The Romantics(51)

Gael looked away from the dorm and stared through the side window as a group of girls in fishnet tights walked by, along with someone carrying a huge cardboard box and a can of spray paint into the dorm. He rushed at the words, afraid he wouldn’t be able to get them out if he took his time. “I know you cheated on Mom, okay?” Gael felt hot tears on his cheeks, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at his dad, to see the confirmation he knew would be there.

(Only I could see the ache that Arthur Brennan felt, the pain that twisted at his insides as he fought it down, because he knew, in this moment, more than anything else, he needed to be there for his son. Romantic love is one thing, but the love between a parent and child—well, that is always worth fighting for.)

Gael felt a hand on his shoulder. “Gael,” his dad said.

Gael tried to shrug him off, but his dad wouldn’t move his hand. “Gael,” he repeated calmly.

“What?” Gael finally turned to face him, wiping the tears from beneath his eyes.

And the look on his dad’s face—well—it said everything.

“I would never cheat on your mother, Gael. I want you to know that.”

Gael sniffled. “You’re lying. I saw . . .”—he paused to catch his breath—“I saw everything.”

His dad folded his hands in his lap. “What do you think you saw, Gael? Tell me. I’m here.”

Gael took a deep breath. There was no turning back now. He pointed toward the dorm in question. “I saw you go with a girl into that dorm.”

His dad sighed.

Gael seized on the moment. “You had an affair, right?” he asked, hoping against hope that he was wrong. “With her?”

But his dad just shook his head. “Gael, that’s where the Young Socialists club meets. I’m the faculty advisor.”

“But you said you had office hours that day.” Gael wiped a bit of snot from beneath his nose. “Why did you say that?”

His dad shrugged. “That’s what I say for everything. It’s just simpler than going into all the details. Jesus, son, that girl is twenty. Do you really think that’s the kind of person I am?”

His dad pulled a pack of tissues from the console and handed them to Gael, who took them gratefully. “But what about the toothbrush? I saw one that wasn’t yours in your bathroom.”

His dad laughed a sad laugh. “You know what a freak I am about dental hygiene. I bought it at Student Stores because I’d had Indian food for lunch a couple of weeks ago.”

“But it was pink,” Gael argued.

“Yeah.” His dad shrugged. “And it was the cheapest one at Student Stores.”

Gael wiped at his eyes again. He felt ridiculous, like a child, and yet he felt the tiniest blossom of relief. “But the phone calls. Why are you always going into your room?”

His dad looked up at the ceiling, then back at the steering wheel, and finally back at Gael. Perhaps Gael had hit on some secret. He could tell that this didn’t have as simple an explanation. His heart beat, once again, with that familiar fear.

“I was talking to my therapist,” his dad said finally. “And I didn’t want you kids to see me crying.” His dad’s face turned red, but he didn’t stop. “Look, Gael, your mom and I thought it would be best to keep specifics out of it, but I guess we should have known that your imagination would run wild.” He sighed. “I’m counting on you not to tell her this, and I hate to even put you in this position, but it was really important to her that we protect you guys.”

Gael nodded.

His dad looked down at his hands, then back at Gael. Gael was shocked to see that his eyes were watery, too. “Your mom wasn’t happy, Gael. She needed a change. She still cares about me, of course, but for her, it’s just not the same.”

The words hit Gael like a ton of bricks. “Oh my god, did she cheat?” he spit out.

His dad shook his head vehemently. “No. Your mom wouldn’t do that. But she made it clear that she needed to move on.”

Gael’s head was spinning. “But then why is she the one who’s crying all the time?”

His dad shrugged. “Because it sucks for everyone,” he said. “Even if she wanted it, it still sucks.”

“Why didn’t you try therapy?” Gael asked. “You’re always going on about how therapy is good for everyone . . .”

“We did,” his dad said. He sighed. “You might as well know all of it now. Remember last year when Sammy stayed late on Wednesdays, and we both said we had later office hours scheduled? Well . . .”

(This was the part that got me because, last year, if I had been there, maybe I could have helped Gael’s parents. I could have reminded Gael’s mom of all the natural ebbs, pushed her to give it more of a shot. I could have urged Gael’s dad to fight for her, instead of taking her words at face value. But I didn’t. For years, I wasn’t there for them when I should have been. I was too sure of their success, too happy with my work. I was in love with love, just like Gael. I made the mistake that so many have, of thinking, even if only subconsciously, that if it’s good enough, it doesn’t need work.)

“I hate Mom,” Gael said.

“Please don’t.” His dad’s voice shook.

(Arthur Brennan, a certified Loyalist,6 would never stop loving his soon-to-be-ex-wife. And he wouldn’t stop defending her, either.)