I hate that he ever bought you into this."
"He had no choice. Jordan and I saw them at the café. Then he came to my dorm and admitted everything."
“Everything?”
“Yes, well, he didn’t deny it. I flat out asked him and I guess he couldn’t lie to my face.”
"Well, the asshole should have been more careful. For your sake, at least." I swallow hard at her use of the word I avoided using moments ago as an even deeper sadness washes over my thoughts.
A few seconds later, the sound of a car approaching causes me to look out toward the street. I can't see much through the small spaces between the bushes, but it’s enough to know the vehicle kept going. For a split second I thought it could be my father coming back and I don't know how I feel about that. A part of me is still holding on to this illusion that somehow he will make this right, that he will fix this pain that we all are in. But how can he fix it if he's the cause?
I feel like I'm sinking. Falling deep into a world where I can't trust anything anymore. Not the love of my father, not my love for Jordan, and definitely not the fairytale I’ve been holding onto, thinking that things will magically work out between us. If I've learned anything this week, it’s that I can’t trust that. My eyes are glazing over and it isn't until my mother stands, jolting me back to reality, that I realize I've been staring at the ground.
"Come on," she says. "Let's go inside before I burn our dinner."
Our steps are slow and heavy as we walk across the porch and into the house. Not much is said as we fall into the rhythm of pulling plates down from the shelves and setting the table. I wish I knew what to say to help her through this but there are no words. She opens the oven and the smell of steak follows the earthy sweetness of fried scallops. I try not to look at her. She made my father's favorite meal. A few years ago he was diagnosed with high cholesterol and hated the idea of having to give up his surf and turf, which of course is deep fried. So my mother found a healthier alternative.
"Do you think he'll come back to the house tonight?" I ask. I assumed not, but she grabbed three plates instead of two. I don't know if it is a result of muscle memory or if it was intentional.
"He better not." Her eyes are downcast as she busies herself, setting the dishware on the table, slowing and hovering over the third plate as she realizes her mistake. It's as if it hits her in this moment that everything in our lives is about to change. I look from her to the plate as I hesitate at my chair. She glances at me, and when she sees I’m watching, she abruptly snatches the extra plate from the table and takes it back to the kitchen.
With a sigh, I sit heavily in my chair and wait for my mother until she comes back into the room and takes her seat. I can only imagine what's going through her head. I wonder if she'll leave him. He more than deserves it but the idea of them divorcing sets a deep pain in my stomach. I've never had a serious relationship, so I don't know what makes certain types of offenses forgivable to some, and unforgivable to others.
"What are you going to do?" I finally ask. She was in the middle of cutting her steak but freezes when she hears my question. The knife scraping on her porcelain plate squeaks before she brings her eyes to mine. I haven't touched my food. I don't have an appetite. My hands sit neatly in my lap as I wait her out.
"I don't know," she says. "I understand why he lied, but—"
"What do you mean you understand why he lied? There's no excuse for what he did to our family."
"You're right, there isn't. He was still in the wrong, but I played a part in this too and it—"
“Oh fuck that, Mom.” Her eyes widen and it hits me that I just cursed at her. But I’m shocked that my tough as nails, strong and confident mother could look me in the face and take the blame for his actions. “I’m sorry for cursing,” I say,