Kiss Her Once for Me (20)
* * *
“Should we work on our flash cards?”
As soon as we’re situated in the Tesla, I bend down to pull out a binder-clipped stack of multicolored flash cards from my shoulder bag. To counterbalance my anxiety about spending over a week with his family, I created flash cards to help us get to know each other better. It takes about an hour and a half to drive to his parents’ cabin, and that’s a little too much prolonged silence between us for my taste. I pull out the first card, green for Andrew. Across the front it says the words My parents. I answer as prompted.
“Katherine Kim and Alan Prescott,” I recite. “Your dad comes from a long line of wealthy WASPs and grew up here in Portland. Your mom’s family is from Korea, but she was born in Los Angeles. They met in Harvard Business School in the early eighties.”
Andrew hits me with an impromptu follow-up question: “Careers?”
“Alan is the current CEO of Prescott Investments, which he took over from your grandfather two years ago when he got the pancreatic cancer diagnosis. Katherine used to work as a professor at Portland State University, but she took a break when you and your sister were born, and eventually resigned to become a full-time mom. She now serves on the boards of four different nonprofits.” I list those nonprofits in alphabetical order.
“Impressive. You’re good at this.” Andrew gives me an approving nod. “Your turn.”
I don’t bother reaching for a new card. “Same question to you. My parents.”
He squeezes the steering wheel in concentration. “Um. Uh. Jed and… Lauren?”
“Lindsey,” I correct. Andrew is not good at this. “And what’s noteworthy about my parents?”
This, at least, he can recall. “Your parents were sophomores at Ohio State when they got pregnant with you. Like good, guilt-ridden Ohio Catholics—your words—they got married, dropped out of school, and got jobs at the local Dairy Queen to take care of you.”
“And how old was I when that genius life plan failed, and they got divorced?”
“Three? Sixteen?”
“Definitely in between there somewhere.”
Andrew throws his head back against his seat. “This is hard.”
“You went to Stanford. I think you can remember I was nine when my parents divorced.”
“Yeah, well, I mean… I had help at Stanford,” Andrew grumbles sheepishly.
“I’m sure there was no shortage of cute girls who were willing to do your homework while you were judging wet-T-shirt contests.”
“Excuse you. I would never objectify women in that manner.” He smirks. “I was competing in wet-boxers contests.”
I circle back to my parents, determined to make Andrew memorize these details. He’s the one who insists his family has to believe we’re a real couple. “After the divorce, Jed and Linds both went through huge party phases to—as my mom told me on my tenth birthday—‘reclaim the youth I robbed from them.’ That is how she justified the keg she bought for the party.”
“How did you end up so straitlaced?” he asks, and I don’t know how to explain it to him. How important it was for me to feel in control, all the time, amidst the twin tornadoes of my parents.
I think of Linds in her Daisy Dukes, handing thirteen-year-old me the car keys and telling me to drive home from my art show because she’d consumed a wine bra’s worth of Merlot. Jed gifting me a roll of quarters for my eleventh birthday, two months late, and then vanishing for another six months without so much as a phone call. The truth is: the world is full of selfish people who become selfish parents. It’s hard to explain to anyone who grew up with stability and safety and guaranteed love what it’s like to both hate your parents and desperately want their love at the same time. To still, at twenty-five, get sucked into little fantasies where they show up one day, sober and sorry, and finally acknowledge all the times you had to tuck yourself into bed.
All I’ve ever wanted is to make sure I don’t become them. A fuck-up. A failure. A mess.
But I guess genetics are winning out.
Andrew Kim-Prescott could never understand any of this, so I merely pull another card from the stack. This one is labeled Other cabin guests.
“Okay, both of your grandmothers will be there,” I respond.
“Well, technically, two of my three grandmas will be there,” he jumps in. “Halmoni, my mom’s mom, died when I was a kid, so this is my dad’s mom and stepmom. We call Grandpa’s first wife Meemaw and his second wife Lovey, because her name is Laverne.”
“As a grown-ass adult, you call your grandma Meemaw?” I ask incredulously. Andrew just shrugs. “And your late grandpa’s two wives are cool spending the holidays together?”
“Oh yeah, Meemaw and Lovey are best friends.”
“Okay, so your meemaw and your grandpa got divorced before you were born, right? She’s been married three times since then but is currently single. And you describe her as—”
“Boozy,” he supplies. “I know it seems wrong to say that about an eighty-two-year-old, but it’s accurate. I got my love of sangria and questionable romantic choices from her. She’s an artist, and she’s going to love you.”
I try to suppress the cloying warmth that rises at the idea of someone’s grandmother loving me. “And Lovey is—”