We all fix dinner together, and then we eat out on the patio since it’s a mild evening. I have a surprisingly good time.
This is the first time I’ve interacted with Pop for any length of time. All the other times I’ve met him have been in large groups where I couldn’t really get to know him. Tonight he’s welcoming and relaxed. Yes, a little gruff, but that seems to just be his manner, and it doesn’t bother me at all. He asks real questions of Damian and me, and he appears to listen to the answers.
Damian—with his characteristic skill in reading people—gets him to talk about how he started Pop’s Home Cooking and how the chain grew into the success it is today. The topic works like a charm in getting Pop to open up.
As we eat strawberry shortcake for dessert and drink the decaf Pop makes, I’m starting to wonder if his own granddaughters don’t really know the man. Despite his grumpy manner, he doesn’t seem like a bad guy. I can understand what my mom sees in him, and he treats her with an old-fashioned courtesy that I know for a fact she’s never been offered before.
I’m hit with a surreal wave of knowledge and embarrassment.
Maybe Steve and Damian are right. Maybe this whole fake marriage is a waste of effort and money. Maybe Pop would have been perfectly fine with my being single. Maybe there would have been no conflict, awkwardness, or difficulty. Maybe I lied to my mom for nothing.
Maybe I overreacted.
It’s a vaguely horrifying thought, and it consumes me as Damian and I wash the dishes while my mother and Pop decide where in the kitchen to put her shower gifts.
After a few minutes, Damian elbows me gently. When I look up at him in confusion, he murmurs, “What’s wrong?”
I shake my head.
“Tell me.”
Making a face at him, I whisper, “It’s nothing. Nothing’s wrong.”
He doesn’t believe me. I can see it clearly. And he’s about to continue his inquisition when my mother says from across the room, “Damian, you’re so nice to help with the dishes.”
“Of course, ma’am.” He turns around to lean against the sink. “What else would I do?”
“Well, the other option would be to not help with the dishes, and it’s an option many people choose.” My mom has sat down at the kitchen table. She looks tired but happy. “Were the dishes one of your chores growing up?”
“They were actually. I did them every night.”
“You’re an only child then?”
“Yes,” Damian answers easily. He’s obviously not perturbed by the personal questions. As far as I can tell, he’s answering my mom truthfully. “I am.”
“Then you have that in common with Mel. I sometimes wished she had a brother or sister so she wouldn’t always feel alone.” Before I can object to that statement, my mom goes on. “Did you feel lonely growing up?”
“Sometimes.” He’s still leaning against the sink, and his eyes are focused on an empty spot across the room. “We moved every couple of years, so I never had lifelong friends. I’d keep having to get to know people, and I’d sometimes wish I had a sibling so I’d have someone constant in my life.”
“You must have made friends easily though.” My mother is smiling fondly at him. “You’re so good with people.”
He gives a little shrug. “I don’t know. I, uh, I was different then. I wasn’t shy, but I also wasn’t exactly the kind of kid who was popular. I was scrawny with bad teeth and thick glasses, and I read all the time, and I guess I was kind of...”
“A nerd.” I’m trying not to giggle and also trying not to look surprised. I had no idea about this part of his history, and it’s both fascinating and delightful.
He narrows his eyes. “Yes. A nerd. Thanks for being so blunt about it.”
My mother laughs at this bit of byplay. “So you didn’t have a lot of friends.”
“I always had a few, but they were mostly just kids to do things with. I’m not sure I was really close to any of them. Not for a long time anyway.” He chuckles dryly, almost like he’s laughing to himself. “I did try though. I remember in second grade—on my first day at a new school. I went up to almost every kid at recess and asked them if they’d be my friend. They all thought I was weird.”