by Erin Hahn
She licks frosting off her finger, and I swallow hard, tracking the movement. Twice.
“You didn’t just get to work, did you?” she says after finishing her cupcake. She doesn’t meet my eyes, instead folding her wrapper neatly into half and then thirds, pressing it flat with her fingers.
“Ah, not quite.”
She nods. “Did you meet Marcus?”
I decide on honesty. “I did.” And I tell her about our conversation, watching her face change from aggravated to hurt and finally, happily, to amused.
“I can’t believe you said that to his face!”
“Yeah.” I adjust in my chair, first sitting back and then uncrossing my legs and curling forward. “Should I apologize?”
“To me?” she asks, surprised. “Fuck, no. I’m just sad I missed seeing his expression when you asked for his debit card to open a tab.”
I sit back again, pleased and more than a little relieved. “Still, it wasn’t my business. It’s not like you can’t take care of yourself. I was just—”
She cuts me off, grinning. “It’s honestly fine. More than fine. Sometimes I wonder if I’m overreacting, you know? Like, maybe my dad’s not that much of a dick. He’s not physically abusive. He’s just neglectful. Like, to the extreme. It hurts me, obviously, but it’s sort of validating when someone else besides Meg gets all puffed up in my defense.”
“Phil was plenty puffed up, if that helps.”
She nods. “It does. But—and I know this sounds stupid— I feel like Phil gets to be defensive for my mom’s sake. Not mine.”
“Because he loves her.”
“Right.”
“But it’s okay for me to be defensive for you?” I check. I can’t help but sit a little taller at the implication—the idea that I could be that person for her. That she might need me to be.
Vada ducks her head, tucking some strands behind her ear and tracing the edge of Phil’s giant desk calendar with her fingertip. “Sure. I mean”—she allows her brown eyes to meet mine for barely a blink before they shift away—“if you want.”
Oh, how I want. I want so much I can taste it. Or her. Taste her. Stay on track, brain. I swallow again, trying to think of a response that isn’t creepy or weird. To play for time, I clear my throat and cross an ankle over my knee. Verrry casually. “Good,” I say. “That’s good.”
22
VADA
Late last night when I arrived home from work, it was to an unusually dark house. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one Marcus went after yesterday. Except, while I had Luke and Phil at the bar to run defense for me, my mom was alone. It’s interesting—and by interesting, I mean fucked to high heaven—how he doesn’t want anything to do with us until he remembers how disappointed he is in himself and then has to remind us how he holds us responsible for his many failures.
I found my mom sitting in our dimly lit kitchen, her Bible open in front of her and an entire kettle of Sleepytime tea resting on a crocheted hot pad. Her tears had already been spent, and she looked peaceful. “Had a little talk with Jesus,” was all she said before smiling generously and pouring me a mug of steaming liquid.
It’s obvious my mom’s way of dealing with Marcus’s shit is healthier, but she’s had more practice. Or maybe she hit the end of her rope, and at the end, there’s only God. I’m not sure. I haven’t tried everything else yet. Which sounds stubborn. I guess it is. Or maybe it’s just curious. All I know is I don’t want to borrow faith. I want something I own wholeheartedly, and I’m not in the business of buying yet.
Mom communes with a deity. I commune with music.
Which explains why, the following afternoon, when I enter dance class, Madame takes one look at me and cuts short our barre time. I’m pretty positive I’m in my fucking feelings is written in cursive between the creases on my forehead.
“It’s minutes till the weekend,” she says. “I’m too antsy for conformity. Vada?” she calls me over.
I fidget with the waistband of my leggings, tugging it higher before settling it down over my hips. Her face is a picture of beatific understanding, and I struggle to meet her eyes, not sure I’m in the mood for a poised sort of pep talk today.
“Have you ever heard of an artist named Ke$ha?”
I freeze. “With the dollar sign in her name? Sure.”
She bends easily, digging around in her tote bag. “Sometimes I can’t properly feel a thing until a pretty melody or ferocious bottom line plays me through it. I suspect you relate.”
