“We didn’t know,” Dad says again, as though he can read my mind. “But it wasn’t about that anyway. It was about trust.”
“Trust,” I repeat, staring dumbly at him. He nods, clearing his throat and clasping his hands together, tapping the pads of his thumbs.
“We went to college together, you know that. Well, it was nearing graduation, and we were in that kind of weird place, trying to figure out what to do next. We’d talked about kids, but not in any sort of concrete way. Then I got an internship that would take me to Germany for the summer.”
I’ve heard about this internship, about the “best beer in the world.” I’ve never heard the story in this context.
“Well, that was going to be the longest time your mother and I had spent apart from one another. And I was…not having a good time. Feeling unsure of myself. I went out with some of my friends from the program, and one of the girls tried to kiss me. I pushed her away, not even thinking about it, but I didn’t—well, I didn’t tell your mother about it.”
I can see where this is going. It’s odd to imagine my parents at my age—younger than me, now. Navigating the world like they didn’t know where they were going when they’ve always been the faithful arbiters of my life.
Of our family.
“She found out,” I say, because of course she did. That’s what my mother is like. She probably knew the moment it happened.
Dad winces and nods. “She did. It was so stupid—I didn’t want to tell her because I was worried about what she would make of it. And then, by not telling her, I made it into a big deal.”
“So, what happened?”
“I went to Germany for a week. I was fucking miserable, so I changed my flight and came home, fell to my knees on her doorstep. Told her she was my future, and that I was in love with her. That’s when she told me about you.”
Even though I’ve only ever seen them as my parents, I can see the scene. Dad in his retro glasses, his light wash jeans and white sneakers. Mom, opening the door and seeing him there.
“It’s a great story, Dad,” I say, accepting the rag he tosses me. I start to wipe my hands, clearing away the grease from my car. “But why are you telling me now?”
He’s quiet long enough that I look up at him, find him staring right back at me. The moment stretches, then, on a sigh, he says, “Because I wanted to tell you that relationships are about trust. Opening yourself up to being hurt. I have a feeling that—well, all this made me wonder if you knew that, Luca. What makes it special is that chance that you might get hurt. It’s that trust in the other person to be loyal, to be true, to be careful with your heart—that’s what makes it love.”
My throat swells and I try to swallow around it, my heart pushing up against my esophagus. Of course Dad would see me this clearly, and of course he would be right.
I have a problem with trust. Obviously, given the situation with Mandy. That I didn’t tell Sloane about that, or about the divorce, or anything about the reality between me and Wren.
Maybe that problem with trust is also part of the reason I’ve been so hesitant to call this what it is. Ask Wren, formally, to be my girlfriend. My partner.
Fuck, my wife.
I realize I’d get down on one knee right now. I’ve known her for less than a year, but I know. I know she’s the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with, if only she’ll take me.
“Gerald!” Mom’s voice floats out from the breezeway, and Dad stands, clapping a hand on my shoulder and nodding at me before he leaves without another word.
I sit in the quiet of the garage, then sigh and dig my phone from my pocket with a greasy hand.
“Luca?”
“I’m sorry, Sloane,” I say, the moment she answers the phone. It’s quiet on the other side, and I deserve that. Years ago, when she and Callum were getting together behind my back, I was righteously pissed about all the lying.
It’s only just now hitting me, the irony of that. The fact that she and Cal were sparked atmyfake wedding.
“You don’t have to forgive me right away, or ever,” I say, a smile pulling at the corner of my mouth. Of course Sloane will forgiveme—that’s what we do for each other. “But I need your help with something.”
Sloane is quiet for a long moment, then she says, “Bring me a box of éclairs from thefancybakery downtown. And we’ll talk about it over lunch.”
I can’t contain my laugh. “You got it.”
Wren
Of course, my dad picks an empty warehouse right in the center of the city as our meeting spot. It’s the kind of place he loves—abandoned, but right in the middle of the action.
“Wren,” he says, grinning and looking up at me as I walk in.
