Dear Life(20)

Taking a deep breath, I say, “You’ve blessed me with the comfort in knowing that I’ve made the right decision. You and Alex, fuck, you’re perfect for Hope. I only wish I was as lucky as her growing up.”

An empty childhood in a run-down foster home with a lack of warm arms to welcome me home. I would have given anything to have people like June and Alex as parents.

“I think it’s going to take time,” June replies after a short silence. “This might sound strange, but I feel like I’m mourning your loss, that I’m carrying the weight of my emotions as well as yours on my shoulders. And I never thought I would feel that in adopting.”

“No need to carry mine, June. Move on and enjoy your new family.” I take a deep breath and say, “I hate to cut this short but I have to take off.”

“Oh . . . no problem,” she stumbles. “I’m sorry if I bothered you, I didn’t know who else to talk to. Alex doesn’t like to talk about it. She’s harboring her feelings right now and no one else I know has even remotely gone through the same thing we did. I know it’s been exponentially harder on you, but you’re the only person I could relate to. I’m sorry if I was out of line contacting you.”

I press my fingers in my brow, wishing I wasn’t having this conversation with June, because every word that comes from her mouth makes me feel guilty. Why the hell do I feel guilty? Maybe because I want to lash out at her right now. But why? Because she’s struggling with carrying my grief? That’s not something I should be mad at her for. Shit, that’s something I should be relieved about. It shows the kind and caring heart she has.

“You aren’t out of line, June. Please don’t think that. I’m just going to need some time, you know?”

A sniff comes from the other line on the phone. “I understand.”

“Give it time as well,” I add, hating that she’s still sad. “It will get better. Don’t worry about me. I couldn’t be happier that you and Alex are raising Hope. I know you will do an amazing job. I definitely made the right choice. I just need to mourn the loss of being her father.”

“Jace,” June gasps. “You will always be her father.”

Funny thing, I really won’t be. I’ll be her birth father. There’s a difference.

After some quick and rather uncomfortable goodbyes, I hang up the phone, emotionally exhausted.

Grieve. That’s what I’m supposed to be doing right now. I feel like I went through the five stages of grief in the short amount of time it took to talk to June. The only stage left: depression.

Is that what Dear Life wants? For us to grieve through the five stages? If so, this is some convoluted program because I feel like total and utter shit.

Yup, not one ounce of me feels remotely better. If that’s what’s supposed to happen, then mission accomplished.





CARTER


“What the hell are you doing back here?” I ask Hollyn, who has a smarmy look on her face.

Without a word, she plops a plate in front of me from the dining room. “Steak isn’t well done.”

“That’s because steak should never be well done.”

“Funny thing is,” Hollyn places a thoughtful finger to her chin, “the customer couldn’t care less about how you prefer steak to be prepared. They asked for it well done, not a, what did they say?” She thinks for a second and then says, “Ah yes, they didn’t ask for a bleeding heart on their plate.”

“Bleeding heart?” Flipping a fork in my hand and grabbing a knife, I examine the steak that barely has any pink in the center. “They’re calling this a bleeding heart? I can show them a bleeding heart if that’s what they really want.” I wipe my hands on the rag attached to my hip and make my way away from the grill, soft threats at the tip of my tongue.

“Fix the steak,” my uncle’s voice booms in the kitchen, his eyes glaring at me.

“There’s nothing wrong with the steak. It’s actually overdone,” I argue. Gesturing a hand toward the dining room, I ask, “Do you really want customers thinking you’re handing out lumps of charcoal on plates instead of steak?”

“Fix the steak,” he repeats, with malice.

“What the fuck ever.” I give up, grab the steak off the plate and set it on the grill.

Who orders a well done steak? What’s the point? Why even have steak if you’re not going to eat it medium well. I bet Bobby Flay doesn’t have to deal with this shit. If someone asks for well done, he probably demands they leave his restaurant.

Not my uncle. It’s all about the customer and not the food. Which of course burns my already bitter soul. I went to school to learn how to appreciate the subtle combinations of foods and the bold flavors you can pull from them. I learned to masterfully create meals that are not only appealing to the eye, but burst with flavor on your tongue.

Think my uncle would allow me to put any of my knowledge to practice? No. He thinks serving the same Italian shit he’s been serving for the past twenty years is okay.

Who wants to be just okay?

I sure as hell don’t. I want to be extraordinary. I want to be known for thinking outside the box, for challenging people’s taste buds, for pushing their limits and comfort zones. Think of Remy from Ratatouille, how he immediately falls in love with the perfect, fresh ingredients and the plethora of combinations you can make. That’s me. Now if only I could break free of these shackles, to escape the debt looming over me.