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“Sorry I’m late,” I say. “My friend’s dog kept me up last night. I ended up taking a nap this afternoon.”
“That’s what you get when you crash on someone’s couch,” my dad says, hugging me stiffly. “I still don’t understand why you wouldn’t let me pay for a sublet.”
“What’s the point when I’m only going to be there a couple of weeks?” My plan for winter break was to stay with friends in Burlington for a short while after finals. Staying in town allowed me to pick up extra shifts at Lumino, and get my Christmas shopping done. After working ten straight nights, I’m definitely ready to go home for a few weeks. I grew up in Stowe, not too far from here, and my dad still lives in our old house, though he seems to be traveling a lot these days.
“It’s so nice to see you again, Noelle.” Miranda is so tall I have to stand on my toes to hug her slim frame properly. “How did finals go?”
“Pretty good,” I say, hoping neither of them pushes further. This already awkward dinner will get a lot tenser if my dad learns my first-semester GPA was less than three-point-five.
I drape my coat on the back of my chair and we all take our seats. Miranda drums her fingernails along the stem of her wineglass like she’s waiting for something, or someone. It’s a tic I noticed the first time we met. She’s high-energy, like a husky puppy. The woman cannot sit still to save her life.
“I love your dress,” she says to me. “Green is a nice color on you. Goes well with your eyes.”
“Thanks.” I adjust my cowlneck and straighten the seams on my three-quarter-length sleeves. Technically, it’s my friend’s dress. Most of my non-work clothes are back at my dorm, which I’m currently locked out of over winter break.
I ask how their recent trip to Vegas went, in an effort to make sure we don’t circle back to my grades. Miranda lights up talking about the shows they saw and how my dad won a thousand dollars at backgammon. It sounds like they had a great time overall. Miranda herself seems like a fun person to travel with, which is probably what drew my dad to her in the first place. He doesn’t like women who expect him to be serious.
My co-worker, Ben, approaches the table and asks if we’re ready to order appetizers. Miranda squeezes my dad’s hand.
“Give us a few minutes,” my dad says. “We’re still waiting on one more.” He places another drink order for himself and Miranda, and I order a sparkling water.
After Ben leaves, I ask, “Who else is coming?”
“Miranda’s son,” my dad says.
“Oh.” I didn’t know Miranda had kids. Her foot bumps mine under the table. She apologizes. When it happens a second time, I’m forced to pay closer attention.
Miranda’s normally fidgety, but tonight she seems downright anxious. Then I recall the ominous text message from my dad that initiated this outing.
Dad: Miranda and I want to take you out to dinner. We have something to discuss.
They’re engaged, I realize. That’s why they want both their kids here.
I’d bet a week’s worth of tips on it.
My dad and Miranda have only been dating for about three months, but this would hardly be his hastiest engagement. He once asked a woman he met on a three-week business trip to Palo Alto to marry him. They were in the middle of coordinating her flight to Vermont when they broke it off over political differences.
Since my parents’ divorce, my dad’s been what you might call a serial monogamist. Jumping from one relationship to the next, one woman to the next. Terrified of being alone with himself for too long.
“Have you heard from Susan?” my dad asks. He insists on calling my mother by her legal name, even though she goes by Sunshine now. Maybe it’s because he’s a lawyer, or maybe it’s the small piece of him that still resents her for leaving him to join a sex cult, or so he calls it.
“We talked on the phone a few nights ago,” I tell him. “She sends her love.”
Dad and I both know that when my mom says “love” she doesn’t mean anything romantic. Rather, it’s her boundless, nebulous affection for humanity that she extents outward, like a supernova, or a fart cloud.
My mom’s been living in a commune for about six years now. It’s a pretty interesting place, to say the least. They grow their own food and sleep in shared bunks and do naked yoga every morning. The kind of stuff my dad sees absolutely no value in. As my mom would say, he has a hard time seeing value in anything that can’t be monetized.
During our last call, she reminded me that the invitation to visit her at the commune over Christmas still stands. Their winter celebration is more of a consolidation of all the holidays put together, plus a few non-denominational new-age rituals, like tarot readings. As much as I miss my mom, I’m looking forward to celebrating Christmas at home this year. Even if my dad stays in his office all week, I can at least remember how it felt to have a real Christmas when we were still a family.
“There’s Sawyer,” Miranda says, waving to someone behind me. I don’t bother looking to see who’s on their way to the table. There’s a very good chance our parents will be broken up by Valentine’s Day.
“Hey,” says a familiar voice. “You didn’t tell me there’d be four of us.”
My body goes taut. The owner of the voice steps into my peripheral vision, and finally, I look up—and up, and up—to find the man from the alley staring down at me.
“I wanted it to be a surprise,” Miranda says. “Noelle, this is my son, Sawyer.”
I forget how to breathe.