“Yeah. I suppose.”
She nods. “I have a song for you. It’s helped me work out all sorts of demons. Find your space, and maybe it will help you work through yours as well.”
I don’t hesitate to claim my shadowy corner. A soft melody, bittersweet and caressing, plays over the sound system, washing over me.
My eyes shut against the hot tears that rush against my lids, and I release a shaky breath before my limbs stretch and lift weightlessly away from me.
When I dance, I don’t always hear the lyrics, but today it’s like they are coming from inside me—like they were made for me in this moment.
Lyrics do that sometimes. They find their home at just the right time. Like a secret message in a bottle, floating on a current for decades, only to wash up at someone’s feet when the words are needed. This is my anthem. No matter the original intent of this song. No matter what Ke$ha wrote it about. It was sent to Madame for her pain, and now, it’s been given to me.
Ke$ha screams her heart out, and as the song builds, my feet pound on the floorboards, my knees absorbing the shock, my ankles crying under the stress. I twist on the balls of my feet and drag my toes along, relishing in the burn. Thriving in the pain. The aliveness of it. My core throbs, and I know this isn’t a pretty movement. This is as ugly as it gets. I itch in my skin. I want to peel Marcus from my DNA, strip away the parts of him that grow inside of me. Erase my father completely, from my life, from my memories. Every aching thing starts with him and his rejection.
I want to change the narrative. I want to reject him and everything he unwillingly gave me.
Except my father gave me music. And I hate him for it. I hate that he’s not only entwined in my genetics but in everything I love that makes me so essentially, irrevocably Vada. He doesn’t deserve credit for my favorite parts of me.
But it’s what keeps me dragging my bones back to him—the insane gratitude that he accidentally gave me the exact coping mechanism for dealing with him and being my ticket away from him. The (admittedly) distant memory of the days he would spew music trivia to me and talk about bands like he knew them personally and what their process was for creating. His hobby became my obsession, and I idolized him for it. Now I know better.
The weirdest part is when he gives Phil grief. Like, you were there first, dude, and you walked away. You walked away.
It’s all very fucked up. I’m positive there’s some Shakespearean study on this particular Venn diagram of father issues, and I bet it has something to do with self-loathing.
Add that as reason #785 why I hate Marcus: he’s turned me into an amateur psych major at eighteen. I scrub my hands down my face with a loud groan. After class, I slink off to the locker room and take my time splashing icy water on my cheeks until they feel cool to the touch. Hands still damp, I scrape my hair into a top knot and change back into my skinny jeans and T-shirt.
By the time I shove out of the locker room and into the relatively fresh air of the hallway, it’s empty. I stop at my locker to grab my phone and puffy vest, and finally it’s the weekend.
The air has the wet, almost rainy feel of early spring in Michigan, and even though there are barely any real buds on the trees yet, everything seems greener. It’s as though I walked out of school and entered into the Clarendon-filtered version of the world.
I inhale huge lungsful of air, holding them, absorbing them, and every time I let them out, I swear I shrink an inch. It’s incredible what a difference being ou
tside makes. I pull out my phone and plug in my earbuds, scrolling to Amy Shark and playing it nice and loud. Readying for battle, armor settled back into place. I recite my five-year plan.
Loud Lizard, Behind the Music, Liberty Live, UCLA
Loud Lizard, Behind the Music, Liberty Live, UCLA
Loud Lizard, Behind the Music, Liberty Live, UCLA
I repeat the litany with each step, mouthing it as if to stamp it into being.
Loud Lizard, Behind the Music, Liberty Live, UCLA
Luke.
Gah. Luke Greenly is definitely not in the plan.
A very quiet part of me, the part that can still feel his hands on my waist the night we slow danced, and can hear his “good” reverberating in my ears, thinks he could be part of the plan.
I don’t know what I’m doing with you.
Like an addendum or something. Just … every good plan allows for addendums. Like the Bill of Rights.
