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“What did you guys talk about?” I ask, my gaze darting to my mother.
“This and that.” She presses her slender hand against the counter. “You?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” Her jaw drops. “At all?”
I shake my head, recalling the silence my father and I shared at the lake. He’d squinted his eyes into the distance and gracefully thrown his line, letting it whip and zig-zag before finding its home in the still lake.
I did the same, calling on years of fly-fishing with him. Despite my skills being rusty, I kept up. My father’s training was just too ingrained in me.
And we stood there.
Staring at the sunset.
Inhaling the woodsy air.
Him saying nothing.
Him speaking in the quiet.
Dad never needed to use words to get his point across. And I didn’t need an interpreter to understand him.
I heard the scolding in the way his bottom lip quirked what you did in Vegas was irresponsible.
In the slight narrowing of his eyes I trained you better than that.
In the grunt that was low enough to not scare the fish you need to make it right.
When he squeezed my shoulder as we were heading back to the car, I heard every reassurance—We still love you. You’re still our son. It’s going to be okay.
The principle of actions being louder than words was the standard I grew up on, but I can’t say it’s a principle that aligned with my lifestyle. Women tend to like being told what they want to hear.
As long as we both walk away satisfied, I’ve never had a problem playing that game.
Until now.
Now that I’m realizing I want something more.
With Asia.
Every word is measured.
Every action means something.
Because she means something.
She means more to me.
I squeeze her shoulder gently. “Everything okay?”
“Yup.” She eases away from me.
“Asia.”
She tilts her head. Blinks rapidly.
My eyes fall on her lips.
