“Best dad ever.” Thomas reaches up to pat him on the back while I take the silverware from Mom and hand it out.
When I’m done, she ruffles my hair and wraps an arm around my waist. We’re exactly the same height, down to the centimeter, coming in at just over five-nine. I miss the days when she could engulf me in a hug, when I could press my cheek to her chest and listen to her heart beat.
“You are both perfectly made,” she says with conviction. “And you, too, Sades, our almost-daughter.”
“That’s a subtweet about marriage,” Thomas mumbles, grabbing a piece of cheesy bread. But he winks over at Sadie, who laughs. That proposal is inevitable, and probably more imminent than Thomas has shared.
Dinner is our usual chaotic affair. By the time I’ve polished off my second round, my stomach is seam-rippingly full and my defenses are down.
That must be why Mom takes the opportunity to pounce. “Hey, Jumping Beans, we didn’t get a chance to finish up our conversation this morning.”
“This morning,” I echo from my food coma. Across from me, Thomas picks at his teeth with a fork. Dad is polishing off his beer at the head of the table, though he lowers it, splitting a curious look between me and Mom.
“How the job search is going,” she says, leaning back in her seat.
Right. When Mom finished her prework Peloton ride, she stood in front of her be awesome sign, asking hopefully, “Any update on the job front?” I want to get out of this house as much as Mom seems to want me to, though it’s clearly more about my well-being than reclaiming her space. Dad has been tiptoeing around the subject, as tuned in to my emotional temperature as I am to his, but if I had something lined up, he’d be thrilled. He’d definitely cry.
Unfortunately, I remain empty-handed. “Oh. No, we did finish it up. I said ‘could be better.’？”
She lifts a dark eyebrow. “I got a work call and had to step away after that.”
“That covers it.” I shift in my seat, my cheeks flushing, though everyone in this room knows every detail of my struggle. Across the table, Sadie throws me her most supportive best friend smile. Not wanting to be the bearer of total bad news, I fib, “I’m working on a couple things. Trust me, I want to get out of your hair as much as you want me out.”
“That’s not it,” Dad says. “I’ve loved having you here, especially given the way we ended last year.” His eyes dim before he sighs, forcing a smile. “But Mom and I also recognize this is your safe landing spot for a bit. You’ll fly away again when you’re ready.”
My throat tightens. It’s a gift to have someone believe in you, especially when you’re low on it yourself. “Thanks. It’s harder than I thought it’d be. I assumed I’d be here for a month, two tops, then be gone.”
“I was thinking,” Mom says, laying down her napkin. “There’s a position open at my company you may be qualified for, and I know the hiring manager. If you want to give me your résumé, I can put in a good word for you.”
Thomas drops his fork slowly, squinting at her in horror. “Mom, no.”
“What?” she asks, double-taking when she notices Dad looking at her in the same way.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Shame spreads, slow and hot. Dear god, I need to get my life together. This right here might be rock bottom.
“Why not? It’s a great company. The benefits are wonderful. It’s in the city, and I’m sure you’d get a salary that would let you get back into an apartment with a roommate quickly.”
“I love you so much, and it’s a generous offer,” I preface, holding my hands up. “But not only would I have to fling myself into the nearest pit of lava if my mother got me a job, we can never work for the same company.”
She sits back, insulted. “Why not?”
“Because my title will be Marnie Shepard’s Daughter, no matter what the role is. You’re a legend there. The Oprah of sourcing.” At this she perks up. Deep down, I am my mother’s daughter; we love people gushing about our accomplishments. She’s a kick-ass VP at a wearable tech company, and everyone knows her. “I appreciate the offer, but it will mean more if I do it myself.”
Her work voice goes into full effect. “So, what are you doing?”
“Marnie . . .” Dad says.
“Grant,” she shoots back, and a lengthy silent sentence follows.
Thomas looks between us, tennis match style. Next to him, Sadie mouths a word: trip.
The map flashes in my mind. Those locations circled by Gram’s hand.
The words fly out of my mouth. “I—I may have a thing.”
Mom raises an eyebrow. “A thing.”
“A thing?” Dad repeats, hope in his voice.
Something like guilt gnaws at my chest, but I force it aside. Across the table, Thomas is catching on. He bites back a smile. “When I said I was working on a couple things, this is one of them. It’s like a photography . . . thing.” Someone grant me the ability to start saying words that aren’t thing. “A trip. A, uh, two-week trip, um, across the western United States.”
“A photography trip!” Dad says, his face lighting up. “How awesome, Beans.”
“Is it paid?” Mom asks.
My brain scrambles for an answer. “No, but it could lead to paid opportunities.”
It’s been nearly two weeks since my TikTok went viral. Maybe Thomas was right. If I keep telling the story on the road, people could continue to latch on to it. I could take pictures along the way, use them to make jazzy clips with music and vibes, talk about the landmarks I visit. When done well, those types of videos do solid numbers, and I already have people waiting on me. I could finally do something with the online shop I’d been setting up before Gram died, link it to my TikTok account.
I could try again.
It’s a hell of a way to do it, but I can’t think of a much better reason to dust off my camera. I haven’t been able to shake my restlessness knowing Paul and Gram never got to fulfill that trip. Maybe hearing the rest of the story from Paul and then going will soothe it. Maybe walking in Gram’s planned path more than sixty years later will help me hold on to her. It could soften some of this grief, let me feel like I’m actually doing something in the process.
I think of that dream, of Zion. Of Gram standing next to me, her hand almost in my hand.
I press on, determined now. “Uh, the photos I take will be judged for quality”—I’m literally thinking of TikTok commenters now—“and based on that, I might have some really great options.”
Dad is getting misty-eyed, and the guilt turns thick. No turning back now, though.
“Is this a group trip?” Mom asks.
“Yes.” It comes out sounding like a question.
“Are you lying to me?” She leans back in her chair, her dark ponytail bobbing with the movement. Her arms are tanned and perfectly Pelotoned. Strong enough to literally wrestle the truth out of me if she were like that.
“No! And Mom, even if it was a solo trip, that would be okay. I’m twenty-eight.” I look from her to Dad, who’s watching me with a tired smile, his blond hair and work clothes mussed. “I know I’m Benjamin Button-ing all over the place, but I am actually a grown human being who, up until four months ago, lived on her own.”