No eye contact. No signals or subtle cues. I have no guarantee that either of Cherish’s parents understands that one of them has to take it from here. If they want me to stay, they have to finish what I started, and I can’t explain.
Brianne is the one who speaks.
“I’m sure that’s not what your mom means, honey,” she says. “She didn’t know.”
“I didn’t know what?” Beside me, my mother’s voice shifts, like first she was speaking to Brianne, and now she’s looking at me. But I can’t say anything else.
“Oh.” Brianne’s sigh is perfect. It’s like a gesture, a yielding even before the explanation has been heard. “Jer and I were planning to take the girls away,” she says, and instead of looking at her husband, Brianne Whitman just takes his hand.
I watch their skin where it’s made contact. This is where the agreement will happen, if there is one. If Cherish’s dad understands what we’re doing, this is where the performance transfers to him.
I hold back a smile, but I can’t stop the way my chest expands when Jerry Whitman squeezes his wife’s hand and then stands. He disrupts any attempts at interrogation by taking his and my father’s glasses for refills. It’s just a casual conversation now, with players moving about the room, but the room is also more chaotic. My parents’ attention has to volley between Jerry Whitman’s back as he refreshes the ice, uncorks the decanter, and pours new drinks, and Brianne Whitman’s charmingly disappointed smile.
“It wasn’t going to be anything fancy, and nothing too far,” Brianne’s saying. “Just something to keep the blues away while you two get situated in your new space. Just so Farrah doesn’t miss you too much.”
In her corner of the room, Cherish is ribboning her brow.
There are levels to this conversation, and my best friend is only privy to one. She didn’t pick up on the silent struggle upstairs, and she’s just as oblivious to the unspoken strategizing that took place between her parents and me. It’s a side effect of her parents’ revolutionary coddling, and as usual Cherish is none the wiser.
Maybe that’s what’s been missing for them, even with a daughter they so obviously adore—the ability to communicate without words. The ability to decipher more than the shallowest subtext. Cherish’s obliviousness is a gift—but maybe that’s why they want me.
“I didn’t know we were going on vacation,” she interjects, but it’s just Cherish, and it’s easy enough to diffuse.
“Well, we hadn’t gotten that far,” Jerry says. He’s returned my father’s glass to him and elected to sit next to his daughter now, loosing one finger from his drink to poke her playfully in the side. “We needed to be sure Farrah was even up for it, sweetheart, so we spoke to her first.”
While her dad wraps his arm around her head and pulls her close enough to be kissed, my best friend stares at me, but her face is no more relaxed.
I know what she’s thinking. It’s something her father asked when Tariq was here. If her parents were planning a trip for all of us, why wouldn’t he have said so instead of asking what us kids were planning to do?
Cherish is staring at me instead of them, but I don’t speak. I won’t. I adore her, but none of this depends on her playing along, or even understanding. I’ll take care of it for both of us, the way I’ve always done.
“I guess you, me, and Dad can just do a vacation of our own,” I say, and I put a lilt in my voice like I could get excited at the prospect of something I know they can’t possibly supply.
“I don’t think we have time for that,” my dad says. “Not between moving and getting started in my new position. Frankly, I don’t expect to have time to even get settled.”
There’s no money for it, either, I’m sure, but no one will force them to admit to that.
“I still have to job hunt in earnest,” my mother says. It’s like a concession, the way she says it a little more softly than everything that came before, or like she’s making a mental list and accidentally spoken it aloud.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you about that, Nicki,” Jerry says, Cherish comfortably sidled up against him, her feet drawn up into the sofa. She won’t be any more trouble now. “I know a few headhunters in the area. I could send one your way. He’s an absolute shark. I know he can get you tapped in with the right people. Find a place that’ll offer what you’re worth? It sounds like it worked for Ben.”
His eyes flicker toward the end, and he recovers quickly, focusing on the daughter in his arms.
But a flicker is all it takes.
“A headhunter approached Ben,” Nichole Turner says.
“Same guy,” Jerry Whitman concedes immediately.
I stiffen, but my eyes roam. How did Cherish’s dad accidentally derail our stunningly perfect play to end up here? And what is being confessed to?
“I don’t think I mentioned, Ben, that I’d passed your name to him,” he says, and he’s charming the way he always is. The words roll out almost casually, except for the way he’s avoiding two pairs of eyes. Brianne’s wearing a pursed expression I’ve never seen before, and I’m sure it means she doesn’t mean to. My mother’s feels more familiar. I’ve seen hers before. The night I had dinner at my parents’ house, the night I coerced them into agreeing I could stay, when she thought Brianne had told me about my family relocating.
It’s an expression that marries disappointment with something resembling disgust, like she didn’t appreciate Mrs. Whitman taking something upon herself, but she wasn’t entirely surprised. It says she should have known better, that she partly blames herself.
“Why would you pass his name to someone out of state?” she asks, but her voice is flat so that it doesn’t sound at all like a question. She’s making a statement, and Jerry Whitman can’t justify looking anywhere but at her, even with Brianne’s chest starting to flush with color.
Brianne Whitman is trying to hold a smile to her lips, but it’s too tight. It’s verging on a grimace, and she’s looking above our heads while she twists a bracelet around her slight wrist.
“It’s Cameron, isn’t it, honey?” she says, and if she weren’t standing where I could see her, her voice would be completely convincing. It’s strange to watch the words come out of her mouth when the sound and the appearance are so mismatched. It’s a disaster, but only because I’m looking at her. It’s a talent that would be very useful in another scenario.
“That’s right,” Jerry answers, pointing to his wife as though the name was on the tip of his tongue.
“Well, he isn’t out of state, of course, but he does have contacts all over the country.”