Always Never Yours(54)

“It’s not a bad time,” I cut him off.

In the background, I hear an unexpectedly loud voice. “Randall, buddy! We need you! Epps just bowled spare number two. We need the Strike Master.”

I have to smile. The Strike Master? “Are you at a bowling alley?” I ask Randall.

“I’m, oh, I’m sorry,” he stutters. “I, the team I’m on, we’re in the second bracket of a regional tourney. I ducked out a bit early. I wanted a quick word with you.”

“Okay . . .” I’ve never been able to figure out how to talk to Randall. I don’t know how my mom does it. Honestly, Randall’s kind of an incongruity in the life of my mom, the former experimental visual artist who never fails to meet my sarcasm with some of her own. Randall is an accountant and painfully awkward. When I met him, he was wearing toe-shoes—those goofy shoes that look like gloves for your feet, which he wore around the house even though I’m fairly certain they’re meant for running—and he excessively complimented everything my mom cooked that first night like he was afraid she’d kick him out if he didn’t. He keeps unveiling odd new hobbies, first pottery and now this. How does my mom go to bed next to a guy who spends weeknights in regional bowling tournaments?

“What’s up?” I ask when he says nothing.

“I’ll be in Stillmont in a couple weeks,” he says a little too loudly. “I hoped you might be available to get coffee?”

“Yeah. Um. Okay.” I don’t know why Mom didn’t ask me herself. Then a worrisome thought occurs to me. “Wait, is Mom coming with you?”

“No! I’m, uh, no, it’s a business trip,” he clarifies. “I’m only going to be in Oregon for a day or two, but I’d kick myself if I didn’t spend time with my—with you. But your mom’s very excited to be coming in December for the festival!”

“Right . . .” If this phone call’s any indication, a one-on-one coffee date with Randall is going to redefine stilted small talk. But I should give him the benefit of the doubt. He’s nice, and he must make my mom happy somehow. “Okay, yeah,” I say with more conviction. “Text me when you’re in town, and we’ll figure it out.”

“Perfect! I’ll—I’ll just text you,” Randall exclaims like the idea had never occurred to him.

“Cool.” I’m about to hang up. But instead I add, “Break a leg. You know, with the tournament.”



* * *





“Thanks for the warning, Mom.”

It’s Friday, 5:13 p.m. In the grainy FaceTime window on my computer, Mom’s eyebrows go up. “Warning?” she chides with half a frown. “You need a warning before you talk to Randall? I never got a warning when I’d come home to find the newest boyfriend making out with my daughter on the couch. I get to have a love life, too, Megan.”

Damn, Mom. “I didn’t mean it like that,” I say, chagrined. “Like, what do we even have in common? It’s going to be so awkward!”

“You have me in common!”

I roll my eyes. “Not exactly the subject I want to discuss with my mom’s boyfriend. I guess I’ll have to brush up on my professional bowling news if I’m going to have something to say to the Strike Master.”

“Be nice to the poor man,” Mom orders, not amused. “He’s not used to talking to seventeen-year-old girls.”

“I should hope not.” I adopt a scandalized tone, and Mom laughs. There’s a knock on the door, and per usual, Dad infuriatingly walks in without waiting for my permission.

“Hi, Catherine.” He nods to the computer, and instantly my anger dissipates. I’m struck by how congenial he sounds. There’s none of the tension or reserve that typically characterizes my parents’ conversations.

“I hope I’m not too early?” Dad asks.

“No, now’s fine,” Mom replies, and I whip to face her.

“Fine for what?” I look between them, trying to figure out what could possibly compel my mom and dad to talk in my bedroom like old friends.

They exchange a look, and I know whatever this is about, it’s something serious. “We wanted to discuss something with you,” Dad says in his vice-principal’s-office voice, sitting down on my bed.

“We?” I repeat.

He goes on, making more eye contact than I’m used to. “Rose and I put in an offer on the house in New York, and it looks like the seller’s going to accept.”

Without a word to Dad, I turn to Mom. “You knew and didn’t tell me?” I don’t try to hide the hurt in my voice.

She meets my eyes unwaveringly. “We wanted to have the conversation with you together.” Her voice is even, but there’s something placating in it, like she’s trying to urge me to take this in stride.

Not going to happen. “What else have you decided in these conversations I didn’t know were happening?” I ask bitterly.

“Megan, we’re grown people who have a daughter together. Occasionally, we talk,” she replies.

No, you don’t, I think to myself, knowing better than to say it out loud. How many times have they told me to check with each other about who’ll pay for my summer programs and plane tickets, to convey happy birthdays, to figure out separating their iCals and the family iTunes library? Now they’re talking again?