The Better Half(46)
I had to look away. The shock of my daughter looking more butch than baby was too much for me to linger. I pretended to fumble in my purse for something, and then I walked over to the baggage claim to help Dad pull his luggage off the conveyor belt before he gave himself a double hernia. Dad grabbed my arm to hold me back from laying into Xandra, and it felt just like my mom used to do: putting a hand on me, telling me to pump my brakes when she could sense my anger was about to let loose.
“You want a hat, so your head doesn’t catch a cold when we step outside?” I ask Xandra after giving her a hug. I waited a moment, I really did.
“Nice job, Nina, took you a whole minute to get into it,” Dad said, striding up to take hold of Xandra’s hand and walk her toward short-term parking.
Just that quick, the two against one dynamic was in action. Did Fitzroy not spy the safety pin in one of his granddaughter’s earholes?
“Hey, Jasmine,” I say, giving a big hug to one of my favorite seniors before I head up the bleachers to where I see Roan and Marisol have already claimed spots. With R-H letters in kelly green and rose red adorning her cheeks, and a pile of ribbons holding her high pony, Jasmine has exuded school spirit since her first day in kindergarten. When her teacher asked her what she wanted to be when she grew up, she hopped to the center of the sharing circle, kicked her leg in the air, and roared, A CHEERLEADER! I never did tell her parents that their school tuition was paying for such five-year-old aspirations. Turns out, thirteen years later, Jasmine also wants to be the next RBG. “I saw your mom last week hobbling around the upper school on crutches. Is her ankle doing any better?”
“She’s way better, Ms. Clarke. I’m glad, too, ’cause I’m sick of having to reach everything in the house. You know I’m not that tall.” Jasmine puts a hand on her hip and gives me a pout for show. Not one member of her Filipino family stands above five-five, and Jasmine is no exception, maybe hitting five-two in her platform sneakers. “I think she’s keeping those crutches around to get me to do more chores.”
“Smart woman if you ask me. Enjoy the game, Jaz.” I nod to the one-woman pep squad.
“I hate the Royal-Hawkins basketball shirts and shorts. I believe synthetics are killing our environment more than cows,” Marisol shares in her mock activist voice. Since discovering that listening to podcasts while doing laundry makes the time fly, Marisol has become the climate change police. It’s a bit hard to listen to her preach when she’s picking remnants of a paper straw out of her teeth, but her intentions are good.
“Okay, here it is.” Roan is waving his cell phone inches in front of his eyes trying to create enough wind to keep from crying. Oh my God, is he moving? Is Tate making him go back to New Jersey? This cannot be happening to me this year, of all years! Roan’s racking up families for Royal-Hawkins like I haven’t seen in a decade, and he’s the one I need around to smooth out the rumors when the HOS is MIA when the B-A-B-Y arrives. He absolutely cannot leave me.
“Tate wants to elope!”
Oh, thank God, Roan’s not going anywhere other than into a panic.
“Elope-elope, or more like a destination wedding?” Marisol questions before we go chasing Roan down a rabbit hole.
“ELOPE. No toasts. No first dance. No running off to our honeymoon under a canopy of sparklers.”
“No gifts,” I chime in.
“EXACTLY. And I want a Vitamix BAD.” Roan sulks.
“You want the panini machine we got for our wedding? It’s still in the box,” Marisol offers, always looking for a way to clear out her cabinets.
“Dairy’s my new don’t.” Roan pats his stomach. “I mean, look at these pictures of us in Disneyland.” Roan’s aggressively swiping picture after picture of Tate hugging him at the happiest place on earth. In tennis shorts, Tate’s tanned and muscled legs are on display, his Mickey Mouse ears perfectly propped atop his golden crown of hair. “I want the world to see THIS is my man. At least I want my world to see it. My relatives back in Dublin don’t believe I’m marrying someone who looks like he just stepped off a Baywatch television shoot.”
“Does Tate want to elope anywhere good?” Marisol asks, hoping for a silver lining to Roan’s devastating news.
“Lake Tahoe. The Nevada side.” We all pucker like we’ve been served something sour.
“That’s unfortunate,” I say, unable to come up with anything better, but knowing the consoling has to start.
“I know, right?” This is exactly where Roan’s demand to stand by his side comes into play. Marisol and I nod our heads vigorously in solidarity with our wounded gride.
“Why does Tate want to elope?” Marisol asks, scrunching up her nose, put off by the idea. I dig my heel in between Marisol’s big and second toe so she recognizes her misstep. “I mean, does he have a fear of performing in front of crowds or something?” Marisol attempts to deflect from her rudeness.
“He’s hung up on the numbers. Money and people. Tate came up with an impossibly small budget for our wedding. It’s absolutely ridiculous to ask me to plan under his conditions. The budget alone won’t cover my suit, the photographer, and our rented 1975 Alfa Romeo getaway car!” Roan has worked himself up into an emotional lather that I know, from experience, we need to let run its course. “So, when I told Tate he was suffocating the creative vision that will set the tone for the rest of our lives together, he suggested we elope. To Heavenly!”