Unless that’s not what he wants. Like, literally every girl on the planet is falling over themselves for him and his swoony vocals after that stupid (amazing) song, and maybe the last thing he wants is … a relationship.
Maybe he likes that we’re really good friends who held hands once. My strutting falters, and I skip a step. Maybe it’s a relief for him to think he can just be himself with me and I’m not angling for an Instagram post.
Jesus. What if I’ve been friend zoned? My brain scrambles backward, cataloging all our interactions and …
Holy hell, he’s seen me in spandex, flailing like a chicken. He met Marcus. I groan. Marcus, that fucker. Who wants in on that whole mess?
And his song! That perfect song! He straight-up told Cullen it wasn’t about anyone.
Who cares that I want it to be about me? Every girl wants it to be about her. I’ve officially become like every other girl.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out. Of course it’s Luke. That charming bastard.
I consider ignoring it. Reading it when I get home. Like that will show him. I won’t even know what you sent me for the next fifteen minutes, so there.
But of course I don’t because I’m helplessly in love with him.
(Just kidding. I’m kidding. I’m totally not in love with Luke.)
LUKE
Just checking in on you after the other night. Also, happy weekend! YouTube: Sponge “Molly”
This time, I take a minute to click on the link and let it play me home before responding. Sponge is a favorite of Phil’s. One of the first bands he made me study. Every LP of theirs somehow comes off sounding like it was recorded in a church basement, but you can’t help falling for their jaunty drumbeats.
I’d say the best modern-day equivalent I’ve found is the British band The Wombats, which Phil unequivocally denies but I’m pretty sure is dead-on. His ears are old. He doesn’t know.
As I round the corner to my house, I see not only my mom’s car in the drive but Phil’s old beater Chevy S10, too, and for the very first time in my life, it occurs to me that I could walk in on something.
Like, something something.
Not that I’d be opposed. I love Phil, and he’s so good to my mom. And Lord knows she deserves someone good. But, also, it’d be pretty squicky if, like, their tongues were in each other’s mouths. Yes, they’ve been together for over a year, and yes, I know they are sexing it up. I just don’t need to see it.
I fling open the front door, making sure to be extra loud. I hear the clatter of dishes and water running, so I head to the kitchen. My mom’s at the table, coffee in her cup and a smile on her face, and Phil’s at the sink, rinsing a plate. The utter domesticity of it all catches in my throat.
“Hey, baby,” my mom says, not looking caught in the slightest.
“Hey, Mom. Heeeeeeey, boss,” I say, raising an eyebrow at Phil.
“Afternoon, kid,” Phil says, unperturbed. I swallow hard, and he puts down the dish. “Oh no, what happened?”
I shake my head, speechless, even as my eyes well up. He crosses the room toward me, uncertain, but holds out his arms. I dive into them burying my head in his chest, a sob breaking free.
“Vada!” my mom says, alarmed. I hear the scraping of her chair, and she’s next to me, her hand at my hair, stroking.
But I can’t stop crying. I hold on tighter, and to Phil’s credit, he doesn’t let go. This is definitely not something we do on a regular basis. Our relationship is mostly professional, except when he cusses at me for throwing out his cigarettes.
Something in me broke, though, seeing him at my kitchen sink looking for all the world like he belonged, calling me kid. So stupid, I know. But it was sort of everything. After a long while, he gently presses me back. “I have to get to work.”
I wipe at my face and nod.
I see my mom reach for his arm and rub it reassuringly. He’s stunned, and I feel terrible. This is probably more emotion than he’s experienced in his entire life.
“Vada, look at me.”
I lift my swollen eyes. I must look terrible. Phil looks crushed.
“I’m sorry I have to go, but I’m already late. I can’t leave Kazi in charge. He’ll have the place reeking of incense and Regina Spektor will be playing and it’s a whole thing.”
I nod, smiling at the image. He’s not wrong.
“But you know I’m not running away from you, right?”
How can I possibly have more tears to give?
