"Venues," my mom repeats.
"For the wedding," Naomi says, touching her ring. “We’re getting married soon. Spring, I’m hoping.”
She gives my dad a look that’s so packed with longing and love that I don’t quite know how to respond. I know Naomi; she might be a gold-digger, but an actress she is not.
The table goes quiet for approximately three seconds. My mom takes a sip of wine. "How lovely," she says, in a tone that means nothing of the sort.
Mollie turns to my dad. "Where are you thinking? Seattle has some beautiful options. The waterfront is obviously gorgeous, but there are some incredible vineyard venues about an hour outside the city if you want something more private."
My dad blinks, surprised, I think, by her support. "We haven't gotten that far yet."
"Fair enough." She grabs her wine glass. "This is a Bordeaux, right? I don’t know much about wine.”
My mom leans in, engaged. “No? I’m something of a connoisseur myself.”
And just like that, the moment passes. I stare at the side of Mollie’s face. She doesn't look at me, just nods at what my mom says. Naomi seems content to nurse her wine and listen.
Then my dad asks about the preseason, starting a conversation with me for a bit. My mom asks Naomi how she and my dad met, which is either genuine curiosity or an act of psychological warfare. Naomi answers with the cheerful obliviousness of someone who has never once considered that this dinner might be complicated. My dad fills in the parts she leaves out; the weather the day that they met that caused her to be without a jacket in the cold, details about the dive barthey went to in order to ride out the storm. If it was anyone else, I’d find their story charming.
Dad corrects her gently, looking at her while he talks about her rather than at the rest of us. Like she's actually the point of the story.
I look at my wineglass because it’s pretty uncomfortable.
Mollie asks my dad about the foundation banquet, what the scholarship criteria are, whether there's an application process or a nomination process. And he tells her.
He tells her more than I've heard him say about anything in years, actually, warming to the subject the way he warms to anything that involves his legacy. Mollie is smart; she asks the right questions, keeps him talking. He ends up dithering about a kid from Tacoma who got a scholarship three years ago and just got drafted.
And he smiles. He fucking smiles. He looks proud. Not of himself, but of this kid from Tacoma. Where the fuck was this pride when I was growing up?
To keep myself from blurting out that question, I pick up my wine and drink. The food comes and it’s perfect, the bouillabaisse excellent, the crusty French bread served on the side fresh out of the oven.
We leave on a good note, which is not something I had anywhere in my expectations for this evening. My dad claps my shoulder outside the restaurant, genuine rather than performative. Naomi hugs my mom, which my mom accepts with admirable composure. Then theyget in their car and we get in mine and I pull out of the lot in silence.
My mom holds it together for approximately four blocks. “Well,” she huffs. “I think aliens might have abducted your father and left this… thispod personin his place.”
Her voice wobbles, a sure sign of an impending crash out.
“He’s mellowed with age,” I say. Instantly, I hate that I just defended him. He was a real piece of shit to Mom when I was a kid.
"This Naomi is very young," she says from the back seat. “She makes him look like a fossil.”
"Mom." I grind my teeth. “Don’t do that thing where you expect me to answer for Dad. If I knew what was going on in his head, my life would have turned out better.”
"I know. I know. I'm not going to say anything else about it." A pause. "She seems to make him happy."
"Yeah."
Another pause, longer. Then, very quietly, "He never looked at me like that."
Mollie turns in the passenger seat and reaches back to touch my mom's hand. "Amanda. You don't have to be okay with it tonight."
My mom makes a small sound that she covers quickly. Then she unravels, crying that turns into sobbing.
I knew it. IknewI was going to have to deal with this.
I stare at the road and run through the mental checklist I've been running since I was twelve. What she needs, practically, right now. Does she want to talk? Maybe Mom wants quiet. Will more wine be the answer? Or maybe she just wants to sleep.
"I can take you back to the house," I say. "Or I can find you a hotel closer to the pier if you'd rather not be?—"
