly. If I say anything else, I'm bound to explode. Quickening my pace, I pull ahead of her.
"Wait, Josh!" she calls. I keep walking. I bound up the stairs, two at a time in an effort to beat a hasty retreat to my room. Once behind the closed door, I ball my hands into fists and press them into my eyes.
Every so often the grief overcomes me. This is one of those moments.
Flopping on my bed, I pick up my phone to text my sister. Kim's probably the only one who can relate.
She doesn't reply. I can't expect her to. It's after two a.m. I'm sure she's sleeping. She's got a baby, so it's not like she's out all night.
I jump when my phone pings. It's a hug emoji.
I hug the phone tightly to my chest, wishing I could hug my mom one more time.
In the morning, I wake up still clutching my phone. The ache is still there, but the rage is gone. At least for now. I'm afraid it'll come back when I see Leslie again.
I need to tell her.
We've got one more show to get through this afternoon, and then Leslie's gone for a bit. She'll be back to work onAn American in Paris, but I won't have to spend the kind of time with her that I did on this project.
That's good because if I don't have to be around her, I don't actually have to tell her.
I hate telling people about my parents. The looks of pity make me want to punch something, and I'm totally not a violent guy. But also, it makes me relive it every single time.
Once was enough, thank you very much.
I wait until the last possible minute to go in and grab breakfast. Of course, the dining room is still full. The cast is sluggish, and I see more than one person who looks as if they are nursing a hangover.
Hangover.
I think Leslie was a bit drunk herself last night, from the way she tripped, to how she fell asleep on me. Maybe she won't even remember any of it. Then I won't have to tell her. We won't have to talk about those moments lying on the ground and how I wanted to kiss her.
Damn, I'm glad I didn't.
Even if she remembers, I only have to deal with her today before she leaves for a month. I'm sure she will forget me in that time. It only took her a day the last time, and we were much closer then.
All I need is a cup of coffee and then I'll slink over to the rehearsal room.
"Hey." Her voice is soft behind me. I close my eyes for a second, trying to will my face into a neutral expression. "You okay? Things got weird last night."
I turn to face Leslie, trying not to spill my hot coffee. "Sure. Fine. Gotta run. I'm late."
