His smile was slow, but it left not one part of his face untouched. “You’re worth it, Foster.”
My heart bobbed up and down, both heavy and weightless. “Thank you for coming,” I said, meaning to only convey appreciation for all that he had went through, but I could hear it—the feeling behind the words intimating something more. Dominic, his intuition piqued, heard it too. His hands paused at precisely the same second a look of pure shock crossed his face, disfiguring his features. He stared. The look he poured into my eyes was not so much look at it was absorption. This coupled with the fact that he said nothing, unusual in any situation, frightened me.
“Of course I came,” he said, resolute. Did you—” He smiled but it was not a smile of happiness. “Foster, did you think I wouldn’t come?”
Was it an undoubtedly predictable notion that I would always succeed in ruining our most tender moments by saying the wrong thing? It certainly seemed so. He pulled back, but repositioned his hands firmly around my waist. He sighed, a noise that belied the intensity his glowing eyes projected. “I thought we talked about this,” he said very quietly, sighed again—a quick burst through the nose. “You’re still doubting how I feel about you, aren’t you?”
I wasn’t looking at him, but could hear the weary sadness evident in his voice. My brain was scrambling, trying to figure out how I might begin reparations. “We did,” I said unhelpfully. “We did talk about this.”
“I don’t understand. Then why are—”
“Dominic,” I broke in, afraid that if I didn’t interrupt him right this instant I might lose my nerve—no, not might, would. I would lose it. “Please,” I whispered hoarsely, “I want to be honest with you, but we both know it’s not an easy thing for me to do. I just . . . I just need a second—please.”
When I opened my eyes, not realizing I had closed them, I could see Dominic was taken aback by my directness, but not at all angry. If anything he looked pleasantly surprised and nodded encouragingly. Rushing to speak up, my grip on his arms had tightened. I relaxed my hands again, letting the pent up oxygen out through my mouth.
“I did consider the possibility that you might not come,” I said, unable to keep culpability from coloring my voice black. “I won’t try and hide that from you, I did. And I can’t tell you how disappointing it was to realize that all it took was fifteen minutes before I was right back where I started, doubting what we have.” It was a strain to do so, but I forced myself to look in his eyes as I spoke, willing him to see that these words were the truth and that they cost me everything to admit. “I’m not proud of myself for being this way, and I hate hurting you. I did it again and I’m sorry. I want you to know that I’m doing everything I can to work on being better at this—to change.” Emotion was building inside my throat, making it difficult to speak. “It’s . . . it’s going to take a little time.”
Before I had finished my sentence, Dominic was pulling me close again. “We have that,” he murmured, a firmness evident in his voice. “As much as you need.”
Due to our respective heights, my head rested perfectly at the hollow beneath his chin. I closed my eyes, exhaled loudly, then breathed in just as strongly, languishing in Dominic’s scent—leather, soap, and sun. For a moment, neither of us found anything to say. Then he began stroking me in that mindless way that told me his thoughts were elsewhere. I wished I could see his face just now.
I felt him shift, his cheek rest upon the top of my head. “Thank you for being honest with me.”
Emboldened, I ran my hands up his back, reminded of last’s night almost-kiss. “Thank you for being patient with me,” I said, a little breathless.
I heard him snort, the tepid air leave his nose and brush across my forehead. “That’s me; Mr. Patient.”
“You don’t give yourself nearly enough credit,” I said reprovingly. “You’re actually very patient.” Expecting him to say something contradictory or mildly self-deprecating, I was surprised to be met with reticence. For the second time I wished I could see the expression on his face.
“I missed you,” he said, and I was surprised to hear a sultry quality to his voice. “I’m pretty sure at one point time actually stopped.”
This admission made me smile, as the same thought had inundated me with continual frequency. “I missed you, too.”
His body began to quake with soft laughter. “Mmm,” he sighed, “and I definitely missed this.” Before I could ask, my curiosity barely pecked, he’d pulled our bodies apart, staring at me triumphantly. The bright blue eyes absorbed my face with alacrity. “Hello, Moonpie.” Despite the epithet that I had no delusions would be disappearing anytime soon, I couldn’t find it in me to be bothered or to shy away—not when the result was his abounding smile, broadly stretched across his face.
