“You said I was your first true love.”
“And you were.” Well played again, throwing a confident, positive answer her way, conveying the sincerity of your feelings without betraying the weakness of your convictions.
“Then I think you’re the cruel one here, Hank.”
“How do you figure?”
“Because if I was good enough to be the first girl you ever loved…” Laura grabs my poking hand before I can pull it away. “Why can’t I be good enough to be the first girl you ever gave a second chance?”
Fucking shit. Where’d that come from? Here I am just trolling the waters, and she goes and harpoons my ass. Why can’t I be good enough to be the first girl you ever gave a second chance? Either that’s the most brilliant line I’ve ever heard, or Laura is for real.
“Laura, I-I can’t…I can’t do, whatever this is we’re doing.”
“Here, take this.” She hands me a mix tape and tells me what’s on it. She reiterates some of her letter—how she was watching the video to Gloria Estefan’s “Anything for You” and broke down in tears at the But don’t you ever think that I don’t love you, that for one minute I forgot you part. How she was working out the day after we broke up, and after hearing Boston’s “We’re Ready,” knew she’d made a mistake.
I laugh. My laughter is loud—almost too loud, like I’m trying too hard.
“What’s so funny?” Laura asks.
I keep laughing. I lean back into my seat, reach back, and squeeze the headrest. “So, what you’re saying is that me telling you I loved you was never enough. You needed to hear it from Gloria Estefan and Tom Scholz before you were convinced.”
“That’s not what I’m saying at all, Hank.”
“The hell it isn’t.”
“The hell it is. Don’t you see that all I want is for us to be—”
I cut her last sentence off. When all else fails, kissing a girl shuts her up faster than anything else.
Chapter fourteen
Dad leans against the willow tree stump in our backyard, in the middle of his post-run stretch. He’s wearing running shorts and an old Adidas tank top. A sweatshirt, a fishing pole, and a foam cup of grubs sit at his feet. He presses his hands onto the stump, arms straight, one foot forward, and one foot back, keeping his back leg straight with his heel on the ground.
Dad cut the willow down at the end of our first summer in the house. He said he was tired of tripping over its roots and having to deal with its constantly shedding limbs. But if the sun hits him just right when he’s shirtless, you can make out the faint scars on his back from when Grandma Eleanor took a switch to him as a child.
My father has the pronounced calves of a marcher-turned-runner. Mom once even said, “I married your father for his calves.” I don’t know whether it’s ironic, hereditary, or just weird, but calves are the first thing I notice in girls, too. Calves can make or break the deal for me. I don’t ask for much—a slight athletic curve about halfway down the calf, the mere suggestion of something beyond just weekend laps around the mall. Not too skinny, so waifish eating disorder types need not apply, but not too big either, especially those thick, knee-to-feet, vintage Catholic nun “cankles.”
Okay, that’s weird.
The air has a cold edge to it. Dad puts his sweatshirt back on. He’s owned this sweatshirt, hooded and navy blue with “Notre Dame” scrolled in faded orange-yellow across the chest, as long as I can remember. I had a matching sweatshirt when I was about five or six years old, back when Dad and I used to bundle up for our early morning walks on his aunt’s tobacco farm in Kentucky. At the end of our walks, we’d sometimes spend hours at a time just sitting in the barn. Black and white dairy cows would poke their heads around the barn door to say hello. Tomcats would chase mice across the straw-covered floor. There would be rows upon rows of sweet-scented tobacco leaves curing in the rafters.
I miss those childhood years; those years when in the depths of quietness the world seemed to talk to me more.
“You’re up early, son.”
“It’s a big day.” I yawn, stepping off the porch. Our lawn slopes into the water, so I walk sideways toward my father. I hold two cups of black coffee in my hands.
“Big day as in the first day of your last week as a junior?”
“No.” I hand Dad his coffee. “My first day as a senior.”
“How so?”
“It’s kind of a loophole. The seniors get the last week of school off, so the juniors get a head start—”
“At being prima donnas?”
The old man is sharper then I give him credit for. “Exactly, Pops.”
Dad finishes his calf stretches. He stands straight up and then crosses his feet. He sets down his coffee, reaches for his toes. A noticeable grunt.
The grunting is something new with him—when he stretches, when he stands up after lying down on the couch, or after a long car ride. I’ve never perceived Dad or Mom as old or even getting old. Grandparents are old, parents are just…well, parents.
“Still battling those shin splints?”
“Just a little tight. How you doing these days?”
“My shins are fine.”
“That’s not what I meant, smart aleck.”
Smart aleck? Early morning. Fishing poles. Black coffee. Grunting. Only my father and his uncompromising sense of goodness can throw out an aleck when the sheer maleness of the moment all but requires an ass.
“I figured that wasn’t what you meant. I’m doing great.”
“Really?”
The man looks unconvinced. I’ve been pretty discreet. Haven’t I? “Yeah, Dad. Couldn’t be better.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
Dad picks up the fishing pole and an unopened plastic baggie of fake worms. He breaks open the bag. The sound of crinkling plastic reminds me of Uncle Mitch and his Merits. I smell smoke, even though there isn’t any.
“Something on your mind, son?”
“You hear from Uncle Mitch lately?”
“What makes you ask that?”
“He left town in kind of a hurry.”
“Just one of those things, I suppose,” Dad says. “He got a job offer on the other side of the country the same day Aunt Ophelia served him with annulment papers. Guess he just needed a clean start.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
