“So… I win.”
“You know you can eat melted butter on its own, right? It’s not recommended, but—” He shrugs, but I note that he eats all of his meal, both the surf and the turf.
When we’re done with our food, Alex says, “I promised you my family issues. Earlier.”
“You don’t have to—” I start, but he’s already going.
“One of three kids. My sister’s cool, but my brother takes after my father. Which means nothing to you, but—”
“You really don’t owe me anything,” I insist, knowing somehow that he’s about to drop an emotional bomb on the table, and he’ll expect me to handle it delicately.
I don’t do delicate.
“My father left when I was eight.”
And there’s the bomb.
I stare at him, shocked. None of the biographies or magazine profiles ever mentioned this. Not even Alex’s Wikipedia page. They listed his family members, and his father was always there, but nothing ever so much as hinted at the story behind the pain in Alex’s eyes.
“I didn’t know that,” I murmur.
“How could you? I don’t talk about it. I once told a friend that he was dead. Felt like a good, clean way to justify his absence. It was great. Then one day, Dad shows up again and picks me up from school. Like nothing ever changed. One day he was gone, and then he wasn’t. All of a sudden, my friend’s telling everyone I’m a pathological liar. Maybe I am. Anyway, that’s sort of my dad’s schtick…
“He’s addicted to gambling. Loves to rack up debts and not paythem. He skips town to avoid the consequences—conveniently ignoring that the consequences always come down on my mom—then comes back home after hitting a jackpot. Honestly, he’s hita lotof jackpots over the years, to the point I can’t help feeling like he’s actually really fucking lucky in a twisted sort of way. But no amount of luck can save you if your vices are strong enough.
“Whenever he left, my mom would swear up and down she was through with him. Done. But then he’d come home, and—he’s charming. He can make my mom fall in love with him all over again. It just gets easier and easier for him. Harder for her. Impossible for us.”
I say the first thought that comes to my mind: “He sounds like a real shithead.”
Alex’s laugh sounds surprised, like he can’t believe he’s laughing about such a thing.
I have the thought, distantly, not quite fully formed in my head, that this version of Alex would be so disappointed to hear what he grows into. Cheating on your wife isn’t as bad as abandoning your children, but they exist in the same ballpark of shittiness.
Then again, who am I to judge? If I were to ask my eighteen-year-old self if she’d ever sleep with a married man, she’d swear up and down that she would never, not in a million years. And she really would mean it.
Funny how life takes its turns.
“He is a shithead. Your turn,” Alex says, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“What?”
“My family issues in exchange for yours. I showed you mine.”
“Yeah, but—I don’t have anything likethat.”
Alex shrugs. “It isn’t a competition.”
“I thought all conversations were competitions.”
“You’ll never let me live that down, will you?”
“Never, ever.”
“Emotional conversations are an exception.”
“Well, now you’re just making up rules as you go along,” I say, then take a deep breath. I don’t know where to start. “My family is fine. My dad is good at the quality time and bonding parts of being a parent. He’s a doctor, and when I was growing up, he was always working, so when he was home, he just wanted to relax. We’d hang out, watch old movies and TV shows together. The bulk of parenting and household duties fell on my mother, whoalsoworked full-time. I grew up watching her and thinking,Hell no, that’s not for me. You know, like, she had to do all the heavy lifting, the hard work, and my dad got to be the cool parent. I still wanted… I don’t know. Happily ever after or whatever. But ifthat’swhat it’s supposed to look like? Pass.
“My mother is difficult. Exacting. She never settles for less than perfection. She’s the child of immigrants—they both are, actually—so I think she always felt like she had to achieve a lot for them, to make up for their sacrifices. Which is fine, I get it—or I guess I don’t, but… she expects us to do the same. She planned our whole lives out before we were born. She wanted a doctor and a lawyer. My sister chose doctor, so…”