“How could you have possibly known I was blushing?” I asked, dissembling a surliness.
He shrugged noncommittally. “I don’t know.” He tilted his head, giving me a long look of contemplation. As he did, all signs of humor diminished, replaced by a thoughtful consideration. Taking my cheeks in his hands, he pulled me close enough so that I could see each individual eyelash, and also the scar that ran vertically through his full bottom lip. While his head didn’t drop but remained level, his eyes remained downcast, bound to mine. They were dark and heavy-lidded. “Maybe I just know you.”
I had literally no time to consider this when he nearly jumped back from me as if shocked by electricity. A mutinous voice declared, “But I didn’t say anything this time!” just before my dad came waltzing into the room, muttering to himself.
“Fost!” He bellowed, his eyes riveted to the floor.
“I’m right here, Dad,” I said from approximately six feet away.
“Hm?” He glanced up, abstracted. “Oh, right—sorry.” He said something after that, sounding like, “didn’t see you there,” but I couldn’t be sure, as it was lost when he turned his back on both me and Dominic.
This disregarding, though not intentionally rude, was disconcerting nevertheless and I wasn’t exactly sure how to go about rectifying his inadvertent discourtesy. I stole a glance at Dominic, who was kneading his hands together, less composed than me it seemed. I cleared my throat and without knowing what I might say, made an attempt at breaking through the thick wall of distraction surrounding him.
“Dad.” My voice, naturally soft, didn’t carry well; however, I was pretty sure someone less absorbed would have heard me just fine. I tried another angle. “Can I help you find something?”
“Yes . . .” he said, and left it at that. Helplessly, I stood there waiting for more clarification while my father continued to sweep the floor with his eyes, clearly in search of something lost. He began pacing behind the couch, catching a bare toe on the same rug I had detangled no more than fifteen minutes ago. He pitched forward, disappearing entirely behind the large piece of furniture.
“Dad! Are you—”
“Yup—just fine,” he retorted, springing back up like pogo stick, no less determined in his mission. “Have you, um . . . have you . . .” He ducked down, then rose, then began making motions, pointing a finger to each ear, to his head, and lastly to his chest.
“Did you misplace your glasses?” I tried, doing my best to interpret his charades.
“I did, yes—have you seen them? I can’t find them anywhere,” he muttered, hoisting a pillow into the air. “Spent the last thirty minutes retracing my steps.” His grip loosened, and not minding what he was doing—likely his depth perception was effected, given his prescription was for nearsightedness—the pillow tumbled to the floor, unnoticed. “I know I had them an hour ago,” he asseverated, the perturbed tone of voice indicating how much he detested losing things—though it happened at least once a day.
He reached up to scratch his head, lifting the sandy brown mop of curls off his forehead, to which they instantly flopped forward, landing in complete disarray. Although I had watched him walk upstairs with my own eyes, without my mother present, he’d neg
lected to get dressed and was still wearing work clothes—stained jeans and a blue and white Columbia sweatshirt.
A strong current forced my thoughts errantly, demanding an introspection that until now, I had no reason ever to consider. We were so alike, my father and I; everything from our physical appearance to our habits, mannerisms, and intonations purported a virulent, undeniable kinship—the clumsiness, unintelligible muttering, the total and complete abstraction of mind. To me, these things were shortcomings, qualities I liked least in myself. In my father, however, these less than desirable traits weren’t so strikingly flaws. I wondered . . . at the emerging question I felt the flush ascend up my throat, staining my cheeks with color. Were my father not my father, and someone much younger, my age to be specific, would I find his behavior endearing? Moreover, was it perhaps this same sort of amusing eccentricity my mother had obviously found charming in my father, that similarly drew Dominic to me?
“Hm? What was that?”
“Hm?” I echoed, meeting his bright green—terribly distracted—eyes. Next to me, I heard Dominic chuckle very quietly and looked up. It took a moment, and then with sudden acuity I understood. My eyes, own eyes would look no less bright green and terribly distracted just now.
“Did you say you saw them?” my father inquired, swinging his head left to right, and then back to his left. Dominic remained to be invisible, not garnering the least bit of acknowledgment. Not one to mislay his equanimity, I could feel him shifting beside me, muscles stiff with restlessness. I had not the slightest idea what to do.
