by Nick Day
Between the phone call and the diner, Pete and I hadn’t said much of anything to one another, still reeling from the gigantic monkey wrench tossed into our plans. Knowing Pete, he was waiting for me to speak first. He always waited to hear what I had to say.
After swallowing three or four huge mouthfuls of food, I sat back against the red vinyl bench.
“Easy there, tiger,” Pete said. He had barely made a dent in his omelet—an egg white omelet, full of vegetables. I rolled my eyes.
“Stress eating, ever heard of it?” I said dryly.
“What could you possibly have to be stressed about?” Pete asked, smirking.
I rolled my eyes. “Ha ha, very funny.”
I looked out the window next to our table. On the other side of the two-lane highway, the flat, toast-brown land stretched out until it connected with the robin’s-egg-blue sky. Brown stalks of tall grass blew gently in the warm wind, and a few big, dark birds circled overhead, looking for food scurrying in the dust below.
Suddenly I felt very, very far from home.
I remembered how giddy Pete had been blowing past the “Welcome to Oklahoma” road sign. How good it felt to stand in front of the arch in St. Louis. To explore the country, cut loose, take chances.
“Can I say something?” Pete asked, jolting me from my long gaze across the road. Oh God, I thought. Is he going to proclaim his love for me right now? In this diner? Was Maria right?
He continued without a response from me. “I know you’re doing this because you want to get to know your dad. And I think that’s great.”
“But?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Well . . . you’ve met my dad,” he said. “Everybody loves him. He’s got a million friends. He holds court at every party he goes to, and on and on.”
“I’m sure,” I said. “He’s hilarious.”
Pete nodded curtly. “Right.”
“But?” I said again.
“He’s not exactly like that . . . when the party ends. When it’s just him and me and my mom and my sisters again. He’s quiet, and he’s distant, and he can be really mean.” My heart rate slowed. Where was he going with this? “He used to make fun of me in high school, because, well . . . I mean, I’m not the most athletic person ever, right? I’ve been scrawny and gangly my whole life. He still calls me BP, which stands for Beat Pete, because . . . ”
“I’m not sure,” I said awkwardly.
Pete smiled sheepishly, running both hands through his fluffy hair. “Ah, because everybody can ‘Beat Pete’ in gym class.”
I inhaled sharply, but was at a loss for words. Eventually I managed, “I’m sorry, Pete. That’s so mean.”
Pete shook his head. “I’m not saying this to, like, confess how abusive my father is. And he’s not doing it to be mean, it’s just . . . that’s what he does. And I think every family has that kind of thing. I mean, you don’t have a perfect relationship with your mom.”
“Definitely not,” I said.
“Right,” said Pete. “So, I know you feel like you really missed out on something by not having your dad around for much of your life, and in some ways you did. But I think you’re expecting to have this sunshiny friendship with him . . . and I just don’t want you to be disappointed, is all.” He tried to take a big final gulp of coffee but he dribbled most of it down his chin, and onto his shirt. After nervously dabbing at the spill with a fistful of napkins, he took a deep breath. “Sorry, that was a lot. Okay, I’m done now. Sorry.”
I reached out and put my hand on his. “Thank you,” I said. “You’re right. I need to manage my expectations. And sorry your dad is such a jerk sometimes.”
He shrugged, smiling. He picked up his fork again and took another bite of his omelet.
We ate in silence for a minute as I thought everything over. “You know,” I said eventually, “even though the wedding isn’t happening, and even if meeting my dad is super painful or awkward or whatever and we leave after forty-five minutes . . . I still want to keep driving. I want to finish what we started.”
Pete smiled. “Awesome,” he said. “I’m so happy to hear that.”
“More coffee?” Our smoky-voiced waitress in her pale-pink uniform had appeared out of nowhere. She held the gigantic steel pot over the table.
“Sure,” Pete said, pushing his mug forward.
