do anything else, I fell short of being my own advocate. Then after the incident (as my mom refers to it), placing all that in his lap felt selfish.
“I don’t like him.” Dad pushes back his longish brown hair because he doesn’t get it cut on a routine schedule anymore.
He no longer has a minute-by-minute schedule for his day either. The doctors say he was too stressed, too busy, and not taking care of himself properly. So my mom banded the Ericksons together and we now carry that stress for my dad. Though with the wrinkles prominent on his forehead right now, I don’t think he’s in any Zen-like state.
My mom comes out with a drink and bowl of popcorn. “Leave her alone. She needs a life. And it’s Brock Floyd.”
My dad rolls his eyes. “A Floyd. Then, by all means, he can go by his own rules.”
Brock honks again, and I raise my finger at him. We had a discussion last time he picked me up about him honking.
“I don’t get boys these days.” Dad’s gaze steadies on my mom. “I went to your house even though your dad said he was going to come after me with a machete. I stood up to him and asked for your hand in marriage even though he hated me.”
I swallow a lump. “No one said anything about marriage.”
I balk at the thought. I mean, I like Brock, but we’re just dating. We haven’t even classified ourselves as exclusive.
“Look at her, she’s pale just thinking about marriage.” My mom points and laughs, patting my dad’s arm.
“Good. No need to get married for a long time.”
“Oh, Vic, you wish she’d become a nun,” my mom says.
My dad nods and we all fall silent. I really hope we’re not all recollecting a time when he didn’t wish I’d become a nun. When he had a boy picked out for me and thought the plans were almost written in the stars for us.
Ever since I made Seth dress up and act out a wedding, our families were on the Seth and Evan bandwagon. They imagined us married and spending every holiday with all of them, giving them grandchild after grandchild—which they’d happily watch while retired because Seth and I would be running The Bagel and Schmear Shop.
Oh, how wrong they were… except for the fact that I’m the one running the bagel shop.
Eli sits in a patio chair and takes a fistful of popcorn. My mom tells him he should go inside and get a hat because it’s getting colder, while my dad heads to the side of the garage to grab wood for the fire pit.
My dad picks up a log as Brock honks again, longer this time. “You can tell your boyfriend that next time, he’d better park in the street and walk his sorry ass up here. We not good enough for him? He can’t step foot on common people’s grass?”
“Vic,” my mom sighs and shoos me with her hand because we both know if I stay, my dad will continue to argue with me. “Go, Evan.” Mom winks.
“Okay. Bye, guys.”
Eli rushes over and wraps his arms around my waist. “Bye-bye.”
I hug him back and kiss his temple. “See you tomorrow, Eli.”
After walking down my driveway past my dad’s beat-up truck and my mom’s minivan that’s in its last days, I climb into a car that probably costs the same as both of my parents’ vehicles brand new.
“Hey, gorgeous,” Brock says, his hand instantly landing on my bare thigh. “Love the dress.”
“Next time you pick me up, my dad would really like to meet you,” I say.
He puts the car in gear and pulls away from the corner. “For sure. Next time.”
We drive through Cliffton Heights up to his parents’ neighborhood, Society Hill. They live on a hill that overlooks the town, as though they’re royalty and we’re the common folk below. Sometimes I get the impression that Brock believes he truly is a prince and above all things.
We pass some other driveways, all with black iron-rod fences with a monogram welded into the artful design. Some have security outside, and others have lines of tall trees so the view from the street is obstructed as though they’re movie stars in Bel Air. Every time I drive up here, my hands itch because even before my dad’s incident, we didn’t have a ton of money. We’re lower middle class, middle class on a good year. The shop keeps a roof over our