Tobin’s so on he’s almost manic. His mom has an identical weird light in her eyes. Tor has to be catered to, fed, and coddled. His crude jokes must land in a goose-down pillow of appreciative chuckles.
I don’t think Tobin could stop if he wanted to. The magic act might be all he knows how to do during tough times.
Black and green ribbons cinch tight above my heart, choking it with fear that nothing will ever change. Not between Marijke and Tor, not between Tobin and me. Everyone will do the same painful dance, year after year.
“Marijke, you’re lookingverywell. And Liz! My favorite girl!” Tor strides toward me, arms wide. I skip back a step, point to my uterus, and mouth,cramps.
Tor coughs, readjusting quickly. He thumps Tobin on the arm hard enough to mess up his hair. “And Tobin! Have you gotten tired of this one yet, Liz?”
Marijke, Tobin, and I flinch in unison.
“Let’s eat,” Marijke says, fake bright. Tobin whips covers off entrées. Tor hunts through the platters for the choicest bits.
He loads a piece of homemade crostini with an obscene pile of smoked salmon. “Great fish. I’ll give you the name of my seafood guy in Vancouver. Same-day delivery. Even fresher than this.” He open-mouth chews—one of Tobin’s rare, rare pet peeves—as he dispenses this priceless, pricey advice. Reaching for the copper tub, he snags two beers, uncaps them both.
I’m sure Tobin didn’t intend to make that small, hurt sound.
I can’t work with this. I can’t “yes, and” this guy, unless it’s “yes, and now you start paying attention to your son.”
For a few minutes, things don’t get worse. Tor asks about Tobin’s summer schedule (up in the air), my job (no, I haven’t gotten a raise; yes, they should appreciate me more), and Marijke’s company (doing great, which she shouldn’t have told him).
“Son. Have you given any thought to your future? Beyond carrying luggage for tourists.”
Myoofis audible.
“Actually, Dad, I have great news.”
I squeeze Tobin’s hand as I wiggle out of the picnic table seating, makingexcuse mefaces. He manages an eight-out-of-ten smile.
“There’s an annual pitch competition at work. Very prestigious, comes with a promotion and a raise. Anyway, this project I put together with my friend Lyle, it’s one of three shortlisted.…”
Tobin falls silent. Halfway up the steps, I turn to see Tor holding up a hand, not noticing how Tobin’s smile has turned frail.
“You’re putting in all this work with a two-in-three chance of getting no money and no title? You’re getting conned.” Tor pulls out his wallet, flashing a sizeable chunk of fresh red fifties as he hunts for a business card to pass to Tobin. “If you want realmoney, so your wife can take time off for babies, I have a wiser opportunity. One that pays for sure.”
The crostini hardens to glass in my stomach. I will kill this man. I will kill him whether he’s pressing this button knowingly or unknowingly.
I march back to the table. “We don’t need the money. And fathers can take parental leave, too,” I butt in.
“Oh? He is planning to be a stay-at-home dad? That’s why his name is Renner-Lewis, and yours is just Lewis?”
I wonder, a little wildly, whether Tor realizes he’s the only one laughing.
Tobin would give a lot to be a stay-at-home dad, which is a miracle considering how he grew up. I’ve caught him hanging around our spare room more than once, a thoughtful look in his eye, like he’s imagining a yellow paint job and a crib to replace the pullout sofa.
And he’s married to me, who’s only ever said “no” or “not now” or “maybe next year.”
Tobin’s back takes on a terrible straightness. “We’re not looking for investment opportunities, thank you.”
Shrugging, Tor polishes off the carpaccio. “You’ll regret missing this one. Junk in Your Trunks. Catchy name. Will totally disrupt the decluttering industry. Guaranteed twenty percent return. Minimum buy-in is ten K; I can get you onboard for five, tonight only.”
“Dad! I said we’re not looking.”
“You should. Marijke, you and I can talk profits later. Right now, I’m thinking you must have an amazing dessert hidden somewhere.”
Marijke floats away, buoyed by the power of Tor’s meaningful “later.”
Tor turns back to us. “I could negotiate an extension until tomorrow morning. Noon, at the outside. This could—”
