“Mom, if there’s anyone in the world I want to hear it, it’s you.”
“I understand, I do. I’ll deal,” Mom assures me as the water boils over and the tell-tale fizzling sound goes off behind her. Oblivious and intent on our conversation, she ignores it. Dad snaps into motion, turning off the heat fueling both burners before smoothly sliding the saucepan to safety, his chuckle rumbling through the kitchen.
“Babe, you’re not going to turn into Gordon Ramsay tonight. Let’s spare your pride.”
She keeps her gaze fixed on me. “No matter what, I’m proud of you. I know how unbelievably talented you are, no matter what, okay?”
I can’t help my grin. “Thanks, Mommy.”
Dad gives me his signature scowl, but Mom smiles, her watery eyes gleaming with pride. “That natural shift to smartass is all me,” she declares proudly to Dad.
“Let’s not exaggerate by taking all the credit,” Dad quips back, opening a drawer full of take-out menus and tossing them on the counter. “I’m sure something’s still open.”
“It’s spaghetti,” Mom defends, scowling at Dad’s profile. “Jarred tomatoes, meat, spice, and noodles, not rocket science.”
“Tell that to your finished product,” Dad grumbles, the smell of burnt sauce starting to permeate the air. Mom gets a whiff of it, and her expression falls. “You were distracting me.”
“Babe, face it, you’ll never be a cook.”
“Only if you face the fact that you’ll never be a mechanic and get that piece of shit out of our garage.”
“It’s coming along,” he defends.
“It’s been eight months,” she chides. “You still haven’t turned the engine over, and I’ll make sure it never does. You’re not riding a fucking motorcycle. That phase of your life is over. Window closed.”
Dad remains mute, his version of ‘we’ll see’ covering his expression, and I can’t help but observe the two of them as my thoughts again drift back to Natalie.
Something shifted between us today from our hostile meeting to the time I dropped her off. Despite us being complete strangers, I felt just as exposed and raw watching her. Even as she tried to defend her integrity to me, I sensed some sort of break inside her beneath the surface and glimpsed it in bits and pieces. Oddly, I found myself wanting to show her the beauty in them and help her try and make sense of it, whatever it may be. One thing I’m growing more suspicious and sure of, is that she’s not here for an article, even if she’s refusing to admit it. The second thing is that she wasn’t expecting to be attracted to me, at all.
That surprise was mutual.
It unexpectedly took me hostage in much the same way it seemed to grab her. I got swept up in it, and it was fucking intense. Every second that ticked by after her confession felt like an invitation I didn’t take.
The weight of my cell phone increases where it rests in my jeans pocket as I debate whether or not to use it. Does the reason she’s here have more to do with our parents’ involvement? If so, why? What could the draw of that possibly be after all this time? It’s definitely not newsworthy at this point.
For the first time in a long time, I examine my parents closely, their body language, their knowing glances and effortless exchange as Dad jerks back in fear while Mom raises a spoon of burnt sauce to his lips.
“Not a fucking chance, baby,” Dad says, his grin fading when he turns to me. Before I know it, they’re both looking at me quizzically, studying me back just as carefully.
Opting out of the inquiry sure to come, I turn abruptly. “I’m going to bed.”
“You okay?” Mom asks, a fair level of concern in her tone as I stride across the living room.
“Yeah, I’m just wiped. Night.”
Before she can pry any further, I take the winding staircase up to my room. An hour later, I lay in my briefs, buds anchored in my ears, cell in hand, staring at the Pulitzer Prize-winning picture of “The Vulture and the Little Girl.” At first sight, I felt the same sting anyone with a conscience who’s viewed it must have felt, terrified this is still a reality for some, fighting daily simply to exist.
Studying it, I recall Natalie’s admission of how the picture changed her and how her researching the story behind it shifted her perception more drastically. Part of her confession had the hairs on my neck standing on end. If she only knew how close she’d gotten to verbalizing my fears, which were fucking eerily similar to her own, the difference being me on the opposite side of the pen.