My given name. It was such an odd expression, like I’d been handed a wrapped present with a bow. I looked longingly at the cruisers. “Olive? No. Mom never told me.”
It was an unintentional dig, but a dig all the same. After I was eight, Mom was the only one who possibly could have told me where my name had come from.
He caught the barb, his face smooth. “Near my home growing up, we had an olive tree. It was very old. Maybe two hundred years old. I used to climb into it and imagine all the things it had seen and all the things it must know.” He met my eyes. “And then, when I held you for the first time, I saw your eyes. They were so big and bright, I thought you must know things too, and I thought of that tree immediately. I could feel your strength already. I knew you would withstand anything. And here you are. You have withstood.”
The ship went over a rough patch, sending spray and panic into my face. The salt water stung my eyes, and I rubbed at them fiercely. Why didn’t I already know this story about myself? Did my mom know it? Had I ever heard it? The olive tree sounded slightly familiar, but he’d never talked much about his childhood home, so… Panic was building in incremental units, and when I dropped my eyes, they got snagged on the numbers tattooed on his arm, the one that meant family.
A wave of anger pulled me out of the despair enough for me to catch my breath. Who waited for a geriatric booze cruise to tell their child important stories like this? And why was he telling me now at all? Didn’t he know how painful this would be?
“Dad…,” I started, but I didn’t know where to go from there. How to tell him that our tie had been severed long ago. He must know that, right?
His voice rose, and I quickly realized he was misunderstanding my emotion. “Liv, I have so much to tell you, and explain, I almost don’t know where to begin. When I left…” He took a deep breath, his eyes suddenly full of tears.
Oh no. NO. He had planned this to be an apology cruise. I had to stop it.
“Dad.” This time it came out as a hard stop, and he understood. His lips pursed together as he looked at me.
I took a deep breath, forcing my lungs to expand through all the conflicting feelings battling for space in my chest. “I’ve been fine. There were hard years, but my life is good now. Mom and I moved on; she got remarried. I have my little brother, and I have lots of friends, and a boyfriend, and a whole life. Everything turned out fine.”
With no help from you. I didn’t say those words, but they were there anyway. I quickly added on, “I don’t want to waste our time rehashing things. I want to enjoy this.”
This. What did this mean? The cruise? The sunset? I guess it was open to interpretation.
He looked a little stunned. Eyes wide, his mouth slightly downturned. Silence stretched between us. One… two… three… and…
“Yes,” my father finally said, nodding. “That is your choice.” He nodded again. “I have enjoyed the last few days with you so much. Let’s enjoy the sunset.”
“Sounds great,” I said, but my voice sounded half strangled, and he gave me a searching gaze that I pretended not to notice. I quickly turned to look out over the water.
And for the next fifteen minutes, that’s what I did—if enjoy the sunset meant staring awkwardly into the glowing orb so as to fool everyone into thinking that I wasn’t blinking back tears, fighting off a mild panic attack, while the rest of the ship rocked out to what sounded like a Greek knockoff of “My Sharona.”
This was the literal worst.
Eventually, and to my everlasting relief, two servers appeared from the hull of the boat and presented us with plates piled high with food. Spiced souvlaki on wooden skewers, lemon-scented rice, and a salad made up of thick chunks of feta, tomato, and cucumber. They even set up small standing trays for us and poured a soda for me and wine for my dad.
“Enjoy,” my father said, clinking his glass together with mine. His face took on a serious expression, and for a moment I thought he was going to try to press the issue again about why he’d left, but instead he tilted his head toward me. “Tell me about Dax.”
Hearing my dad say his name was a startling collision of worlds. Of course Mom had told him about Dax. I braced myself against the edge of the boat. “Did Mom tell you to ask me?”
He cocked his head curiously. “No. Why? Should she have?” The boat was picking up speed now, skating over the ocean toward the setting sun, and my soda sloshed precariously in my glass. I had the odd sensation of both racing and holding still.
I shook my head. “No. I don’t think Mom likes him very much.” Her words from back home echoed in my mind. It can be easy to lose yourself in your first relationship. No wonder she was so leery of Dax—her first relationship had cost her too much.
“She doesn’t?” He tilted his head.
There was no good reason for me to elaborate about my dating situation, so of course I did. “Dax wants us to go to the same school, or at least schools that are close to each other. He’s a year ahead of me, and he’s going to Stanford.”
“Stanford,” my dad said. A smile stretched across his face. “So he is a good student.”
He sounded admiring, and relief spread through my chest. My mom had never seemed to be able to see the good things in Dax. Or maybe it was that she wasn’t nearly as impressed by them as everyone else was. I perked up a little, stabbing my fork into a chunk of feta. “Yes. And a good athlete. He was the captain for our school’s water polo team. He’s really great at it.”
He carefully placed his napkin on his lap. “And what school do you want to go to, Liv?”
“RISD.” The letters spilled out automatically. I hadn’t said it to anyone but my mom yet. I hadn’t even said it to myself all that much. Mostly I’d stalked the website, taken notes on which of my pieces would be best for the application, and pretended I didn’t care, when in reality I cared so much it made me feel like I was in the center of a swarm of bees. I took a deep breath, my eyes focused on my salad. “It stands for—”
“Rhode Island School of Design?”
My gaze shot up to his, and when I looked up, he had his hands wrapped around his glass, a small smile on his face. “You’ve heard of it.”
He smiled. “I once dreamed of applying there myself. But life took some unexpected turns.”
“Wait, what?” I dropped my fork with a loud clatter, like I was tumbling, sliding, something. My dad had wanted to apply to RISD? Had my mom known that?
Of course she had. And she’d never once mentioned it. She’d kept encouraging me, and tacking up the brochures on our family bulletin board. This was too weird. Too much. I’d done everything possible to disentangle myself from my dad, and now his influence was going to follow me into college?
RISD suddenly felt as out of reach and insignificant as the tiny cave houses receding in the distance.
I tucked my hands under my legs, willing them to stop shaking. “It doesn’t really matter anyway. It’s difficult to get into. Extremely difficult.”
He shook his head, his eyes bright. “No. Your grades are excellent. And so is your artwork.”
Mom had told him about my grades? Ugh. She owed me a very serious talk. “It’s still a long shot.”