What If (If Only.... #2)(7)

Megan shakes her head excitedly. “No! That’s when he got drunk and started singing “Blurred Lines” in the Bingo caller’s microphone. The busted lip was for family dinner the week after.”

“Oh yeah,” Jen says. “That performance was actually pretty epic.”

“See?” I say. “I’m adorable.”

“An adorable mess,” Nat adds. “We thought you’d grow up in Europe, having to rely on yourself for over a year. But you came back no different.”

I laugh, shrugging off her analysis to mask the twist in my gut, then head toward my mom. How do I explain that the year off was my best year, that I wasn’t this guy over there? I gaze around the room. I love my family, and sometimes I think they do bring out the best in me—at least my sisters do. But it’s not enough, not when family is defined by expectations and obligations. I may be my father’s son, but I’ll never be the Griffin Reed that he wants me to be.

“Hey, Mom.” She stands, scrutinizing the frames and holiday-decorated vases adorning the mantle. Everything is tasteful and understated, of course. “Someone need some batteries?”

She doesn’t look at me yet. With a flick of her wrist, she motions to the photographer setting up in the corner to her right. “They’re for him. This is what I get for taking a recommendation from a neighbor. Someone young and fresh. I hope he understands this is coming out of his fee.”

I hand off the batteries.

“Good to see you, too, Mom.” I kiss her on the cheek, and she lets out a breath, one that makes it seem as if she’s been holding it since this day began, and it’s only ten o’clock in the morning.

She softens as she faces me, but only for a second until her hands find their way to my face.

She doesn’t speak, but her fallen expression says it all.

“Mom, it’s only a bruise. He can Photoshop it right off my face.” I look to the photographer and point to my eye. “Hey, man. You can edit this out, right?”

Photo guy looks from me to my mom, and then back at me, before nodding.

“No problem, Mr. Reed.”

I roll my eyes. “It’s Griffin. And thanks.”

Mom’s expression doesn’t change, her sad eyes saying more than she would ever let on.

She kisses my forehead. “You’re here. Late…but here.”

That’s my mom, stating the facts. I close my eyes, trying to internally reboot.

“I’m right on time, Mom.” I open my eyes and take in the activity going on in all corners of the room—Nat talking to the photographer, Jen and Megan finishing their coffee at the game table, Vi reading a Harry Potter book on the window seat, and Dad overseeing it all from his silent post. This is the photograph that would say it all, that would give the public a clear view into the life of a would-be member of political office. This is the Happy Holidays portrait people would believe, each member of the Reed family scattered around the room, maximum distance separating those confined to the same space.

But that’s not the picture that will show up in all the local papers in a couple weeks. We’ll all stand, pose, and smile like we always do, the dutiful children and their hard-working father. The headline will read something like, “Griffin Reed, Sr.—Business Man, Family Man…Mayor?” Below the headline will be the portrait of staged perfection.

I think of the Polaroid, the goddamn candid shot that caught me looking at a strange girl with a kind of need I don’t acknowledge, a need to know more. Not much I can do without a name, but my mind wanders to thoughts of her anyway. It doesn’t stop me from wondering if I went to Royal Grounds tomorrow, would she be there with friends again? Is she a student at the U? Because I’d totally be able to find a girl whose name I don’t know on a campus of over thirty-thousand students. Fuck. My phone is filled with names, names that come with numbers. I’ll call one tonight, give myself a reset, and forget this stranger.

“Time to line up, everyone.”

For the first time since I got here, Dad takes notice of the photographer, of me, even. Only once we’re all in place does he move toward the group, the last piece of the perfect-family puzzle.

“Griffin.”

That’s my greeting, an acknowledgment of my presence.

“Dad.” We’re one for one.

“Stay for dinner tonight,” he says, the invitation unexpected. Despite my light class-load for senior year, I always lay on the homework excuse, but his tone tells me this subject is not up for discussion.

“Sure,” I answer.

“Good. It’s time we discuss the decisions you’re going to make when the graduate school acceptances start coming in.”

I hold back a laugh, remembering a similar discussion that went something like this: Your mother and I would like you to take the January GMAT. I should have seen it coming. Tonight’s dinner is to remind me what my next step is on my obvious career path. I’m the one with his name, which means I’m the one with his plan.

“Discuss is a subjective word when it comes to us, isn’t it?” I ask him, then wonder where the f*ck that bit of bravado came from. I didn’t come here today with the intent of arguing. The plan for today was to defend how I spend my free time, despite the evidence on my face, not rock the grad-school boat.

He leans closer so he can speak quietly, but we’re all too close for no one else to hear.