Today is likely to be one of the worst memories.
I walk in the front door without knocking, calling out, “Hello? Mom? Dad?”
Our house manager, Ira, appears, poking his head out from the kitchen where he’s probably having a mid-morning snack. “Kayla? Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” He beams, welcoming me into his arms for a hug. He is someone I always hug. Actually, he might be the only person I always hug. “It’s good to see you.”
Ira has been our house manager since I was a child. I don’t remember a time when he wasn’t here, fixing things or taking us on horseback rides. He was a de facto third parent in a lot of ways, the one I could count on when Dad was traveling and Mom was busy. Not that he was always on their side. He also helped us sneakout, and sneak back in, and always knew where we were just in case of emergency.
“It’s good to see you too,” I tell him, meaning it.
But he can see the shadows in my eyes and peers at me worriedly. “Your father is in his office and your mom is in her art room. Shall I gather them? Have them meet you in the living room?”
He’s a smart man, suggesting the most neutral of grounds inside my parents’ home. Dad’s office puts him at the obvious advantage. Mom’s art room, while not advantageous, isn’t conducive for conversations, with no chairs and art books stacked precariously on every surface. “Please. And thank you.”
He goes to get them and I make my way to the formal living room. Not the family room where we had game nights as children and exchange presents at Christmastime to this day, but the room where we host parties. A more public space in the house, neutral and on our Ps and Qs. Selecting it is intentional, an attempt to keep Mom and Dad on their best behavior.
“Kayla, honey!” Mom cries out happily as she comes into the room, her arms already open to greet me. I lean into her hug politely. We are close, best friends in many ways, but I’m not affectionate with her the way I am with Ira.
“You’re a pleasant surprise,” Dad says, not even coming close enough for a handshake, much less a hug, before sitting down in one of the leather side chairs.
Their reactions alone tell me that they don’t know yet. That’s good. It means that the narrative is mine to write.
“Sorry for barging in unannounced?—”
“Kayla,” Mom scolds, “you are welcome anytimeand always. No call needed.” She smiles warmly, guiding me to the couch before sitting down beside me.
She really is a great mother. She was there for every single parent-teacher night, drove me to countless piano lessons, dance recitals, and debate club tournaments. But she didn’t only parent with calendars and meetings. She talked with us, listening to our worries and fears and cheering us on even when we didn’t deserve it. I mean, let’s face it, my aptitude for the piano was downright nonexistent, yet Mom made it seem like I could be the next Mozart if I put my heart into it.
I think she was always trying to strike a balance with Dad’s absences and stoic tendencies. When my older brothers were young, he was engaged, doctoring boo-boos and going to basketball practices, but as Blue Lake grew, he traveled more often than not, and as one of the younger siblings, I got the workaholic version of Dad more than anything. He tried, I truly think he did, but there is a clear spectrum in his relationships with all my brothers, and there have been years with all of them where his relationship was more strained than he wished it was.
Whether creating a home where we always felt loved or creating a business that would keep us financially secure, Mom and Dad are a team in every sense of the word. In my eyes, they’ve always been perfect and I’ve strived to live up to that standard every day of my life.
“Mom, Dad… I have something I need to talk to you about.”
They look at me expectantly, Dad with a flat expression and Mom with a soft smile. “Of course, honey. What’s up?” Mom says.
I look down at my hands, spinning my ring aroundmy finger. You’d think that I would’ve figured out how to say this on my drive out here, but I couldn’t find the words then and I can’t find them now.
“Kayla, you’re scaring me. What’s wrong?”
I look up to find Mom’s eyes have filled with worry. “I’ve met someone.”
Mom lets out a relieved breath in a whoosh. “That’s wonderful! When do we get to meet him?”
“Miranda,” Dad says slowly, his too perceptive gaze locked on me, “she’s not done. Are you?”
I shake my head, meeting his eyes with my chin held high. Once upon a time, I would’ve shrunk beneath the shrewdness of one of my father’s trademarked looks, but we worked together for years and I had to learn to stand up to him a long time ago. Honestly, of my parents, he’s the one I’m more prepared to deal with. I know how he thinks… methodically, how he feels… deeply but quietly, and how he’s going to react… poorly. And while I wish I could expect better, at least predictability is comfortable. I’m not sure how Mom is going to react. She’s understanding, but she’s also image-minded after so many years as the public face of the Harrington Foundation, so she could go either way, and that uncertainty pricks at me as I try to formulate a script of how I want to say this.
“It’s still new, but we were videoed at a restaurant last night. It’s going viral and news is traveling fast.”
Dad’s eyes narrow. “Can we see the video? Have you called Mr. Rodriguez?”
“Yes, Dad,” I say, glad I can at least answer his second question easily. As for the rest of this, it’s going to be more difficult. But maybe showing them the video is the quickest way, like ripping a Band-Aid off in oneswift move. I pull the video up of Riggs, Maddox, and me outside the restaurant. The fight with Brent is irrelevant right now. “Here.”
Dad and Mom watch, and I know what they seeing… Riggs and Maddox gathering around me, both of their arms at my waist as we have an obviously intimate conversation. Maddox pushing my hair back to peer into my eyes and Riggs’s jaw popping from where he’s grinding his teeth so hard. One of the valets arriving with my car and them ushering me into the dark privacy of the backseat as they take the front seats. The angry glance they share before they relax, reacting to something I say.
“I’m confused. Which of these men are you seeing? They both seem particularly smitten with you.” Mom doesn’t get it.
Dad does. He’s looking at me with a totally neutral expression on his face, but I feel his disappointment all the same. He’s the one I watch as I tell them, “Both of them. I’m seeing Riggs and Maddox. We’re a… throuple.”
