She wipes a lone tear from her cheek, gifts me with a quiet, apologetic smile, and just like that she walks out of my life.
“You’re scared, Aerin, and you know it,” I call after her.
But she doesn’t turn around.
Fine.
I’ll give her a little time, a little space, but after that, I’m coming for her. Maybe it’s the Welles in me, a bit of my father that somehow slipped in, but I’ve never wanted anything so badly in my life, and I refuse to believe this is the end for us.
IT WAS RAINING WHEN I left New York today, my little oval window covered in water beads with a backdrop of gray skies.
Fitting, it seemed.
“Aerin Juniper Keane, when are you finally going to learn?” my mother asks, taking a toke from her joint in my parents’ back yard as we sit beside a crackling firepit. “What’s it going to take?”
I’ve just filled them in on everything—minus a few select details.
“You’ve always been this way when it comes to relationships,” she says, brushing her bushy brown hair over one sun-tanned shoulder. “For the longest time, your father and I had a bet as to when you were going to lose your v-card.”
“Mom.”
“Anyway, you’re a control freak. Grade A. Certified. And relationships are the one thing you cannot control, and it terrifies you.” A puffy cloud of ash gray smoke leaves her lips and she leans back in her zero gravity lounge chair, eyes closed. “Sometimes you just have to take chances, let the chips fall where they may, or whatever that saying is. Everything always works out in the end.”
“You were always such an anxious child,” my dad chimes in. His Tommy Bahama shirt has one too many buttons undone, exposing a flourish of silvery gray chest hair so abundant it hides the souvenir shark tooth hanging from a chain on his neck.
My parents. God, love ‘em.
“From the very beginning, we did everything we could to get you to loosen up a bit,” Dad continues. “Looking back, I think it all backfired on us. It only made you that much more uptight.”
The two of them exchange looks and high-as-a-kite giggles. They get such a kick out of some of the things I say and do because they can’t wrap their heads around any of it. It’s like we speak different languages and hail from different cultures. The only thing tying us together is the fact that I’m a perfect mix of each of their features. Otherwise, you’d never know we’re related.
“Doesn’t matter what you do, you’re going to screw up your kids one way or another,” Mom says.
“I don’t know, Donna,” Dad says. “I think we did all right. We got a doctor and a successful small business owner. That’s more than most people could say.”
Mom clutches at her chest. “We must have done something right along the way.”
I rest my chin against my hand, conjuring up memories of family game nights, picnics on the beach, tent camping in Yellowstone, my father attempting to teach me acoustic guitar—bless his heart.
Maybe I haven’t given them enough credit over the years. My childhood was far from ideal, but there was a lot of unexpected wonderful mixed in.
“You seem pretty torn up over this guy, Aer,” Mom says. “I can see it in your eyes and the way you’re all slouched and glum. You’re not yourself.”
“Life is short, baby girl,” Dad says. “If you like this guy, give him a chance. Worst-case scenario, he breaks your heart. Best case? You’ve got a pretty cool story to tell your grandkids someday.”
The California sun finally sets, closing out another Saturday and the end of an emotionally turbulent week.
“Never gets old, does it, hon?” Mom reaches for Dad’s hand, the two of them in their side by side loungers, staring at the orange-dreamsicle sky as it fades to dark.
I have to hand it to them—they make love look easy.
“I should head back home,” I say. “I still need to unpack.”
And I’m going to drag my roommate, Margot, out for drinks tonight. I told her everything the second I got home, and then my parents invited me over for dinner, so I had to jet before she could offer her sage advice.
I never had the privilege of knowing what it’s like to have a sister, but Margot and I are strangely cut from very similar cloth. Anal-retentive. High-strung. Overanalytical. I’m dying to hear her advice about this situation since it would basically be akin to the advice I’d give myself if I weren’t emotionally vested in any of this.
Hugging my parents goodbye, I gather my things and drive back to my place.
It’s the strangest thing—ever since I landed, I haven’t been able to shake the feeling that I forgot something back in New York.
I can tell myself it was shoes or a much-loved tube of Dior lipstick all I want, but deep down, I know exactly what it is I left behind.