I sighed, overcome with indecision. “Sorry, no, I haven’t, but . . .” I paused, deliberating. Dominic’s face was hard—not with anger, but discomfort, his eyebrows low over troubled eyes. He very much looked like someone who had swallowed something large and mobile. That, or a beehive the way he shifted his weight back and forth. I knew just how important impressions were to him, and not only that, but Dominic’s sense of propriety demanded that he forge a connection with my dad. How could I explain to him this had nothing to do with him? I sighed again, and touched his hand for reassurance. He smiled weakly, for my sake, but the expression remained hard with grim disappointment. “Maybe we should ask Mom if she knows where they are,” I said finally. I simply couldn’t bring myself to make a blatant announcement. It would embarrass both of them, I was certain, once my father realized he’d persisted in ignoring Dominic’s presence.
“I remember I was wearing them in the greenhouse,” he rattled off, continuing to scope out the room like a bloodhound on a squirrel hunt. “And then I came in through the kitchen, walked to the sink—no, no, the fridge,” he corrected, “took out the bottle of water, sat down at the table, and then . . .” He stopped mid-sentence, back going ramrod straight. “Then Rhoda came in and distracted me!” he exclaimed, the scientist in him exhilarated with the promise of progression. “She had her leash in her mouth . . .”
And on he went.
When my mother appeared in the archway, not in any of our direct lines of sight, I could feel the air change and turned my head. I met her eyes, and with one supplicating look summed up the current situation in our wordless way. Her soft brown eyes passed over first my father, then Dominic and finally back on me. A very brief smile appeared empathetically, then she gave an infinitesimal nod and without hesitation came forward into the room, like a fragrant spring breeze.
She stopped first at Dominic, laying a welcoming hand on his shoulder. “Hello, Dominic.” Her open face bespoke nothing but warm delight, and I knew it was no accident that she’d interjected at the exact second my dad paused for a breath. “It’s wonderful to see you again so soon.”
I felt his body relax into relief, and his spine and back muscles rise with a breath. Had I not been holding him, though, I would never have known how tense he was. He smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. Kelly,” he replied, deep voice smooth and calm. “And thank you for having me over to your home again.”
“Of course. James and I love hosting gatherings,” she said, including my father graciously. “But really, this was all Foster’s idea.” She smiled briefly at me. “I apologize we kept you waiting this long. We tend to run a little late around here,” she said ruefully, floating to my father’s side. I thought for sure the time had come for imminent recognition, especially when my father made direct eye contact with Dominic.
I was wrong.
Two deep furrows ran lengthwise between his eyes. “Marie,” he said, turning toward her, “have you seen—”
“Right here, sweetheart,” she whispered, reaching over his shoulder and brandishing the missing glasses folded into the back of his hooded sweatshirt.
It was like watching a ballet, I thought, infused with a fresh bout of admiration for my mother’s ability to handle awkward situations with both finesse and subtlety. She handed my father his glasses, somehow without making it obvious she was doing so, while also managing not to sound patronizing or supercilious, and in the same seamless motion slipped a hand around his waist, then redirected the attention back to Dominic.
“I hope you’ve brought your appetite,” she said, glittering eyes giving nothing away of the savvy woman behind them. Looking over, I saw I was not the only one thoroughly impressed; the expression on Dominic’s face was easily translated into something akin to extreme approbation. “Foster’s prepared an amazing meal for us,” she added with hushed enthusiasm, then laughed openly. “I’m looking forward to being able to finally eat it. We’ve been tortured with the smells all afternoon. Oh, speaking of,” she said, bringing her hands together as she glanced toward the archway, “I completely forgot to feed Rhoda. She’s been loitering in the kitchen for the last half-hour giving me that look.” I laughed, knowing too well which look she referred to, the perfect combination of starved and adorable. “Please,” she insisted, moving hastily, “the three of you go on in to the dining room, and I’ll be there in just a moment.” She paused just before exiting, sending my father an affectionate, though implicating look. “James?” There was no way of knowing whether this maneuver was aimed to get my father and Dominic talking, but as it was primarily my responsibility to make sure Rhoda received her dinner—I thought so.
