You Have a Match(84)
“I miss him,” I say.
It’s something we’ve all said a hundred times to each other, but this time it’s different. It’s like I opened up part of myself to make room for so much—a first love. A sister. A past that half belongs to me and half doesn’t. And it cracked me open just wide enough that I can feel all the parts of me still aching for Poppy, which are still adjusting to a world where he doesn’t exist.
“I know,” says my mom, squeezing me one more time before she lets go. “Me too.”
“I miss the things we used to do together. I miss … I miss having time to shoot. I feel like I can still kind of be with him when I do, and with all this tutoring, there’s just … no time.”
“I think maybe we thought the tutoring would be a cushion,” says my dad. “Something we could help you with even when we couldn’t be there ourselves.”
“What we’re trying to say is that sometimes—there’s just this sense—” My mom looks at my dad, who nods. “This sense that we still want to give you everything we can. Set you up for success. Like we can be there when we can’t always be there.”
“Guys,” I blurt, “you’re always there. I mean like—in the stuff that counts. Aggressively there.”
My mom is mirroring me, bunching her fingers in her cotton skirt. “We try to be.”
“You are.” Even when they shouldn’t have the time, they make it—whether it’s nights spent awake helping me with essay drafts, or the sleepovers they hosted for me and Connie and Leo when we were little, or the long car ride talks about whatever’s been on my mind, ones where sometimes we just circled the block so I could keep on talking. “I’m … I just think maybe you could be a little, uh, less there with the tutoring and stuff.”
“We can try that,” says my dad. “Well, right after summer school.”
Woof. I’d almost forgotten. “Yeah,” I say, the cringe every bit as much in my voice as my face. “After that whole thing.”
He peers at me, and I wonder what flavor this lecture is going to take, knowing full well there is one overdue. “Why didn’t you tell us about that?”
“I wanted—well, part of it was Savvy. I really did want to get to know her.”
Or at least, back then, understand her. It seems unthinkable that only a month ago she was worse than a stranger to me and I could barely find any common ground with her at all. It’s hard to apologize for the lie that got me here, when my friendship with Savvy is what happened because of it.
“But the other part was … I knew if summer school happened it was going to snowball into more tutoring, and I’d never have time for photography. I guess this was a way to steal the time back before anyone found out.” My voice is sheepish when I add, only half meaning it, “But I am sorry for lying.”
“I’m not even sure how you did it,” says my dad. “All the different things you hacked into—I’m honestly a little impressed—”
“Uh, maybe we don’t encourage her,” my mom cuts in.
My dad smirks. “I have a feeling it wouldn’t stop her either way.” He leans in and says the thing I’ve been waiting to hear most. “Abby, we’ve always known you’re a talented photographer. Your grandpa was showing your photos to us even when you weren’t, and they speak for themselves. I guess we just thought it was something the two of you did for fun. You were always so shy about your work—I don’t think either of us realized how serious you are about pursuing it.”
My face flushes, but I’m not as embarrassed as I thought I’d be. So I’m not surprised by my answer, so much as how firmly I deliver it. “I really am.”
“Well—I’m glad,” he says. “If there’s anything we can help with on our end, we want to. Keep us in the loop, kiddo. Tell us what’s going on before you duck out the door every once in a while.”
“Yeah. I will.”
It sinks in, then, that this lack of communication is every bit as much my fault as it is theirs. Maybe more. They’ve been busy, but I’ve been—well. Lazy is the wrong word, maybe. But less than proactive, for sure.
“Maybe if there’s some shots you guys looked at from the past few months—I mean, if you like them, and think it wouldn’t look too weird—maybe we could put some up at Bean Well, like you guys planned? Before it sells and all.”
Their faces fall, but even then, with every context clue in the damn galaxy, I have no idea what they’re going to say before my dad says it.
“Abby, the thing is—the realtor called. We had a buyer last night. Offered a lot more than what we were asking.”
I forgot to anticipate this. I’ve been so worried about everything else that the possibility slipped my radar, too quiet under the noise of the past few weeks for me to even think about it. It comes at me sideways, makes me feel uneven though I’m fully seated in the chair.
“We’re sorry, hon,” says my mom.
“No—of course. This is—that’s a good thing, right?” I manage. I ball my fingers into fists and flex them back out, letting them go loose. “That means someone cares about the space a lot. They’re gonna turn it into something good.”