“Dad.” If he’s about to take the blame for so many men my age being undateable, I can’t listen. “There’s nothing wrong with a woman having standards. You didn’t do anything but encourage me to wait for the right guy—”
“He setimpossiblestandards for you.” My mom spits out. “He had you looking for perfection ...”
“And no man is perfect, kid.” My dad finishes her sentence.
Why do I have a knot in my throat? “You are.”
My mom snorts the snort of a woman who has been married for decades.
“The point is, I shouldn’t be the voice in your head”—he lowers his voice—“even though I wanna be.”
My mom talks over him. “Yours should be the only voice in your head that matters now. Well, yours and—” she points her index finger toward heaven, her face serious. Classic Mom.
Have they been colluding with Adam? This whole line of thought reminds me of what he said in the hammock last night.
My dad nods. “She’s right, Stevie.”
The way he says my name only confirms what I already believe. No one will ever love me the way my dad and brothers do.
But do I still believe that? I think of how it felt to magically wake up in Adam’s bed, and I remember dancing with him on the geriatric dinner train. I might have been wrong. It could be possible for someone to love me the way the best men in my life do. But still, I can’t let my father, my lifelong hero, speak poorly of himself. “Dad,” I mimic his tone.
“I’m not perfect, Stevie. No one is. I’ve been a pain in your mom’s butt for forty-two years. I’m late all the time. I can’t listen without trying to fix things.” My mom nods, wide eyed. “Andremember when I lost my job back when you were in the third grade?”
He’s grasping now.
“But Dad, that wasn’t your fault! You, Conor, Declan ... You’re the gold standard.”
“Oh, please!” My mom tips her face to the sky. “When was the last time you had a conversation with one of your brothers that lasted longer than thirty seconds? I think it was pre-COVID for me and Conor.” Shetsks, muttering, “That kid.”
Her “kid” is thirty-eight years old, but she has a point. My brothers are impossible to get on the phone. “I miss them,” I mention offhandedly.
My mom pivots to face me. “I do, too.” Her eyes soften along with her tone. “But that’s life, Stevie. We grow. We move forward. Things change. Your brothers have moved ahead, as they should. Sure, they could call more, but—”
I hear the words she’s leaving unsaid: it’s time for me to move on, too. I’m surprised that the thought isn’t as painful as it would have been a few weeks ago. A sasquatch-sized man started filling the gaps my brothers left behind. I still miss them, though. So much. “I know they aren’t perfect, but ... I love them.”
“That’s the point.” My mom throws up her hands. “It’s possible to love people despite their imperfections. It’s not only possible, but necessary.” She reaches for my dad’s hand. “No matter who you’re with, there will come a time when things aren’t ideal.”
“But if you’re lucky you’ll find someone who is perfectfor you.” My dad glances at my mother with tender, crinkly eyes. “He won’t be a carbon copy of you, or me. He’ll see you and love you for who you are. And you’ll love him for who he is—”
“—even if he dresses up like Bigfoot,” my mom finishes.
My dad is howling with laughter again.
Of course, I’m thinking about Adam now. I want him to be that man for me. If what they’ve described is real love, then I might be in love with Adam, too. How many ways have I lost this bet now? I can’t keep track. With a sigh, I rest my temple on the warm window as we stop at a stop sign.
A sputtering engine and the thumping bass of heavy metal draws my attention. When I look over, I’m not surprised to see Beckett behind the wheel of a golf cart next to us. I am surprised by what he does next, though.
When he sees me he shakes his head, stares me dead in the eye, and extends his hand in a thumbs-down gesture. He emphasizes the thumbs-down, wagging his head slowly with a scowl.
What the crap, dude?
“Geez. What’d you do to cheese off the Anderton boy?” my dad asks as Beckett peels ahead of us on his golf cart.
I frown after him. “I have no idea.”
After Milt Thompson let the door close in my face at the Circle K and Muffie Horowitz bodychecked me with her bedazzled purse on the sidewalk outside the diner a few seconds ago, it occurs to me that something might be up. Beckett isn’t the only person in Cape Georgeana giving me the figurative thumbs-down.
I take a seat at the counter, hungry for bacon pancakes and a normal Monday morning. While I wait for Brady to take my order, I scan the makeshift chalk tally board behind the register. I find Ruth’s name scribbled near the bottom, and a few sheets of copy paper are tacked beside it after Marlow must've run out of room. The huge glass jar holding the pot is a solid mass ofcash. This thing got away from us. On the bright side, it looks like my T-shirts have been cleaned out. Oh, Adam. I accidentally immortalized him—and my own foolishness. I picture the shock on his face the night I gave him a T-shirt free of charge, and heat claws up my neck. Poor guy.