My mom comes up behind me and wraps her arms around my shoulders, leaning down. My breath hitches, and I nod.
“I’m not leaving you because you cried. I’m leaving because I have to. But if I didn’t have to, I wouldn’t. You understand the difference, right? You know what I’m saying?”
I do. I also don’t know what to think about it. I’m not … equipped for this. I manage a nod.
“Okay. I’ll call you later, Mary,” he says, and I hear him drop a kiss on my mom’s head. She’s holding me tightly, and I’m still trembling.
After the door closes behind Phil, my mom asks if I want to talk about it.
“Not yet.”
She seems to understand that it’s not a closed door. I’m just spent and confused and so tired.
“I have to tell you something, Vada.”
I turn, and she releases her grip. She is smiling again.
“You know how Phil and I have been seeing each other for a while.”
I choke as a laugh gurgles out. “Duh.”
“Oh. Well,” she says, smoothing out the nonexistent wrinkles of her blouse, revealing something sparkly. “He asked me to marry him today.”
My jaw drops clear to the floor. “Wow,” I say. “I thought maybe you were more serious than you were letting on, but—”
“We are. I’m sorry we’ve kept it so private. Phil worried that you might not be too keen on another guy around with all the Marcus bullshit.”
“Mom!” I say, shocked. Mom never, ever swears.
“Well, that’s what it is. Anyway, we wanted to tell you together, but…”
“I started sobbing all over him?”
She tilts her head, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “Right. And as I watched you, I wondered if it would be okay. Maybe you would be okay with Phil around permanently. And I really love him. He makes me so…”
“Happy?” I say. “Duh,” I repeat. “You are radiating kittens and sunbeams, Mom.”
“Well, I think I’ve loved him most of my life, to be honest. We almost got together in high school, but he chickened out. Then I met your dad and convinced myself it wasn’t what I thought it was, but … I think it’s been there all along.”
My mind can’t help but go to Luke.
“For him, too, right?” I say, no longer sure who I’m asking about.
She nods, her dark hair bouncing. And something calms inside of me.
“It’s incredible, Mom. Truly. I’m so happy for both of you. My two favorite people in the world love each other.”
“A
nd you, Vada. We’re both crazy about you.”
I bite my lip, trying not to cry again. “Mom,” I say finally. “Mom! You’re going to be a bride!”
She slips into a chair at the kitchen table, and I sit across from her.
“I know! I need to find a dress. You’ll come with me, right?”
“Of course.”
“We’re thinking something small. I don’t want to wait.”
“Okay.”
“Vada,” my mom says, her hands reaching for me but stopping short as if she’s unsure. “Are you really okay with all of this?”
I lean back against my chair and meet her gaze. “Absolutely.”
She bites her lip in a way so familiar to me that I know she’s playing for time. “That was fast. I really want you to think about it.”
I press forward and take her hands. “Mom. I have thought about it. I’ve been thinking about it, wishing for it, even, for years.”
“For a dad?”
I shake my head. “I have a dad. He sucks. I’ve been wishing for a Phil. For a man who will love you the way you deserve.”
“But he’ll be your stepdad, you realize.”
“Yeah. I know. And I’m”—I swallow against my tight throat—“grateful. But I’m eighteen. I don’t need a stepdad. I’ve always just needed a Phil, and he’s been that since the day he let me follow him around the club.”
“You don’t think things will change?”
“Not in a bad way.”
She sniffs. “I hate how grown up you sound about all this.”
I shrug. “Not your fault.”
A tear runs down her cheek, and she sniffs louder. “I can’t hate him because he gave me you, and I love you more than anything in the entire world, but sometimes I hate him.”
I stand up and wrap my arms around her from behind. We cry together, and it’s at once the saddest and happiest thing.
Finally, I straighten and swipe at my eyes. “I need to stop by the club. Is that okay? I want to congratulate him. You’re a prize, Mom.”
“I think he’d like that.”
“Wanna come?”
“Nah, I think this is between the two of you.”
* * *