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“Yeah, I can see how it could. I’ve never had any, either.” He props his elbows on the table. “So were you glad you went, in the end?”
“Yeah.” I pause to take a sip of my Coke that the waitress just delivered. “I ended up talking about my dad, which I didn’t expect at all.”
“Why not?”
“It’s just such old history. I thought I was over it.”
Mike tilts his head, his expression all sympathy. “Over what?”
“Just… the rejection, I suppose.” My throat is getting tight again and I take another sip of Coke to ease it. “He asked me to leave home when I was eighteen.”
“That’s tough.” Mike doesn’t sound surprised, though, and I wonder if he has a similar story with his own dad. “How come?”
Haltingly, painfully, I tell him about my mother leaving, the DUI,
the way my life fell to pieces all around me, and how my dad seemed indifferent to it all, to me. In the nine years since I’ve left home, I’ve seen him three times—once early on, to get my stuff when I was moving into Marco’s, once when Dylan was born, and a last-ditch effort when Dylan was four. Each time, my dad acted as if he couldn’t care less.
“I really did think I was over it,” I tell Mike. “He’s a jerk, I get that. It shouldn’t hurt, but it does.” I try to smile but sniff instead, and Mike reaches over and holds my hand. It feels both weird and right, and I don’t want him to let go.
A few minutes later, the waitress comes to take our order, and we agree to split a medium buffalo chicken, which is both of our favorite pizza topping. After she leaves, the intensity has thankfully broken, and I’ve avoided crying, which is definitely a good thing.
“Anyway, that was all a long time ago,” I say in the tone of someone who is finishing a conversation. “What about you? Are you close to your family?”
“My mom, yeah.” Mike picks at the peeling corner of the laminated menu. “My dad walked out when I was nine.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
He shrugs. “I didn’t mind so much. He wasn’t a great guy, you know?” His mouth twists and he looks away.
“Still, it’s hard. My dad isn’t that great a guy, at least I don’t think he is. But I’ve still wanted him to love me.” It’s basically what Anna said to me earlier, and I realized how true it was.
“Yeah.” He sighs. “I guess so. I didn’t really want him to stick around, because he had a hell of a temper, but I didn’t want him to want to go, if that makes sense.”
“It does.” I almost reach for his hand again, but I’m not quite brave enough.
“Have you seen Dylan recently?” he asks and I tense right up. It was actually kind of nice, not to think about Dylan for a little while. To think about myself not in relation to my son, which is something I hardly ever do. The realization makes guilt trickle through me like acid. “I saw him on Tuesday.” I pause and then blurt recklessly, not sure if I want to ask and really not sure if I want him to answer, “Do you think… do you think I’m too intense?”
Mike stares at me blankly. “Too intense?”
“With Dylan.” He doesn’t say anything and I explain, “Susan—the caseworker—suggested I was. I’m not even sure what she meant.” Mike remains silent and I start to feel uneasy. “Do you think I am?”
Mike rubs his neck. A frisson of fear runs through me like a shiver.
“Mike?”
“I haven’t seen you together enough really to know if you are or not.” Which is not an answer.
“I’ve come into the store several times a week for four years, always with Dylan. The truth is, you know me—us—better than just about anyone.” Better even than Susan, maybe, which is a strange thought. “So?” I ask, a truculent note entering my voice. “What do you think? Am I?”
“Beth…”
“Mike.”
“Maybe, a little?” He gives me a sheepish and unhappy look. “I mean, not in a bad way. I don’t mean in a bad way at all.”
I take a sip of my Coke, trying to compose myself. “So what do you mean, then?” I ask when I trust my voice to sound steady. I feel unaccountably hurt, and I don’t want to show it.
“Just that… whenever the two of you came into the store… it was clear you only had each other.”
