So I take another deep breath instead.
“Yesterday, I went on a date.” The sentence plops like dropped Jello.
“You what?”
“With who?”
“Mom. Dad,” Margaret cautions gently. “Let her talk. Let her go at her own pace.”
I spent the morning telling myself I would not cry even once during this conversation, but my eyes prickle because Margaret is so good. She’s just so, so good to have in my life.
I inhale again and blink fast, for once holding my tears at bay.
“I went on a date yesterday with a really nice guy named Beck Olivier,” I say, pride surging in me when I speak his name.
Mom and Dad blink their surprise and glance quickly at each other, their own married telepathy at work. I’m sure they assumed it would have to be someone they knew. Someone from church or the son of one of their friends because who else would I know? And I must admit that it’s kind of gratifying that they don’t know him.
That knowing him belongs to me.
“We are getting to know each other.” I look away from them and think about Beck. “He’s really kind… And calm… And he doesn’t freak out when I cry… And he thinks I’m funny, but he doesn’t laugh at me… And his mom died a few years ago, and I can tell he’s still really sad about that. And his dad has Parkinson’s and I can tell that’s really hard on him. And he works really hard. He gets up stupid early because he’s a farmer. And he’s outside all the time. I think he needs to wear sunscreen because his skin is?—”
“Wait—” Mom interrupts. And, wow, thinking about Beck and talking about him sort of put me in a little Beck fugue state, which was pretty nice, actually, and coming out of it to see the look on Mom’s face is less nice. “Is this the boy from the alley? The one with the sweet potatoes?”
“Sweet potatoes?” Dad asks. He looks at Mom. “The stock boy?”
“He’s not a stock boy,” I squawk, grossly offended on Beck’s behalf. “He’s a farmer. He runs a whole sweet potato farm, and it’s peak season right now. And even though most of his crop goes to a cannery in Opelousas, he still delivers to local restaurants and grocery stores. Which is why he was at The French Press the day I met him.”
I’m already defensive, and frustration tightens my throat. Crying would give me the release I crave, but I sense that if I start right now, my parents will stop listening and start reacting. And I need them to listen.
So I fight the tears harder than I’ve ever fought them before.
“Mmmm… Mmmmm… Mmmm.” The humming eases some of the tightness in my throat, and I focus on rocking, letting the rhythm and the pressure of my back against the upholstery ground me a little.
In the moments I turned inward, I must’ve missed something passing between my parents and Margaret—maybe Merrick too—because their eyes are trained on each other, not me, and for that I’m profoundly grateful.
I inhale and exhale again. “Margaret said that I should tell you about him—that we are going on dates and talking to each other.” I think about the kissing and the consenting, but I clamp my mouth shut as these thoughts fire.
Merrick told me he talked to his mom, and she’s not going to say anything to my parents about what she saw yesterday, so no need to mention the kissing.
“Honestly, I’m not really sure why I should be saying anything to you guys yet because a coffee date and a brunch date don’t even qualify as ‘dating’—” I use finger quotes to emphasize my point, “And I’m an adult and can do what I want?—”
And here Mom and Dad exchange a glance again. That married telepathy look.
“But, there it is. I went on a date yesterday and I’m going on another one Tuesday.” I lock eyes with Margaret. “Good enough?”
My sister smiles at me, but it looks a bit strained, like she’s not sure if things really are good. In fact, both she and Merrick glance at my parents as if taking a reading.
My eyes narrow. What are they waiting for? Do they know something I don’t?
I frown and look back at my parents. “What?”
Mom and Dad share another look. Longer this time. Mom gives a little tilt of her head in my direction, a cue my dad is supposed to follow.
“What?” I insist.
This time Dad sighs, leans forward, and sets his elbows on his knees.
“Hats, honey…” He’s frowning, but it’s one of those frowns I’ve only seen him wear when he has to break bad news. Like when I was six and he had to tell me our dog Barkley had been hit by a car. Or when I turned eleven and none of the five girls I’d invited to my sleepover birthday party accepted the invitation. “Telling us about your friend was the right thing to do, but…”