“Okay,” I say. Because there is no other available word.
“Okay. Good.”
And then his voice shifts. “Aspen.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m proud of you.”
I stop breathing.
He has never said that to me. Not once, not after the internship, not after I got into Camden U, not after a single report I’ve ever stayed up until two in the morning to make perfect for him. I’m proud of you. And I’ve got it, finally, at last, for a boyfriend who is not real, for a relationship that is made of nothing, for a lie I told in a kitchen because I couldn’t stand to be near my own past for one more second.
The first time my father tells me he’s proud of me, it isn’t for anything I am.
It’s because ofhim.
“Okay, Dad,” I manage to say.
“Tell him your mother’s making the brisket.”
“Okay.”
“I love you, kid.”
“Love you too, Dad.”
He hangs up.
Another tear slides out, and I quickly wipe it away. I can’t believe that my father has beenwaitingmy entire life for what I manufactured in a panic on a Saturday night. I can’t tell him the truth, and I sit with the fact that Gavin Carroll opened his big mouth the second he could, and it got to my dad that fast.
I cannot back out now.
My dad’s expecting Thanksgiving together.
Stanley cannot back out.
The lie just bought itself a plane ticket, a place setting, and a pan of brisket.
I pick up my phone and open the thread with Ermington.
Me: We have a problem.
It delivers, and I watch the screen. The dots come up almost immediately, and I inhale while I wait.
Ermington: Linwood, we have several problems. Be more specific.
I almost laugh. I make very sure I don’t.
Me: My father invited you to Thanksgiving.
The dots appear. Vanish. Come back. Vanish.
A long pause.
Ermington: When’s Thanksgiving?
Me: Thursday.
