“Alone,” Dad repeats, his suspicion and concern dueling.
“Journalists do it all the time,” I admonish.
“For work,” he drags out as he calls bullshit. “Does this have anything to do with our conversation yesterday?”
“What conversation?” Mom asks, looking between us just as warily.
Shit.
“I think our daughter is seeing someone,” Dad speculates.
Thank God.
“No, I’m not,” I correct defensively, which sadly only makes me look more guilty. “I’m just steps ahead of everything at the office right now, and I want some me time. I haven’t taken any off since graduating,” I point out.
“True,” Mom says.
“I’m already narrowing down my articles for the thirtieth anniversary,” I turn to Dad as he mulls over my words.
“You seem confident.”
“It’s inherited.” That remark earns me a dazzling grin from him. “Besides, I’ve been reading Speak since I was five. Memory alone has served me well in picking out the majority of articles to highlight already, and we still have months before it goes to print.”
“Something’s up,” Mom weighs in, aiding Dad’s suspicions as I make peace with the fact there’s no chance of an acting career in my future. I’ll have to up my game tomorrow when I come face-to-face with Easton, or I’ll be screwed.
“Nothing is up. I’m just a little burnt out. I need…something.” Dumping more pasta onto my plate to keep my hands busy, I let a little fake annoyance through. “I don’t see anything wrong with that.”
“All right, baby, if that’s what you need,” Dad acquiesces as he and Mom do that freaky silent communication thing and collectively decide to drop it.
Considering my emotions are all over the place from the latest emails I inhaled before I arrived, I decide I’m doing an okay job because inwardly, I’m freaking out. I’m set to board a red-eye halfway across the country in a few hours and feel relieved they haven’t grilled me so much on the where but mainly on the why. Thankful I pay my own AmEx bill, I look over to my father as he pops a beer and reaffirms my decision that he’ll never know. Even if I have been granted the first and only interview with Easton Crowne—which would no doubt boost circulation—I’ll never use a word of it. That’s the only way I’ll ever live with myself for doing something so deceptive.
With a raw heart and hellfire gnawing my conscience, I drain my beer and look between my parents, only to catch more of their conspiratorial expressions. Though they’re still in silent communication mode, there’s a pride in their eyes as they both turn to look back at me.
“What?” I roll my eyes. “It’s freaky when you do that, you know.”
“What?” Dad asks, his grin growing.
“Talk without speaking.”
Dad gives Mom a smug smirk. “When you’re married to someone nearly a quarter of a century—or the right person—it comes naturally, trust me.”
My parents have always been considered the ‘it’ couple amongst their friends, not that they care. Mom was right in saying I knew the details of how they met—a media conference in Chicago. The way Mom tells it, she took one look at my dad and lost the sense God gave her.
Mom always jokingly calls him her longest one-night stand.
Dad calls her the one that will never get away.
Sadly, I get that part of it now and no longer find it romantic.
After a whirlwind romance, they married just shy of a year of dating, and neither looked back.
Or have they?
There’s been maybe one month of my life where I wasn’t sure if I’d become another statistic of divorce. I was seven. During that time, Mom took me to stay with my grandparents for a week. When we got home, something had changed. They put on a good front for me, but more weeks passed before things truly got back to normal. There was a second shift, and they’ve been fine ever since. I’ve never spent much time thinking about it, but now I’m curious as to why.
“Where is your head tonight, daughter of mine?” Mom asks, a grin on her face as she glances back at my dad with bulging quizzical eyes. With the lift of a shoulder, he pops the top of another beer before reaching down to scratch the ears of our ancient basset hound, Sparky. Forcing myself back into the moment, I scrutinize the two of them.
“Who made the first move?” I ask, tipping my own beer to start a dangerous line of questioning.