As she poured, the waitress looked right at me. “Couldn’t help but overhear,” she said. “Don’t shy away from pain, sweetie. Sounds crazy, I know, but trust me. Best things that ever happened to me, things that changed me the most in my life, they were real hard to go through. But you’ll come through the other side better for it.”
I just gawked at her, unsure of what to say.
“You’ll excuse my manners,” she said, giving the mug back to Pete. “Oklahomans don’t mince words. Maybe you’re not from around here.”
“No,” I managed.
“Well, I won’t bother you anymore, then. Just thought I should offer my two cents.”
“We appreciate it,” Pete said genially. He could be so unbelievably charming.
“There’s some Midwestern kindness,” the waitress said, winking at Pete. Adults—professors, parents, you name it—always loved Pete. He always claimed he didn’t know why.
“I’ll leave you alone, kids,” the waitress said plainly. “Just think about what I told you.”
She walked away slowly, limping to one side. She looked like she had been here forever, tucked away out on the plains serving pancakes and eggs to hungry, bleary-eyed drivers. She walked to another table and poured coffee into the mugs of the family sitting there: two kids, a mom, and a dad. The classic unit.
After she was out of earshot, Pete and I looked at each other and giggled. “I think she might have been a prophet!” Pete said, laughing. Then he put on a throaty Yoda voice. “Listen to her, you should.”
THE HOUSE WAS BIGGER THAN I THOUGHT IT WOULD be, certainly bigger than the house I lived in with my mom. The house where Dad used to live, I reminded myself. His house down here in Texas was in the fancy Dallas neighborhood of Westlake. It sat on a big plot of land at the end of a cul-de-sac, and as we approached it, it just seemed to get bigger.
Two Greco-Roman columns stood tall on either side of the massive brown front door. Large bay windows peered out on the ground level beneath similarly large windows above. The house’s face was made of crimson brick, smoothed down so it appeared almost fake. Maybe it was.
Only the downstairs lights were on, casting a warm glow into the darkness of the unlit neighborhood. There weren’t even any other cars on the street. I pictured the neighborhood’s minivans tucked away for the night, in orderly garages that smelled of spare tires and bags of sod.
I sat stock-still in the driver’s seat. Pete sat next to me, neither of us talking. I just stared straight ahead, trying to wrap my mind around the fact that on the other side of that massive brown door—which looked like it had been taken from a castle in Lord of the Rings—sat my dad. My dad, a man who had been out of my life so long that I had actually gotten used to it.
Though my body was frozen in the driver’s seat, my mind was running at a million miles an hour. Would he be wearing the same clothes he used to wear? Was he going to be fifty pounds heavier? Have a big bushy beard? Would I recognize him even if he hadn’t changed at all?
“There’s nothing left to do,” Pete said, “but just dive in.”
“I know,” I said softly, not looking at him. But I didn’t move a muscle. Pete shifted in his seat.
“Looks like he’s doing pretty well for himself,” Pete said. “This is like Real Housewives territory.”
“Seriously,” I said. “Where’d he get all this money from?”
“Let’s find out, huh?” Pete reached out and took my hand. Shivers rocketed up my spine and I shuddered. But he didn’t let go. “I’ll be there with you.”
I had a sudden impulse to grab his hand and kiss it out of sheer appreciation. Must be the
nerves making me crazy, I thought. I shook it off, smiling at my friend. “I know, Pete. You’re the best.”
We clambered out of the Corolla. The car doors slammed behind us, and we walked confidently up to the front door, Pete just a few steps behind me. I found the oversized gold doorbell and pushed it. Orchestral clangs rang out throughout the house. I waited, holding my breath.
Then I heard “Aha!” from inside the house. Suddenly my mind flashed to a memory of me, five years old, standing on the front porch of our house in Illinois. I had just gotten back from my first day of kindergarten, and hopped off the bus and tottered up to our front door. I remembered how my hand wasn’t big or strong enough to turn the knob, so I pressed our doorbell—our cheesy plastic doorbell. I stood there, wearing my brand-new Power Rangers backpack, knowing full well who was going to greet me in a moment’s time—and heard “Aha!” from inside. I listened for his footsteps approaching the door. They were the steps of the leather-bottomed wool slippers he always wore inside the house, coming ever closer toward—
And then the memory clashed with the present as he flung open the front door. Only one thing was different. For the first time, I wasn’t looking up at him from two feet below. Now I was looking at him head-on.
