Love and the Silver Lining

by Tammy L. Gray

  A tight silence follows while a balmy breeze dances across the balcony. He studies me, his eyes as dark and deep as a raging sea. I look away, unable and unwilling to battle with him on the subject.

  “You know what? Forget it. There’s no point in even trying to explain when you’ve already played judge, juror, and condemner without my participation.” He retreats into the apartment and walks right back out onto the balcony seconds later, a disgusted smirk twisting his lips. “A housewarming gift.” He tosses me a small red package that looks like a five-year-old wrapped it. “Feel free to chuck it into the trash.”

  This time when he storms away, all that follows is the slamming of the front door.

  Regret comes an instant later. I hold the little box, knowing I should go after him and apologize. Sure, those were all thoughts I’d had for months now, but I didn’t have to attack him with them simply because I was feeling shaken.

  I slowly tear open the wrapping and lift the box lid. Inside is a new pendant for Piper’s collar. It has her name and Zoe’s address engraved in a plastic pink bone. I squeeze the gift in my hand and dash toward the door, but by the time I make it to the stairwell, his truck is already squealing out of the parking lot. Guilt and shame make their dive in the cesspool of my emotional baggage, ripping at my chest all the way down.

  My mom used to say that hurting people hurt people. Unfortunately, that statement is very, very true.

  six

  I’m still feeling like gum on the bottom of my shoe when Cam calls three hours later. And by the sound of his tone and general aggravation, I have a feeling he needs the ice cream as much as I do.

  We agree to meet at Marcie’s Parlor, a local ice cream spot halfway between his apartment and Zoe’s. The inside tables are all packed, and the line is at least six deep.

  I pull out a white metal chair from one of the tables outside and drop my phone on the tabletop as I sit. There’s a striped canvas awning over the seating area and entry door, which blocks the worst of the sun, but it’s still hot and sticky. I don’t mind. In fact, the heat is about all I have left to hold on to when I look at where I was supposed to be.

  My phone buzzes against the iron slats, obnoxiously pulling me from my introspection. It’s my mom, and since this is call number three in the past hour, my conscience forces me to answer it.

  “Hey, what’s up?” I stretch out my legs and try to settle comfortably in the hard chair.

  “Oh good, you’re available. I was all ready to leave a voicemail.” Her voice sounds giddy, almost breathy in its excitement. “Did today go well?”

  I’m surprised that she remembered, especially considering we spent approximately five minutes on my move and the rest of Sunday night dinner talking about her “amazing date” with Michael. Gag.

  “It went fine. I’m all moved in.” Turns out unpacking one small bedroom only kills about an hour and a half of time. I’m going to need a new hobby, or maybe I should consider getting a job after all.

  “That’s wonderful, hun,” she gushes with far greater a reaction than my response warranted. “So, you’ll be at dinner tomorrow night?”

  Ah . . . now it makes sense. Sunday night dinner is Mom’s leash around my neck. Her way to stick it to Dad that he may have gotten the good TV in the divorce, but she got their only daughter.

  Cam’s car turns the corner and parks three spaces down from where I’m sitting. I wave and then refocus on my mom.

  “I haven’t missed one yet, have I?” My answer is dry, but I swear we have this conversation on repeat.

  “I know. I know. I just wanted to confirm because this one is special.”

  My heart flutters, and that little girl in me who still hopes and dreams for her parents’ reconciliation wrestles awake. “Why?”

  “Well, sweetheart . . .” She pauses, and I can tell she’s trying to choose her words carefully. “I invited Michael.”

  The flutters stop and drop like a sinking weight into the pit of my stomach. Cam must see it on my face when he walks up because he sits down next to me without saying a word.

  “Now, I know you’ve made it clear you don’t want to meet any of the men I date, and I respect that, but Michael is different.” Her voice takes on a dreamy quality. “This time is different.”

  I cover the mouthpiece with my hand, and whisper to Cameron, “Can you go with me to dinner tomorrow?”

  He shrugs, then nods his head.

  “Darcy, are you still there?”

  “I’m here.” I sigh. “I’m not sure what you want me to say.”

  “Just say you’ll come and give him a chance.”

  A chance at what? To be my new daddy? To show me how life as I know it is now over?

  “Yeah, Mom, I’ll try. I’d like to bring Cam, though, if that’s okay?”

  She chuckles, and I seriously want to throw my cellphone across the parking lot. “Of course. He’s practically my son-in-law anyway.”

  I ignore her comment, just as I have for ten years now. “Okay, well, I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

  “Thank you, Darcy. This means so much to me.”

  “I know, Mom. I’ll talk to you later.”

