We make the walk to the playground near our house in silence, and I wish we’d left before my mother arrived. She has this uncanny ability to suck the joy out of any situation. I hate it, but I don’t see any way around her presence in my life or the lives of my kids. That dream of mine, the one where we move away and start over, seems as far away as ever.
Keeping an eye on the girls from the bench where I park my ass, I pull out my phone and smile at the excited texts Ellie sent me earlier when she got the flowers. It’s not quite enough to erase my mother’s comments though. My mother’s not a racist . . . is she? I suppose she’s always had a bit of an attitude toward white people, or more specifically, one white person . . . my father.
A sense of horror comes over me. All this time, have I thought I was supposed to be with a Latina because it’s what my mom wanted? Has her prejudice against my father influenced me? After some consideration, I decide on possibly or maybe even probably. But I also realize that’s not the whole story. I’ve always wanted a Latina because I figured she would somehow legitimize my claim on my heritage, somehow make up for my pale complexion and ridiculous height.
It all seems . . . silly now, weak even. I am who I am, no matter who I choose to make a life with.
I stare down at the last message that Ellie sent me, which is just a series of emojis that show her delight. It goes a long way to draining some of the stress from the base of my skull.
“Hi,” Ellie breathes when she opens her door a few hours later, her happy smile almost blinding me.
“Hey,” I return.
She takes my hand and pulls me inside. “Come see.”
In the kitchen, she gestures with exaggerated grace to the roses on the island like they’re a prize on The Price is Right. “Aren’t they awesome? When the delivery guy announced they were for Opal, I almost fell over.”
“I’m so glad you like them.”
“I love them. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
The air between us thickens and her lips show me something much more sinful than a smile. The idea of kissing her, of touching her, starts to consume me. I refuse to act on it though. I’m determined to do this right. “We should go,” I say, a bit embarrassed by the hoarseness of my voice.
“Okay. Is this all right for where we’re going?” She indicates the jeans and flowy blouse thing she’s wearing.
“Yeah, you look great.”
On closer inspection, I notice the blouse is see-through, showing me the skimpy tank top she’s got on underneath. We definitely need to go. If I’m not careful, I’ll be wincing all night at the pressure in my pants.
She grabs her purse and her keys to lock up.
“You’ve never come inside to pick me up before. This must be a real date,” she teases.
I pause. I haven’t? “Well, if you promise not to make fun of me, I’ll admit that I’ve never been on a real date.” I hold the truck door open for her while she just stands there, studying me like I’m full of shit.
“I’m the first?” she asks, a slow smile spreading across her face. “That’s kind of adorable.”
“Get in the truck, Opal.” My exasperation only serves to increase her smile.
“Such a caveman.”
At least she doesn’t seem to mind my overbearing side.
Once we’re on our way, she says, “The card said the girls picked the roses . . . did you . . . what did you tell them?”
“Yeah, so I Googled it, and –”
“Wait, what? Googled what exactly?”
“How to tell your kids you’re dating someone.”
“Are you serious?” I can hear the underlying laughter in her voice.
“Yeah, I’m not taking any chances. I don’t want to mess this up.”
She must decide there’s some logic to the idea, because she says, “Fair enough. What exactly did you find?”
“Well, I’m supposed to talk about you in a positive way, so I told them that there’s this girl I like and then I tied it in with the flowers.”
I glance her way to see if she agrees with the brilliance of my plan, but she’s just biting at her thumb nail.
“And?”
“And they were pretty excited,” I say, reaching for her hand to interlace our fingers.
“Really?”
“Yeah, really. Well Daniela and Rosa mostly. Carmen was . . . concerned until we got to the part about your name being Elsa.” I grin at her. “I hope you know how to sing and dance.”
“What?” The word comes out with half-choked amusement.
“Hey, we’ll be using every possible advantage. I don’t want this to get ugly.”
Her happy countenance slips. “You think it could get ugly?”
“Sorry, wrong word. Listen, for now, we don’t need to worry about the girls. I’m pretty sure I’ve got us covered, okay?” She watches me pull her hand to my lips for what I hope is a reassuring kiss.
“Okay.”
The restaurant is a nice Italian place that Desiree told me about with candles on the tables. We get a booth and she seems pleased when I slide in beside her instead of across from her.
Over dinner we get to know each other better. We talk and talk and talk, mostly about the future and where we see ourselves in five or ten years. Ironically, neither of us brings up what we’d like out of a long term relationship. I can’t speak for her, but for me, things between us feel fragile at this point, like they’re not yet strong enough to hold up our combined hopes and dreams, no matter how tentative they are.
While we both avoid discussing the obvious, she has no reservations talking about her life plan, which she has every intention of implementing as soon as she finishes her degree in a little over a month from now. She says she’s hoping for some kind of job in municipal or state government, or maybe a charitable organization. It kind of . . . awes me. I love to see her like this; strong, confident, so sure her lofty goals are attainable.
The tables turn though when she starts putting the same questions to me. For reasons I find hard to pin-point, talk of the future unnerves me.
“I don’t know,” I say evasively. “In ten years, the girls will be finishing high school.” I shudder, not able to contemplate them as grown women, let alone as teenagers with minds of their own. “And my grandmother will be eighty-two. Neither of those things is something I like to think about.”
Her head tilts as she considers me, and I’m struck by how beautiful she is with her big brown eyes shining in the candlelight. “But what about you?” she asks.
I blink. “What about me?”
“What do you want for your life in ten years?”
Even after I think on it for a few seconds, I can only shrug. “I’ll obviously still be working my ass off. Teenagers are expensive. And I’m sure a couple of them will want to go to college.” I say it flippantly, but the cold, hard truth of it hits me a second later. “Jesus,” I whisper. “What if a couple of them want to go to college?”
Her expression turns apologetic. “I didn’t mean to stress you out, Scott.”
“Oh, no? How do you pay for Stanford? I can’t even imagine how much that costs.”