We could only manage to stare at one another. His hazel eyes were the same as mine. Finally, I managed one word. “Hey.”
“Hey,” he said softly. He spread his arms out wide and I couldn’t resist the invitation. I practically fell forward into him, and he wrapped his burly arms around me, clad in a thick wool sweater. I rested my head on his shoulder. I shouldn’t feel okay about this, I thought to myself. I should be meaner to him. But I couldn’t do it.
Finally, we separated, and I realized Pete had just been standing there watching us. “Uh,” I said, frantically, “Dad, this is my friend Pete.”
“Hey, Pete,” Dad said, extending a hand. Pete took it and shook firmly.
“Nice to meet you, sir,” Pete said.
“Oh, no, no,” Dad said, “call me Danny. I insist.”
“Nice to meet you . . . Danny,” Pete managed.
“Come in, come in,” Dad said, stepping back into the warm glow of the house. He led us through the first floor of the house, back towards the kitchen. It was like something from a magazine. High ceilings towered above the immaculate wide-open floor plan. There was a living room complete with a giant flat-screen TV on the wall and a yacht-sized three-paneled couch. Past the living room was a formal dining room with a rectangular solid-wood table. On the other side of the living room was a grand staircase with a red runner carpet up the middle, twisting upwards into the second floor, a mile away into the sky.
Dad led us into the kitchen, which was practically shimmering under the lights coming down from the ceiling. A rack of copper pots and pans hung over a gigantic granite-topped island, surrounded by leather barstools. And somehow, despite all the glamor, it was warm and inviting.
Pete and I couldn’t help but walk into the room in awe, dumbstruck at the sophistication and style on display. Dad noticed our slack-jawed faces and chuckled. “Yeah, we’re pretty happy with it.” But his face quickly darkened, and he looked away.
But just as soon as he had darkened, he brightened again. “What can I get you? Coffee, lemonade—ooh, I have some sweet tea, now that you’re in the South—or maybe you’re hungry? Would you like dinner?”
“Just water for me,” Pete and I said in unison. Dad raised an eyebrow at that, charmed, but said nothing.
We sat down around the island, big glasses of ice water sweating onto the granite. None of us knew where to begin.
After enough awkward silence, Dad offered, “I can’t thank you enough for coming, Sara—and you, Pete, for helping out.” Pete nodded softly, taking a nervous gulp of water. I’d never seen Pete look so uncomfortable, but I’m sure I looked ten times more awkward.
“I’m glad I came,” I said. “Basically.” Oh God! What?! It came out of my mouth before I had time to stop it. “I mean . . . you know . . . ,” I stuttered, trying to cover my tracks.
“No problem,” Dad said. “I’m glad you’re glad.”
Another silence set in. Pete took action. “You know what,” he said, “I’m pretty tired, it’s been a long day of driving. Would it be all right if I turned in for the night?”
Classic Pete, I thought. He recognized that there was a lot of talking that needed to happen without him around. I thanked him over and over again in my head, hoping he’d hear it.
“Sure thing,” Dad said. “I’ve got you all set up in the guest room.” He led Pete out of the kitchen, but on their way out, I heard him say, “Of course, you have your choice of rooms.”
What did that mean? His choice of rooms? How many bedrooms were in this place?
A ton of questions started unspooling in my head. This was a huge house—was Dad living here with his fiancée? Where was she, anyway? Why did they need this much space?
My heart quickened as I realized there could only be one answer to any of these questions. I started looking around the kitchen to see if I was right. The room was so tidy that nothing was immediately obvious. But I made my way to the giant stainless steel fridge and opened the door, searching the shelves.
My dad came back into the room behind me. “Looking for something to eat?” He asked.
