Reminders of Him

My father is still focused on me and Kenna. I can tell he’s going to attempt to be polite and include her in conversation, but I know how much she wants to be ignored right now.

“Nicole has to get to work,” I blurt out. “I need to give her a ride, and then I can meet you both at the house.”

My mother makes a hmph sound behind me. “We just got here,” she says. “I wanted a tour of everything you’ve done.”

My father’s attention is still on Kenna. “What do you do, Nicole? Besides . . .” He waves a hand toward me. “Besides Ledger.”

Kenna gasps quietly and says, “Wow. Okay. Well, I don’t . . . do . . . Ledger.”

I squeeze her hand again, because that is not what my father meant. But if we’re being technical . . . “I think he means what do you do other than . . . work . . . for me.” She’s looking at me blankly. “Because I said you’re my employee earlier, but then I just lied and said you have to go to work, and they know my bar is closed on Sundays, so he assumes you have a different job besides the bar, and he said what do you do besides . . .” I’m rambling now, and it’s just making the moment worse because my parents can hear this conversation, and I know they are enjoying the shit out of it.

My mother has returned to my father’s side, and she’s grinning with delight.

“Please take me home,” Kenna pleads.

I nod. “Yeah. This is torture.”

“It’s such a treat for me, though,” my mother says. “I think this might be my favorite Mother’s Day yet.”

“And here we were thinking he was going to be sad because he didn’t get married,” my father says. “What do you think he has in store for Father’s Day?”

“I can only imagine,” my mother says.

“You two are mortifying. I’m almost thirty. When will this stop?”

“You’re twenty-eight,” my mother says. “That’s not almost thirty. Twenty-nine is almost thirty.”

“Let’s go,” I say to Kenna.

“No, bring her to dinner,” my mother begs.

“She’s not hungry.” I lead Kenna out the door. “I’ll meet you both at the house!”

We’re almost to my truck when I realize what leaving my parents alone means. I pause and say, “I’ll be right back.” I point to the truck so Kenna knows she can go ahead without me. I turn around and walk back to the house, and then I lean in at the doorway. “Do not have sex in my house.”

“Oh, come on,” my father says. “We would never.”

“I’m serious. This is my new house, and I’ll be damned if you two christen it.”

“We won’t,” my mother says, shooing me away.

“We’re getting too old for that anyway,” my father says. “So old. Our son is almost thirty.”

I step out of the doorway and motion for them to leave. “Get out. Go. I don’t trust either of you.” I wait for them to join me outside, and then I lock the front door. I point toward their car. “I’ll meet you at the house.”

I walk to my truck and ignore their chatter. I wait for my parents to back out, and then Kenna and I both sigh simultaneously. “They can be a lot sometimes,” I admit.

“Wow. That was . . .”

“Typical of them.” I glance over at her, and she’s smiling.

“It was embarrassing, but I kind of liked them,” she says. “But I’m still not having dinner with them.”

I don’t blame her. I put my truck in reverse and then point to the middle of the seat. Now that we’ve shattered whatever line we had drawn in the sand, I want her to be as close to me as she can get. She slides across the seat until she’s right next to me, and I put my hand on her knee as I drive away from the house.

“You do that a lot,” she says.

“I do what?”

“You point all the time. It’s rude.” She sounds amused rather than offended.

“I don’t point all the time.”

“You do too. I noticed it the first night I came into your bar. It’s why I let you kiss me, because I thought it was hot. The way you kept pointing at things.”

I grin. “You just said it was rude. You think rude is hot?”

“No. I think kindness is hot. Maybe rude was the wrong term.” She leans her head against my shoulder. “I find your pointing sexy.”

“Do you?” I let go of her knee and point at a mailbox. “See that mailbox?” Then I point at a tree. “Look at that tree.” I tap on my brakes as we close in on a stop sign, and I point at the sign. “Look at that, Kenna. What’s that? Is that a fucking pigeon?”