“I still don’t know why you didn’t go with pink,” his mother said, a quaver in her voice. She was looking at him, although the observation was clearly directed at Becca.
“I like the yellow,” Asa said. “It’s a very happy color.”
“Are you happy?” his mother asked, taking a step forward but not reaching for him. The room was way too small for the five of them. The way she’d phrased her question, it sounded like a genuine expression of interest in his well-being, but at the same time he couldn’t help reacting to it like an attack. “Lauren says you’re still working at that winter place . . . the one with the ice skating rink. And you’re happy?”
Maybe that was what Lauren had been apologizing for—giving up information about him to his parents. But he’d already figured they knew basic stuff like where he worked. Becca would’ve told them that, and his mother’s use of the word still seemed to confirm some prior knowledge.
He tugged at the left sleeve of his shirt, his gaze sliding to his dad’s.
“Yeah,” he said. “I am.”
It was the truth, but it also felt like a tiny fuck you, a nuance that he knew wasn’t lost on his father. Even if, as usual, his dad’s expression gave nothing away.
He wanted so badly to break the tension by just saying aloud all the things that had built up over the years, all the pain and anger and misery and hurt. To ask why they hadn’t reached out to him before now, to tell them that they didn’t deserve to know if he was happy when they’d actively worked against that very happiness. But he also felt trapped by the situation, conscious of it being Becca’s event and not wanting to cause a scene, aware that for whatever reason everyone seemed to want to play it like this reunion wasn’t that big a deal.
He was still messing with his sleeve when he felt Lauren’s hand nudge against his, her fingers sliding over his wrist and resting against his pulse. It only took a slight shift for their palms to press together, and he linked his fingers with hers and gave a squeeze.
“Maybe . . . you could come for dinner sometime?” his mother said. “I’ll make that potato soup you always liked. And of course you can bring Lauren.”
At his side, he could sense Lauren’s attention turn to him, as if caught by something his mother had said. Maybe it was the dinner invitation—he couldn’t blame her if she wouldn’t want to go. He didn’t particularly want to go. But he also somehow didn’t have it in him to reject his mother right to her face.
Or maybe it was the way his mother kept referring to Lauren as though she weren’t standing right there, brandishing her name like some kind of olive branch, or more of a shield.
“We’ll see,” he said.
His mother’s eyes got that sheen that told him she was about to cry, but he couldn’t tell whether it was because she was disappointed his answer wasn’t a yes or because she was relieved it wasn’t a no. Sometimes it had felt like his childhood had been a never-ending quest to manage her emotions, to try to read her mood and play the jokester when she was sad, to act like he didn’t need anything when he could tell she was overwhelmed. He wondered who’d taken up that job in his absence. Somehow he doubted it had been his father.
Who still hadn’t said a word. Asa stared directly at him, daring him to say something, anything. It could be the most surface, banal statement, and Asa would play along. It could be something harsh, and, well, that would be even better. It would give him the excuse to say everything he’d wanted to say for the last ten years.
His father maintained eye contact without flinching, the tic in his jaw the only sign that he had any reaction at all. Asa knew that tic well. His dad was angry but apparently wasn’t going to say anything to disrupt whatever peace his wife was trying to broker.
It was Lauren who eventually broke the tense silence.
“Asa actually makes that soup himself now,” she said.
“Oh, really?” His mother turned to him, a tentative smile on her face.
“Well, he’s had to, hasn’t he?” Lauren said. There was a vibration in her voice he’d never heard before, subtle enough that anyone else in the room might miss it. He’d heard Lauren annoyed, irritated, maybe even as far as fed up. But this was something different—she was angry, too. “He had to learn to do all kinds of stuff for himself after you threw him out. Find a place to live. Get a job. Take care of himself. So yeah, he can make his own potato soup.”