The One Night(2)

I go to stand, but Dad’s booming parental voice springs into action. “Sit down, Cooper, and listen to what your mother has to say.”

Even though the man wears shorts with holes in the crotch, I still tend to listen to him.

I press my back against the couch and prepare myself to be annoyed.

Mom takes my hand in hers and gently pats it. “Cooper, we are concerned.”

Yup, here it comes.

“It’s been a year since you and Dealia decided to get a divorce, and now that the entire thing is final, we believe you need to get back out there, test the waters.”

Could have bet money that this is what they’d want to talk about.

Yes, just like Ross Geller, I’m part of the divorced man’s club. I married Dealia young—we had big plans to travel the world, but those plans changed as my parents got older and needed more help from me. Because I owe them everything, I stayed close while my two siblings went off to live their lives. Am I bitter about it? Maybe a little, but even though I’d never admit it, I take pride in making sure my parents are okay. They gave me a home when I needed it and brought my brother and me into the kind of family we could only dream of. I’ll do pretty much anything for them.

Well, almost anything. Whatever they have up their sleeves right now . . . I’m probably going to turn it down immediately.

“As much fun as this conversation is, I’m very certain I don’t want to hear it.” I go to get up again, but Mom places her hand on my leg.

“I don’t want you to die alone,” she says, her voice choked up and tight.

Wow.

Okay, we have a flair for the dramatic tonight.

I turn to my mom and give her a questioning brow. She sighs. “Okay, that might have been an over-the-top statement, but I do worry that you’re going to end up alone.”

“Why do you think I’m going to end up alone? Your other two kids aren’t currently attached to anyone.”

“But their hearts haven’t been broken. A broken heart tends to not want to venture out into love again. Different circumstances.”

“My heart isn’t broken, Mom. Dealia and I just wanted different things from life.”

“And what exactly do you want from your life?” Dad asks, his voice serious. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’re not happy with your job, you’re a recently divorced man who sits at his parents’ house on a Friday night rather than going out, and from the status of your sock you’ve apparently let yourself go.”

“It’s one pair—Jesus, Dad. You’re not even wearing matching socks.”

“And I am in a committed, almost fifty-year marriage with the love of my life. Unfortunately for her, I’m allowed to let myself go, and she just has to deal with it.” He gives my mom an apologetic look, but she just beams right back at him. “You, my son, don’t have that luxury. You need to figure out what you plan on doing with your life.”

I drag my hand down my face. Why is that something parents always want for their kids? For them to “figure” out their life? Why can’t we just go through trial and error as the years pass, never really figuring out anything, but just going with the ebbs and flows of life?

And who’s to say I’m not content right now.

Maybe I don’t want to “figure” things out.

Maybe I want to stay permanently in the rut that I’m living in.

Perhaps I am content . . .

I think we all know that’s a bald-faced lie. Divorced in my twenties, working a job I hate, spending Friday nights with my aging parents . . . not sure many would be content with that kind of life.

But I can’t possibly understand what my parents mean by “have fun,” or what that entails.

“So, what do you want to do? Take me out? Be my wingmen?” I ask sarcastically.

My mom’s eyes light up.

Oh fuck.

That was a mistake.

“I didn’t mean—”

“That’s a wonderful idea.” Mom claps her hands. “We should take him out, help him score with the ladies.” The sincerity in my mom’s voice is the most startling part about what she said. We’re the type of family where teasing is the norm. We joke around, lay down light jabs in a loving manner here and there, and my mom is an enthusiastic participant from time to time.

But she’s being serious. She actually wants to help me “score with the ladies.”

“Okay, no, that’s not—”

“Martin, go put on your conversational Christmas sweater and those plaid pants you love wearing with it.”

“God, no, Mom.”

Mom stands from the couch, hands clutched in front of her. All sanity was washed away with one sip of her cider. “I shall go and retrieve my Christmas vest, the one with the bells that you know I enjoy jingling.” She checks her watch. “Oooh, we will need to pack an overnight bag to stay at Cooper’s for the night, because the ferry won’t run again until the morning. Don’t worry though, sweetie—if you decide to bring a woman home, we can figure something out so you have privacy.”

Fucking . . . hell.

“Chop-chop, Martin.”

For some godforsaken reason, Dad must think this is a good idea, because without another word, he rises from his seat on the couch and heads up the stairs, Mom trailing after him.