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“L’chaim!” the waiter says, refreshing my drink.
Mom glares at me with her fiercest, most Emily Gilmore cut-the-shit eyes.
“Miles sits on the board at Boston College Medical School and said that there are always special circumstances under which they might entertain exceptional transfer student—”
“It’s never a bad thing to have options,” Dad says.
They go on and on. It would be a pity to interrupt their dog and pony show. The casual observer might think it’s a spectacular off-the-cuff plea for the value of higher education. But I know better. I see the choreography: the way my mother casually waves at my father and he picks up her thread seamlessly; the way my father moves his lips along with my mother’s lines. It’s truly a performance for the ages.
So I drink my paloma. And I drink. And I keep drinking. Until it’s gone. Then I lick all the salt off the rim and lift it in the air as the waiter meets me for the seamless exchange.
“Thank you, sir. You’re a gentleman and a scholar,” I call after him.
My parents stare at me.
“I knew this would happen,” Mom says, folding her napkin and pressing it to the corners of her eyes.
“Jesus Christ, Mom. It’s called day drinking. It’s fine.”
“We knew the West Coast would be a stretch. Stanford was one thing, but then we thought she’d come back, and now, here she is, working for a large man with donkey teeth—”
“They’re Thai teeth. Medical tourism is the new leopard print.”
“—in a shop that looks like a front for a feline sex toy store.”
“Maureen,” he says, placing a hand on her wrist.
My phone buzzes and I pull it out, grateful for the reprieve.
ZEKE: Hang in there, Charlie Brown. Lule filled me in. Try not to do anything I wouldn’t do.
ZEKE: I’ll swing by later with something to soak up the tequila?
ME: Please. And maybe more tequila?
ZEKE: I got you, babe
My cheeks flush a little hotter than they already were from the tequila as I read his text again and again.
“Well, I can see this is going nowhere,” Mom says, tipping back the rest of her drink.
“Maureen,” Dad says, placing a hand on her wrists. “Faye is living her own life and—”
“Just get the check, Jack.” Mom pinches the bridge of her nose and excuses herself to the bathroom.
Dad gives me a look and I take a long sip of my third paloma. Unfortunately, my parents are far too sobering to enjoy the extra tequila.
“Faye Ellen,” he says, ducking his chin. “You know we only want the best for you. And we can’t do anything about the trust.” His words are soft and sincere. “I would have never written it that way…”
“It’s okay, Dad.” I sit up a bit, feeling uncomfortable with the topic. “It might not look like much, but I can pay my bills. I’m doing okay.”
He studies me for a long moment and then the waiter comes with the bill.
“Your mother only wants you to be happy.”
“Then she needs to let me try,” I say, holding his gaze.
He nods, as if agreeing.
