Before his own child. I think of the sweet Polaroid of Margot and Savannah in their cheap Halloween costumes and struggle to respond. I’ve personally only ever known the love of a kind and committed father and can barely fathom what that yawning absence must feel like.
“And your mom,” I say finally, trying to pivot. “What’s she like?”
At this, Margot’s right dimple tucks halfway in as she smiles faintly. “My mom is amazing. We didn’t have a lot of her growing up because she worked around the clock to keep us afloat, but when she was there, she wasthere, you know?” She pauses, her smile sliding into a smirk. “And to answer your question, no. She’s never tried setting me up with anyone because, A, she’s way too busy, and B, she’s still hoping I’ll finally find my gay side and write men off altogether.”
“Fair enough.” I chuckle, halfway through the last fish.
Spotting a basket of fingerling potatoes, Margot grabs a handful and begins slicing them into small, creamy halves.
“And what about you?” she says. “You obviously won the cosmic jackpot in the dad department. Was your mom just as sweet?”
A snort escapes me as I remember my mom bossing me around this very kitchen. She taught me to put care and intention into everything I do—to strive for excellence—even if I’m just chopping chives. I automatically adjust my knife grip in case she’s looking down on me with one of her signature eyebrow raises.
“?‘Sweet’ isn’t the word I’d use. She was pretty fierce. But fiercely loving too.”
And yet all the love in the world didn’t save her.
The ache that lies beneath all my reasoning for not getting too involved with anyone draws my abdominals in tight. It’s quicklyfollowed by the irrational belief that my mom would still be here if I’d just been present for her treatment. Logically, I know it’s not true, but try telling that to the guilt that cracks a whip at me every time I even consider going back to California. It won’t listen to reason, even though the rational part of me knows that whether it’s cancer or, in the case of Margot’s father, garden-variety selfishness, the people you open yourself up to always leave you in the end. Margot herself will be leaving here in three weeks, and I would do damn well to remember it. But then her arm brushes mine as she reaches for the salt, and the dull ache of loss disappears as my nerve endings turn into sparklers.
“Trapper mentioned that you went into breast cancer research after she passed,” Margot says, and her voice sounds like she’s tiptoeing through broken glass. “Would you have chosen a different field if she hadn’t, or…”
At her gentle curiosity, my larynx rusts over like it’s been sitting under salt water for a century. I give her a tight nod. That excruciating year of my life isn’t a topic I’ve discussed with anyone, and I’m not sure I ever will.
She’s quiet, and I feel her gaze on my profile. I lift my eyes to meet her honey-brown ones.
“I’m sorry, Forrest.”
Something tight eases slightly in my chest. I nod, and after a beat, we both look back down at our workstations.
“So what were you studying before the left turn into breast cancer?” she asks, tossing the bowl of sliced potatoes with olive oil, herbs, salt, and pepper.
I slowly release my breath, grateful for the change in topic. “Originally?” I say. “I had my heart set on pediatric cardiothoracic surgery.”
She ignores the terrible joke and turns to face me, hands on her hips. “Wait, wait,” she says. “You’re telling me you were going to be a heart surgeon? Forbabies?”
“Well, technically pediatrics includes children up to eighteen, but yes, I suppose I would’ve worked with babies too.”
An incredulous laugh gusts out of her before she reaches for her wineglass.
I laugh, completely bemused. “What?”
“Nothing,” she says after a healthy gulp. “You just keep proving my theory over and over again.”
“Which is?”
“Never you mind,” she says primly, and I watch the tips of her ears go pink.
“You can’t tell someone you have a theory about them and not reveal it. It’s a crime against humanity.”
“Maybe I’m a sadist.”
“Or maybe,” I drawl, moving on to trimming asparagus, “you’re just a chicken.”
Margot slides the potatoes into the oven with surprising crispness for someone who’s been day-drinking in an ice-fishing shack. “I amnota chicken,” she says.
I tilt my head in mock concentration. “Did I just hear… clucking?”
“You know what?” she says, shutting the oven door with a bang. “Fine. You really want to know my theory?”
