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Not that I want to either . . .
Jade and I grab food from the caf and meet back at the table outside where we left our bags.
“Salad, huh?” she says, eyeing my bowl. She’s got some kind of wrap and a bag of chips with a Diet Coke. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen her without a Diet Coke.
“Yeah. I try to get a vegetable in me every once in a while, so when my dad asks, I don’t have to lie,” I say.
“You and your dad are pretty close,” Jade says—an observation rather than a question.
“We are. I know this sounds super cheesy, but he’s my role model.” I dig my fork into my salad, taking a big bite.
“Why?” she asks with equal amounts curiosity and skepticism.
I finish chewing and shrug. I’ve never had to explain it to anyone before. Usually, when I tell someone my dad is my role model, they say, “Aww,” and then we move on. I use the chewing as an opportunity to think it through.
“I don’t know. I’m the only boy, I have three older sisters, and so we were close because of that. He and my mom went through a rough couple of years. They separated, and for a while I lived with just him. It was a bonding experience, but also, I watched the way my dad found his way back into my mom’s life. I thought my parents were going to get divorced, and my dad kind of saved the day.”
I take another big bite and try to read Jade’s face. She and I haven’t really ventured into deep waters yet. I’ve tried a few times to ask her about her day or some things about her life, but she’s been pretty short with me, all business and trying to run lines. We’ve talked a little about TV shows and movies we both like, but she hasn’t opened up, so I haven’t either.
But she can’t ask about my dad without me getting at least a little personal.
Everything I believe about love and relationships I believe because of my parents. I’m a self-diagnosed hopeless romantic because I watched my mom fall in love with my dad all over again. I watched the way he thoughtfully doted on her, taking her on really special dates and hiring a cleaning service to come to the house once a month so she didn’t have to think about the cleaning as often.
“Interesting,” Jade says. I don’t think she’s judging me, but she certainly sounds skeptical.
“Why is that interesting?” I ask, trying to keep the conversation alive. I’m curious about Jade—about who she is and what makes her tick. I’m hoping if I open up, she will too.
“Was your dad the one who left?” She takes a bite of her wrap.
“It’s complicated. The short version is that my mom wanted a divorce and my dad didn’t, but he volunteered to move out while they figured it out. No one really left. My dad respected my mom’s wishes for a separation and got his own space. I asked to go with him, and my sisters stayed with my mom.”
She nods, taking a sip of her Diet Coke, digesting my story.
“My parents were never married,” Jade says, “just engaged, but when my biological father left, he left for good, so I understand complicated. All my friends’ parents were married, and mine were . . . not.”
“Do you have a relationship with your dad?” I ask.
“Hmm . . . define ‘relationship.’”
I chuckle, but she isn’t laughing.
“Do you talk to him?” I ask.
“Unfortunately. He pays for my college, which is why I’m a business major and a theater minor and not just a theater major. We talk at least once a month. Less if I can manage it.”
I can’t imagine only talking to my dad once a month and wanting to make it even less than that. My chest feels tight at the thought of it.
“And your mom? Do you have a good relationship with her?”
Jade snorts. A cynical smile lingers on her face even as she opens her bag of chips and pulls one out, placing it carefully into her mouth and dusting her fingers off. I’m about to ask more, but her phone dings with a text message, and she pulls it out of her pocket to see who it is.
“Speak of the devil,” Jade says.
“Your mom?”
She nods and goes silent as she reads a text message. Her smile fades as she types something back.
I pick at my salad and try not to watch as she sets her phone on the table and stares at it while cracking each of her fingers and then her wrists as she waits for a response. The sound of a text comes through, and Jade types furiously again. I don’t miss the eye roll that comes with it. She stuffs her phone back into her pocket.
