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“Don’t send me anymore emails about the sex toys you have discovered, Mom. This thing between you and Dad… figure it out between the two of you.”
“Sex toys?” Dad growls. “Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack,” I mutter.
Wait, is he really so out of the loop? Does Mom tell him anything at all, or am I the only lucky one who gets to hear it?
“Goodbye!” Mom calls and waves, smiling—and then she mouths at Jet, “You rock, handsome.”
Okay, what the what?
Fuming, and still mortified, I drag the boys out—or they are the ones who drag me out, hard to tell. I guess we are dragging each other, all of us in a hurry to get away from my family.
I turn on Jet the moment we’re out. “What did you tell her? Spill.”
He shrugs. “I gave her some tips on vibrators.”
I gape at him. “You’re kidding me.”
“Look,” Jet says. “I know this weirds you out and she’s your mom and all. But she’s also a woman. And she’s right to look for ways to be happy and satisfied. And if your dad has no clue, well, he can learn. It’s never too late.”
He sounds so serious. Could he be right about this? Should I help Mom fix her love life with Dad so that they can live happily ever after?
That’s what made me cry like a little girl, I realize. The idea of them falling apart, going their own ways.
If that’s the fate of everyone, then what about us?
Chapter Five
Joel
When I told my parents I wanted to play with the kid next door, they told me I should never again consider talking to an immigrant child.
When I told my parents I wanted to study history, my dad informed me I was going to study something worthwhile, like business administration. Mom didn’t say a word.
Throughout my childhood, my sister kept revolting, and I kept learning what was allowed and what wasn’t. I was sent to my room wh
en I said the wrong thing, dad brought out the belt time and again, until I learned to say and do the right things. The things that made my parents happy. Everything was clear and easy and straightforward for a long while.
Until it wasn’t anymore. Until everything changed.
Turns out life is like that: all curves and bends you can’t foresee. And I kinda like it that way.
As we enter our apartment and I toss the car key into the bowl on the small table by the sofa, I’m not sure what bothered me more today—the fact we’re talking openly about our sex lives with Candy’s parents—okay, her mom—or that her mom is openly talking about hers.
Parents, in my experience, are not like that. At all. And I’m not just referring to the sex talk.
Yeah, my dad would rather die than get caught discussing the love life of his son. And my mom wouldn’t be interested in anything else but healthy lifestyle TV shows—or wouldn’t admit to caring.
But I also never saw my parents discuss anything, period. Or go out together to have lunch, with their kids, or on their own. They don’t care about each other, or about us.
This thought, this fucking thought stabs me deeper than I’d expected, and I stop to suck in a sharp breath.
Why is this bothering me so much?
I’ve managed to avoid thinking about my parents since Candy moved in with us, to shove the thought of them to the back of my mind, bury it deep, bury their disapproval, their disinterest in what I need, their obsession with their own ideas of how my life should be.
It’s a sting in the back of my mind, a burning ache, and I need it gone. Buried deeper. Pushed further, until it’s crushed.