  I hang up, stunned with disbelief, trying to find my voice. Sunday night dinner is sacred. It’s family only, always has been. My parents didn’t even let Dexter’s wife come until they were engaged. “Mom’s bringing Michael to Sunday night dinner.”

  “Oh, that’s different.”

  And this is why I love Cameron. One sentence and he knows exactly why I’m upset.

  “She’s never introduced me to any of them before. Not intentionally, at least.” There was the one time when I happened to be at her house when a guy showed up, but I left without so much as a hello. “And then, bam, she drops him on me like it’s no big deal, like we’ve always invited strangers to family night dinner. She didn’t even hesitate when I asked if you could come. Not that I wanted her to, but still, she’s never let you before.”

  “She must really like him.”

  I stick out my tongue like I swallowed something sour, but that’s exactly how those words taste. “They’ve known each other a week,” I argue. “And now I’m required to make nice with this guy like he’s not some intruder in my life? My parents have only been divorced for a few months. How can she suddenly be so okay? I can’t even walk into that house without wanting to choke.”

  “Have you told her any of this?”

  “No, of course not. She still seems too fragile.” I close my eyes and try to get the rising sickness in my stomach to settle. “I was supposed to be gone when all this went down.” I look at Cam, those relentless tears finding their way back to my eyes. “Do you have any idea how many times that promise kept me going when the fundraising got so miserable?” I swallow back a sob. “I was supposed to be gone.”

  “I know you were.” Cameron leans forward, slides his hand across the table, and squeezes mine.

  I cling to him, the steadiest person in my life. The one who’s never let me down, who’s been my rock and support through the worst seven months of my life.

  We sit a few more minutes in silence while he holds my hand. I think of Bryson’s comment about my pent-up tension and realize he’s right. Somehow I’m going to have to find an outlet for all this emotion.

  “I don’t want to think about this anymore. I need something positive to talk about.” I release Cam’s hand, giving him the freedom to stretch and go back to a more comfortable position in his chair. “How did rehearsal go?”

  Cam snorts. “That is not the right question if you’re looking for positive.”

  “Why? I thought you said Jay and Harrison finally picked up the song?”

  “They did. It was Bryson who couldn’t keep a beat or concentrate on anything, for that matter.” Cam runs his hand through his hair, then pats it back down so it’s not sticking straight up in the air. “I didn’t think Bry was seeing anyone, but maybe he is. The guy only gets this way when there’s a g
irl involved.”

  My pulse quickens, but I convince myself our argument couldn’t possibly be the cause. Bryson doesn’t care about anyone’s opinion of him, especially not mine. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, do you remember meeting Trina?”

  I roll through memories until I land on her. Bryson had brought her to dinner with all of us a few years ago. Alison had hated her, of course, because Trina was—as most of his girlfriends are—extremely beautiful. But I remember thinking she was also surprisingly intelligent and very kind-hearted. “Yeah. She was probably the highest-quality girlfriend he’s ever introduced us to.”

  “Exactly. And days after that dinner, he went into meltdown mode. Just like this. He broke up with her a week later.”

  “I remember. Though I never understood why.”

  “Same reason he bailed on Alison the first week we were on tour. The minute Bryson starts to feel trapped, he implodes. My guess is he needs to hurry up and break it off with whomever it is this time. Especially since we have a gig in two weeks and we kind of need our lead singer to sound better than a bloated fish.” He slaps his palms on his shorts and stands. “I’m dying out here. Can we go inside? You did promise me ice cream after all.”

  He comes around the table, takes my hand, and pulls me until I’m folded in his arms and he’s hugging me with the force of a bear. “Sorry I was a jerk this morning. I have all this stuff going on in my head right now and I let it spill over into our world.”

  Relief unwinds the tension in my shoulders. “It’s okay.”

  “It’s not okay, and I’m going to try hard to be more understanding through this transition.” He pulls back but keeps his hands around my upper arms. “It’s you and me. Always.”

  My throat turns scratchy. “Even if it means horribly uncomfortable dinners with my mom and her new boyfriend?”

  He slides hair from my cheek and smiles. “Even then.”

  “Thank you. You’re the best friend a girl could ask for.”

  “Yeah,” he sighs, like it’s a hardship, and pulls on the door to the ice cream shop. “I know.”

  After ten minutes of waiting in the driveway for Cam on Sunday night, I’m ready to take back all my comments about him being a great best friend.

  Me

  Where are you??? Been waiting forever.

  Cam

  Sorry. Practice is going long. Still struggling. Can you manage without me for a little while?

  Me

  Are you serious?

