“Ahh, now I understand a comment you made... before.” From his sheepish look, I know he means the Night That Must Not Be Named. “When you said you knew better than to hope for things that aren’t going to happen. I... wasn’t sure what you were referring to.”
I open my mouth, then close it. I’m feeling the strangest compulsion to keep talking, to say things I’ve never said aloud. What I was once desperate to keep from him, I’m now desperate to divulge.
What is happening to me?
“What is it?”
He’s watching me so closely, and with so much concern, I have to look away.
“Tell me.”
It’s his voice, so steady and authoritative, that pushes me over the cliff.
“I used to think my dad would come back. I had this whole fantasy scenario in my head where he would finish college and come home and say he did it all for us. And then when that didn’t happen, I thought once he made some money, he’d come back andthenwe’d be a family.”
I’m zoning out as I talk and suddenly I’m seven years old again, a lonely kid crying in her bed, wishing her daddy would come in and kiss her good night. Behaving like a perfect angel at school because surely ifshe’s polite and obedient, he’ll want to come back. Wishing on every set of birthday candles for her dad to come home. Praying at church, harder than any kid should ever be praying, for God to just send her dad back.
When I come to, I realize I’m crying. I brush the tears away with the back of my hand.
“I even picked North Carolina for college because I thought living closer to him would... Actually, I don’t know what I thought it would do. Isn’t that pathetic?” I laugh bitterly. “Anyway, spoiler alert: He didn’t come back. He married Melanie ten years ago and started poppin’ out some babies. My new siblings. So, do-over! New family. Looks like he got the one he wanted this time.”
When I brave a glance at Ben, he looks so startled that I’m instantly mortified. I’ve said way too much. He had no idea his questions would rip the Band-Aid off a decades-old wound.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I love my little sisters. I don’t know...”
“You don’t need to apologize,” he assures me.
“No, I shouldn’t be complaining. I sound ungrateful and, really, I’m not. God knows my mom could have made a different choice. And I had two sets of grandparents helping. I had authority figures coming out of my ears! There are so many people who have it worse than I did.”
He looks almost angry. “Would you stop trying to brush this off? Ofcourseyou can complain. Everyone deserves two parents.”
It could be the way he says it, so matter-of-fact and sure, or maybe it’s that he’s giving me permission to do something I never do. Whatever the reason, the floodgates open and I break down completely. And these aren’t dainty lady tears. This is ugly crying.
When he sees my face crumple, his eyes widen in that panicked look all men get when any female within a ten-foot radius is crying. He springs from his chair and kneels beside me, pulling me into a hug.
And I let him.
He strokes my hair while I bury my face in his shoulder and fall apart. He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’tshushme or tell me it’s going to be okay; he doesn’t offer advice like men are so wont to do. He just lets me cry. He’s justthere.
When I start to wind down, embarrassment taking the place of heartache, he pulls back, giving me a tentative smile. He passes me my napkin, and when I pull it away from my face, it’s streaked with mascara.
“I’m ruining your napkin,” I say between shuddery breaths. “And it’s so nice that you have them. I’m sorry.”
“I can wash it.”
“And I made a mess of your shirt.”
“Fuck the shirt.”
I laugh in spite of myself, then swipe under my eyes again, likely in vain. I am not a pretty crier. I don’t need a mirror to tell me I look awful, all red and blotchy.
“Aren’t you so glad you asked that question? Hot Mess Express over here,” I say, trying to make light of yet another cringe-worthy breakdown Ben’s witnessed.
“Honestly? Iamglad I asked because it explains a lot about you. But I’m sorry I upset you.”
I wave away his apology. How can I tell him I’mgladhe pushed me? It’s been a long time since I’ve talked to anyone about my dad—years, maybe—and it’s cathartic. All this time I’ve been keeping things from Ben, I never would have guessed he was the one I should have confided in all along.
He goes quiet and I register just how close we are, his face level with mine, his hand resting protectively on the small of my back. I can’t help but think how easy it would be to lean forward and kiss him.