I turned around to face him, holding a Juicy Juice box in my hand. My heart was beating out of my chest.
“Oh, man,” he said, sighing. “Okay.”
I couldn’t move from where I was standing. I wasn’t even sure what I was feeling. It felt like some poisonous combination of shame, loathing, confusion . . .
“Come on, sit down with me, let’s talk,” Dad said, trying to remain calm. Slowly I peeled myself away from the fridge and closed it behind me, the juice box still in my hand.
“Okay,” he said, taking a seat in one of the chairs.
“Why do you keep hiding things from me?” I asked sharply. “You ask me to come down here to see you for the first time in a decade, and watch you get married. Then, when I’m halfway here, you tell me the wedding is off, but I still show up, and somehow it doesn’t seem relevant to tell me—until I’m sitting in your kitchen—that you have kids?!”
The juice box burst in my hand. I dropped it, and immediately started sobbing. My hands flung to my face, hot tears pouring down my cheeks. I doubled over onto the tabletop, my forearms pressing down into where the juice had spilled, my whole body heaving with moans and whimpers. The tears kept coming and coming, like a blown-out fire hydrant pouring into the street. Dad reached across the tabletop and touched my arm. I drew it back and jumped backwards. I stumbled back over to the refrigerator and leaned up against the door.
This is the last place I want to be, I repeated in my head. Why did I do this to myself? This is a person who doesn’t love me—who never loved me! He tricked me into coming here. If I turn and sprint out of this room right now, I won’t ever have to look back, and I can be home by tomorrow—
“I’m so sorry,” Dad said softly. He sniffled. I didn’t say anything in return. If he thought I would comfort him right now, he was dead wrong. “This wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” he said sadly. “Not at all. This was supposed to be a happy thing. For us to make a new relationship, as adults. I couldn’t bear the thought of going through the rest of my life without you in it. And I wanted you with me as I started a new part of my life. So you’d come down here, see me, meet Teresa, and meet . . . well . . . ”
“Your kids,” I said softly.
“I should have told you,” he said. “I see that now. I just didn’t want to scare you off. It seemed like too much all at once.”
“I am this close to running out of here and never coming back,” I said. I turned to face him, staring him dead in the eyes.
He had nothing to say to that. He looked down, ashamed.
“Why aren’t you better at this?” I asked, not backing down. “This is your whole ma
ster plan, but it feels like I’m the one who has to find things out, who has to ask the questions. I didn’t ask for any of this!”
“Hey!” he barked. I jumped, shocked at the sudden change in his voice. “I’m struggling here too, Sara. Everything fell apart yesterday—less than twenty-four hours ago, okay? Yesterday we were planning a wedding, and we were getting this big house ready for a reception, and we were putting the finishing touches on the cards for every place setting, and our kids were trying on their dresses again, because they loved them so much. And now . . . ” He looked upward to the high ceilings, across the expansive room. Then he looked back at me, and outstretched his arms. “It’s all broken.”
Now I was the one with nothing to say. Just like earlier that day on the phone, his sadness stopped me in my tracks. He looked very small all of a sudden, sitting in a kitchen—in a house, in a neighborhood—meant for many more than one.
“So can we just talk?” Dad implored me. “Please?”
I took a deep breath. “Yeah,” I said firmly. “That’d be good.”
He got up, crossed to the fridge, and pulled out two bottles of Shiner Bock beer. “Texas-made,” he said, smiling. “Take the edge off.”
“I’m not twenty-one,” I said. Of course, he doesn’t even know how old I am.
“And I’m not a cop,” Dad said swiftly. I shook my head again, hoping he’d drop it.
“Well, I’ll have yours then,” he said, opening two beers at once, and seeming to think nothing of it.
He sat back down across the island from me and we just looked at each other. I had no idea where to start. With every second of silence that ticked by, six more questions cropped up in my head. My mouth felt glued shut.
“How’s school?” Dad offered.
I stared back at him. “No,” I said.
“No?’”
“I don’t want to start there,” I said. “Why’d you leave, Dad?”