XLII.FADE TO BLACK.
LOS ANGELES.
NOVEMBER. 2016.
“Where’s your brother?”
“He doesn’t want to come.”
Two days before the presidential election I summon the kids for a run to our favorite ice-cream spot, as a distraction from the news cycle. It has become all-consuming. And despite my best efforts, I’ve begun to internalize it. But when I file into the car, only Lucie follows suit.
“Julien is turning down Sweet Rose? That’s not like him.”
“He’s not in a great mood, Mom. He and Ava broke up.”
“What? When? What happened?”
She shrugs, noncommittal. “Her parents. I don’t think they were happy about them dating. They’re pretty conservative.”
I stare at her for a second. Attempting to read between the lines. “Conservative how?”
“He said Ava told him that her mom found out they were dating and told her it was okay for them to be friends but if her dad ever knew it was more than that he would not be happy. She said it wasn’t personal, though, because her mom really likes Julien. She just thought Ava’s dad would be uncomfortable with it.”
“Uncomfortable with it?? Uncomfortable withwhat? Her dating in general or her datinghim?”
Lucie shrugs, then looks away. “I think it’s the second thing, but I think you have to ask Julien.”
“Did he tell you something? What did he tell you, Luce?”
“You have to talk to Julien.”
I find him later in his room playing Minecraft. His expression sullen. “Honey, do you have a moment?”
“Can it wait?”
“I’d rather it not.”
“Ugh.” He stops building his perfect world, reclines in his chair, turns his face to me.
“Lucie told me something happened with you and Ava. I’m sorry.”
He shrugs, looking away. “Yeah, it’s… whatever.”
For a moment I stand in the doorframe, taking in my son’s face. His brow suddenly prominent, his jaw square, his skin clear. His cheekbones that had recently made themselves known. His braces removed. How he’d changed since our arrival.
“It’s not ‘whatever,’ Julien,” I say. “I don’t know all the details, but I know you really liked her. And I know she liked you. And from what I could see you were kind to each other and that is so important. And when relationships end—especially when they’re good, kind relationships, and the ending doesn’t feel organic—it hurts.”
He’s quiet for a second, his eyes fixated elsewhere. “What do you mean ‘doesn’t feel organic’?”
“Like abrupt. Like maybe you both don’t feel like it ran its course.”
He mulls it over for a bit, pressing his lips together.
“Did her parents say something to her?”
“I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to talk about them.” He stiffens, his expression pained.
And for the millionth time I wonder what the upside is of being in America and subjecting my son to this. And whether this lesson is necessary for him to grow. To see the world for what it is. And does he need to learn it at such a vulnerable age?
