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Of course not. You’re just a coworker. She owes you nothing.
I’m probably being extra sensitive because Larinda’s engagement wasn’t the first bomb to drop on me before 9AM today. Prior to breakfast wedding drama, I woke up to an even bigger blow: an apology and dinner invitation from my parents. After recovering from the initial shock, I immediately messaged my sister, Paige, for a debriefing session. Since she hasn’t responded yet, zero debriefing has been done.
One might be forgiven for wondering why a dinner invitation from one’s parents would be in the same gut-punch category as finding out the woman you have feelings for is going to marry someone you thought she didn’t even like. It makes more sense when you know that the last time I saw my parents was when they extorted me for thirty thousand dollars after legally disowning me.
They’ve been awful my whole life, and nothing but despicable since I dropped out of college more than five years ago. Every one of our rare encounters has been hostile and hurtful. As the official disappointment of the family, I haven’t received a single shred of support from them for as long as I can remember. They’ve made it no secret that I’m a failure in every sense of the word. In fact, stuffed somewhere in a box in my closet is a packet of notarized papers served by courier that declare me not their son in the eyes of the government. The whole thing was so ludicrous, I’ve never formally reacted to that soap-worthy gesture.
And then out of nowhere…
Dearest Perceval,
How to begin. You will no doubt find this particular electronical mail delivery letter perplexing as we have not corresponded in quite some time. Our history has been strenuous, to say the least, and we would understand if you chose not to peruse this correspondence in its entirety. It would be especially comprehensible if you chose not to respond to this belated attempt at reconciliation. We hold a sliver of hope, however, that you might find it in your magnanimous heart to take pity on we, your parents, and deign to join us for a meal in the municipality of Pittsburgh, in the state of Pennsylvania. We have reason to believe you will be in that region of the United States of America in less than a week’s time. Should you be so inclined to allow us this honor, please respond to this message and provide us with an ounce of supreme relief.
Yours,
Mummy and Papa
Now, let’s pretend for a second that this email was written in actual words people use and not an inexplicable attempt to revive nineteenth-century allegorical prose—it still wouldn’t make any sense.
My parents are apologizing? (Sort of.) I’ve never heard them apologize to anyone for anything, least of all me. (I’ve also never heard them refer to themselves as “Mummy and Papa” but I suppose that fits our new narrative that we now live in a time before the abbreviation “U.S.A.” made the rounds in popular linguistics.)
The point is, today has been a hard day. The last thing I want to do right now is visit Larinda on her bus to discuss her eternal love for a guy who thinks cauliflower is broccoli that’s gone bad.
So, of course I type back, Sure. Be there in 5.
Yeah, who am I kidding? I will always want to see her and listen to whatever she wants to discuss, even if it’s her love for another man. I just enjoy being around her, and this past year, I’ve realized it’s even more important than that. I need to be around her. She makes me laugh and brightens my world in a way that will make it impossible to go back to the morose existence I inhabited before she burst into my life. So yes, even if she comes with an irritating accessory in the form of a pretentious country singer who has a standing weekly hair-frosting appointment, I will still want to work with her and remain friends. This is also why I need to convince her that’s possible because I’m not in love with her.
After making some excuse about an emergency BPM change on one of our new tracks, I cross the parking lot to her bus just a few minutes later.
“Hey,” she says with a weak smile.
“Hey,” I reply as the door closes behind me.
“Thanks for coming.”
“Of course.”
I climb the stairs and follow her past the driver’s empty seat to the main lounge area of the bus. She drops to the plush pink couch lining the right wall. More seating juts out toward the center to create almost an L-shape. Her bedroom in the back is barely visible through an open door straight ahead, and the granite countertops on the kitchenette to the left sparkle like they’ve never been used. Every time I’m here, I can’t help but think this place is nicer than any hotel room I’ve ever been in—probably bigger too.
“Almonds?” she asks, holding out a bowl of assorted packets.
The first one I see says “Fruit Punch,” and I swear the one below it says “Peanut.”
Peanut-flavored almonds?
“No, thanks.”
She sits nearby and pulls her leg beneath her to face me. “Sorry about this morning. That must have been…”
She shudders, which is a pretty accurate description of my morning, actually.
“Yeah. It was… a lot. Um, congratulations on your engagement, I guess. I’m sure you’ll be happy. Jarvis is… Jarvis.”
Okay, so I’m a terrible liar.
Her eyes go wide, then narrow. “Perceval Andrews, are you seriously trying to placate me right now?”
Really terrible, apparently.
