Memorial(74)

Healthy and happy, says my mother.

Great, says Mike.

Comfortable.

I’m glad.

Tyler and Teju are growing out of everything.

Kids do that, says Mike. Ben talks about that all the time.

They’ll stop soon, I say. Everyone grows up eventually.

You never did, says Mitsuko, to Mike.

Except that’s the thing, says my mother. You don’t want it to stop.

You know it will, she says. Eventually. No matter what. So you try to prolong it. Every parent’s their own magician. And we just try to stall that distance for as long as we can. And the trick is to do it without messing up your kid.

As my mother says this, her voice is bright. But her face is not.

I glance at Lydia, and then at my father. My sister keeps her eyes on our mother. My father just tugs at the hair on his forearm.

It’s futile, says Mitsuko, sighing. That’s just the way it goes.

But we still have to try, says my mother.

I can’t imagine doing it again, says Mitsuko.

I couldn’t either, says my mother, laughing. And I really don’t know how I ever did it at all.

I’m sure you’re doing the best you can.

Everyone’s doing the best they can, says my mother. It’s what we have to tell ourselves.

Well, says Mitsuko, pointing at me, you did all right with this one.

He took care of me, she says.

I made it hard for Benson, Mitsuko says, but he didn’t complain.

My father looks up. My mother makes a face I haven’t seen in a very long time. For once, everyone in the room is looking at me.

Except for Mike.

He’s got that look of consideration again.

Or at least he didn’t complain too much, says Mitsuko. Only a reasonable amount.

It’s the least Benson could do, says my mother. Trust me.

I wish he could say the same for me, says my father.

But what are the odds, he says. Two good boys finding each other.

My father nods at Mike, and, for the first time, my partner, who I’ve never seen flustered, looks a full crimson sheen.

Who would’ve thought, says my father.

Wait, says Lydia, I’m the one who fucking told you about him.

And everyone groans.



* * *





The sky gels into a hazy amber. I walk my family to their cars.

My mother squeezes my hand before she slips into her van.

My father says, I’ll see you whenever, slamming Lydia’s car door.

Beside me, Lydia lingers over our patio.

She says, We should make this a regular thing.

I smile.

I say, I hope you enjoyed this, because it’ll never happen again.

And Lydia starts to laugh, until she sees my face, and that laugh disappears. But her teeth resurface, slowly, with a grin. She puts her palm on my cheek.

Lydia says, Little brother, you really never learn.



* * *





And now: Mike and I stand in the kitchen. He’s washing dishes, and I’m kicking at the counter. Mitsuko’s in the living room, flipping through channels. Eventually, her snores settle over the television’s drone.

Just ask him, says Mike. Don’t be scared.

Scared has nothing to do with it, I say. It’s fucking awkward.

Nah, says Mike.

Is this something you really want to argue about?

No, says Mike. So ask him. Come on.

I tell Mike that I’ll do no such thing, and he just grunts.

Sorry, I say.

Stop being so fucking sorry, says Mike, scrubbing intently, racking the plates.



* * *





Twenty minutes later, I text Omar. On a whim. That morning, he’d reached out and I’d left his message unread.

Honestly, we weren’t anything yet. Nothing had been decided. But we’d fucked, again, at his place, and then another time after that, and afterward, once we both came a second time, I’d asked Omar what he wanted, and Omar told me he wasn’t sure.

My fingers drummed on the flat of his back. We were in Omar’s bed. I couldn’t see his face, just his hands as he played with a pillow.

You tell me, he said.

I asked you.

I know, said Omar. But I also know you’ve got certain, uh, restrictions that I don’t have.

That’s one thing to call my boyfriend, I said.

Sorry, said Omar, and I squeezed a chunk of his ass.

Don’t be, I said. I’m the one that’s here. I’m the one complicating things.

Well, said Omar. You said it. Not me.

Hey!

You said it!

But look, said Omar.

He shifted on the mattress, looking me in the face. We were both naked, both soft against the sheets.

This can be as serious as you want it to be, he said. Or not. I’m not saying we’ll adopt a puppy or anything.

I know, I said.

Good, said Omar. It’s low pressure. This’ll go however you want this to go.

But I like you, said Omar. And I think I could keep liking you. So I guess I just want you to know that.



* * *





And things had been low pressure since then.

I stare at my phone, despite myself, willing a text to emerge.