Purloined of my mother’s sociable company, the role of host fell to him. He pivoted slowly to face Dominic and me, staring dazedly at him as though he’d suddenly dropped out of the ceiling. He slipped his glasses on, using a knuckle to settle them firmly on his nose. “Dominic,” he announced amicably but unceremoniously, and strolled forward, arm extended.
Dominic rushed forward to meet the gesture. “Sir,” he returned politely, clasping hands and giving one firm shake. “Thank you for having me, Sir.”
“Oh, yes, of course.” He stammered on his words as they separated. The smile on my father’s face was oddly shaped and counterfeit. I knew this because I could feel the same wonky grin on my own face. Each man took a hefty step backward, looking slightly wary and not quite sure what to make of the other. Dominic, out of respect or nervousness I didn’t know, said nothing.
“So,” my father said after a moment, surprising me by laying a hand Dominic’s shoulder and guiding him toward the foyer. “It’s, ah, good to see you.”
As we turned to leave, Dominic flicked his eyes at me, a pithy look I couldn’t make sense of. A second later, I was staring at two backs as I followed closely behind, listening to Dominic remark appreciatively on the architecture of the house. The look on his face had been strange, I thought curiously, something in the bit-back smirk. Then realization struck—my father’s last words—and I threw my hands over my mouth to mute my laughter.
~
I had never openly asked Dominic about his mid-year transfer to Shorecliffs, what had brought about the decision to switch schools in the middle of a semester. Numerous times I had come close to broaching the subject, then, upon a stirring with no precise name or reason, the strong compulsion to circle wide around it changed my mind. This seemingly small fact, it was the cente
r of his undoing; I was sure of it. For this reason—and too many others—I worried. Though I tried to block the memory from my mind, determining this perception of him unfair and skewed, the image of the two of us in the car on the way to The House of Hope was burned into my brain like torch marks on a tree. How many seemingly innocuous questions would be asked? Would he shut down on my parents as he had on me, turning into ice and wall.
And what was I to do?
As the food was passed around the table, Dominic opened conversation, first asking my father about Viva, then taking interest in my mother’s garden. Both had been more than willing to go into elaborate detail, until there was nothing more to share. Buttering a piece of rosemary bread, I could feel the tides turning, the quiet lull before someone chose to speak.
“Foster mentioned you aren’t originally from California,” my mother said, cutting into her lasagna with the side of her fork. “Virginia, is that right?”
A tiny prickle began its ascent up my spine. I must have reacted to it, even if minutely, because Dominic turned just before answering and smiled. His eyes were clear, both in intent and request. “Yes, mam, that’s correct,” he replied, resting his knife on the edge of his plate. “Lived there all my life until just recently.”
She had just put a large bite into her mouth and worked to chew quickly, then threw a screening hand up, speaking from the corner of her mouth. “Where at exactly?”
“Belle Haven?” he answered, raising a quizzical eyebrow. “Have you heard of it?”
Her face instantly lit up amid vehement nods. “Oh, I have! We visited briefly, a long, long time ago.” She shook her head nostalgically. “Do you remember, James? The seminar we taught in Blacksburg on Biocontrol of Plant Pathogens?”
My dad leaned back in his chair, a shallow line running between his eyes as he chewed. “Was that in ninety-three?”
“Ninety-five,” she corrected. “I only remember because it was just after Foster was born,” she recalled, turning to me with a tender look. “You couldn’t have been more than eight months old, Fost. And we almost didn’t go. It was unheard of to bring children with you, but I couldn’t stand the thought of being away from you for a week. When we went to meet our hosts at the University, and they realized that what I was pushing was a stroller and not lab equipment, you would have thought they’d never seen a baby.” She smiled suddenly, eyes filled with sweet memory. “You were perfect, though. Didn’t make a peep even once. We structured the format so that every fifteen minutes or so your father would take over lecturing so I could steal away and check on you. You were never more than a few feet away in your stroller, but not visible to the audience. We tried to time the seminars during your naps. I was sure you must be asleep for how quiet you were, but then I’d find you . . . bundled up tight, but incredibly wide awake, those enormous green eyes so observant, so determined to see everything.” Her voice had grown soft and the faintest bit of moisture pricked at her eyes. She turned her attention back on Dominic, remembering herself with a soft laugh. “Oh, goodness, I wandered off topic a bit, didn’t I?”
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