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I freeze midbite. “Wow. That’s quite the shift from dentistry, isn’t it, Dad?”
Sitting his fork in his bowl to proudly cross his arms, Dad announces, “I’ve retired.”
“Oh,” I manage to say as childhood memories float through my mind. As a kid, I spent so much time after school in my dad’s front office, doing homework while waiting for my mom, who worked at the municipal library, to pick me up.
“Yes. From dentist to director, Love Bug,” he declares, smiling as he dabs the corners of his mouth with his white napkin.
“Well, congratulations, Dad,” I offer before I continue scarfing down the best comfort food on the planet.
My mom watches me with an inquisitive gaze. “What’s going on with you?” she asks.
I halt, my fork halfway to my mouth. “What do you mean?” I reply, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.
“You’re eating very quickly. Plus, you’ve been somewhat distant since you got here. So, what’s bothering you, Love Bug?”
“Nothing,” I assert, even though my voice betrays me with a slight crack. Deep down, I’m yearning to break down in my mom’s embrace and confess the entire debacle of last night. It would sure be nice to tell her about my decision to end things with Randy, one that’s tearing me apart. She always knows what to say to make me feel better. But I can’t tell her what’s wrong with me. I’ve never engaged in a relationship like the one I’m in with Randy. Casual sex is not my style.
My parents know me to be someone who holds off being intimate in a relationship until I’m sure there’s reciprocation. The mere acknowledgment that my libido and not my brain has been driving my relationship with Randy feels so wrong, especially against the backdrop of my parents’ thirty-year testament to love and companionship. They are not just spouses but best friends, always there to support one another through thick and thin.
Growing up, I would come home to find them at the kitchen table, working through whatever challenges they faced with open communication and understanding. And here I am, entangled with a man I can’t stand, trapped in a cycle of frustrating conversations and interactions coupled with fleeting but highly enjoyable passionate encounters. Randy is stubborn and never admits fault. Sure, there are moments when his better qualities peek through, but those are too often eclipsed by his insufferable behavior.
“Oh, it’s definitely something,” my dad interjects, his intuition clearly catching the nuances in my voice.
I’m so on the spot that I can feel my shoulder blades begin to pinch.
“Is it Randy, the one who introduced himself to me yesterday?” my mom asks.
The fact that my dad doesn’t ask, “Who’s Randy?” and instead waits for my response clues me in that they’ve already had a conversation about him. That’s how well we all know each other. It has only been the three of us, all of our lives, living, learning, and loving one another. We have all gotten pretty good at picking up on things.
“No,” I respond, my voice pitching higher in a less-than-convincing attempt to deny it.
“He was really smitten by her, Harold.”
“I heard,” my dad says.
I’m shaking my head vigorously, eager to correct their misunderstanding. “He’s not smitten by me, Mom. Actually, it’s the complete opposite. Right before you came in yesterday, he was lecturing me about using too much flour. So, no—definitely not smitten.” Also, there’s the fact that last night he was on a date with another woman, but I wouldn’t dare mention that to them.
“Using too much flour?” My dad sounds genuinely baffled by the concept.
“Yes, according to him, I apparently use too much flour when I make my cro-muffins, which he’d prefer I didn’t do for some odd reason.” I lift a finger, suddenly experiencing a lightbulb moment. “Ah, now I get it. It’s because he doesn’t want me to succeed,” I say, my tone reaching a dramatic crescendo.
My parents give me a look that suggests they think I might be spiraling a bit. Admittedly, discussions about Randy have a unique way of getting under my skin. Not wanting them to see me like this, I plaster on an exaggerated smile, which only prompts my dad to arch an eyebrow in response.
Great. Now I’ve managed to make myself come across as not just upset, but slightly unhinged as well.
“I don’t know the details of what’s happening between you and Randy, but don’t be too hard on yourself,” my mom offers gently.
My jaw drops. “What?” What does she mean? What does she think she knows? Does it say, “I’m having sex with Randy Thorn” on my forehead?
My eyes are wide with surprise and confusion. There’s a flurry of thoughts and questions I want to unleash, starting with why my mom sounds like she and Randy are old friends.
“There’s chemistry—that’s all,” my mom says, exchanging a knowing look with my dad, who seems to find the situation endearingly amusing.
“There’s no chemistry,” I retort, feeling a bit defensive.
My dad leans in, offering a reassuring presence. “Everything’s going to be okay, Love Bug.”
I’m on the verge of questioning, “What do you mean by ‘it’s okay?’” but I halt, realizing that more protest will only confirm their suspicions.