  He sends me a prayer emoji. I send back the red-faced, ready-to-explode one.

  Cam

  I’ll be 20 minutes tops.

  But Cameron’s promises are worthless when they’re spun around music. An hour is a minute in that world, so I know, even when I send an OK in response, that I’m stuck navigating the bulk of tonight all on my own.

  I begrudgingly exit my car and scowl at Michael’s Escalade in the driveway. My mom has a two-car garage, and he could have parked to the right or left to give me space to pull in beside him, but no. He parked right in the middle, so I’m left parking along the curb like a guest.

  The air is hot and sticky outside and it seems to settle against my lungs, choking me, or maybe it’s just the dread I can’t seem to shake no matter how many pep talks I’ve given myself today. I knock on the door and wait instead of walking in. This house doesn’t feel like my own anymore, tonight more than ever.

  Mom opens the door, still laughing until she spots me on the other side of the threshold. “Hey, sweetie. You didn’t have to knock.”

  “I wasn’t sure . . .” I trail off because this already feels miserably awkward.

  Her expression softens. “You don’t have to be so nervous. Just be yourself and he’ll love you.”

  I clamp my lips together and attempt to smile. I couldn’t give a flip whether Michael likes me or not. As far as I’m concerned, I’m here because I was raised to respect my mother and father, even when I completely disagree with their choices. No other reason.

  “Cameron still coming?”

  “Yeah. He’s at practice and running late.”

  “Okay, good. I have enough chicken for an army.” She closes the door behind me, and the smell of garlic and butter fills my nostrils.

  I look at my mom, incredulous, and my heart squeezes to a cold knot. “You made scampi?” Chicken scampi was my father’s favorite dish. The one she would cook for him on every birthday and special occasion.

  “Yes. Is that okay? I thought you loved that meal.”

  “I do, but . . .” How can she be so oblivious? “Never mind. Scampi is great.”

  “Okay, whew.” Mom’s chest deflates with way too much relief. She’s nervous, too. “Michael is really important to me. I really want you to like him.”

  “I know. And I’m going to try, Mom. For you.”

  “That’s all I’m asking for.” She wraps an arm around my stiffened shoulder and guides me into the dining room. “Michael, this is my daughter, Darcy.”

  The man in question turns and offers me a smile as broad as his build. “Darcy, so nice to meet you.” He takes one stride forward, which would be two for most men, and stretches out his hand. “Your mom has told me so much about you.”

  “Likewise” is all I can say as he crushes my poor fingers in his own.

  The man is Goliath. So much so he has to duck under the chandelier to walk over to me. He also has streaks of gray running through his sandy-blond hair and is wearing jeans that haven’t been in style in ten years and a button-up plaid shirt.

  Mom wraps her arm around his elbow and smiles up . . . way up at him. “Michael is a dog lover, too,” she croons at him, even though I’m the one she’s addressing. “He has two boxers that are the sweetest things.”

  “And hyper,” he adds with the same adoring tenor. “I bet you could give me some tips.”

  “Definitely. Darcy trains dogs for a living. Right, hun?” She smiles brightly in my direction.

  I shrug one shoulder. “Not really. Or at least I haven’t in a very long time.” Sure, my certification is in dog training and it’s always been a passion of mine, but I’ve spent the last two years grooming overprivileged pups to raise money, so to label me one feels like a lie. “I’m currently unemployed.” If Mom’s trying to impress him, she’s going to do it without me.

  Mom’s brow furrows the way it used to when I was misbehaving as a kid. “Don’t sell yourself short, honey.” She turns back to Michael and shoots him the exact opposite expression. “Darcy is extremely talented with animals. She’s always had a gift, even as a child.”

  “Thanks,” I say in little less than a grumble.

  A pulsing silence rears up between us. An inevitable lull in the conversation taking root.

  I fiddle with the hem of my shorts. This is so much harder than I thought it would be. If Dad were here, he’d crack a joke or tell a story in a way that would make everyone feel like they’d known him forever. Michael just stands there, lanky and bony and far less interesting than the man my mother loved for over thirty years. Is this one more way to stick it to my father? Pick someone who’s the complete opposite?

  Michael clears his throat. “Your mom told me you, um, had a mission trip fall through recently. I imagine that was very difficult.” He actually sounds like he cares. I guess he’s in impress mode, as well. “Any chance of a different location?”

  “No. I’ve retired from missionary work.” I walk along the now-empty walls in the room. There used to be a family photo in the spot above our gas fireplace. They’d had it professionally done to look like a painting. We were all dressed in blue. Dad and Dexter in a shirt and tie. Mom and I in stiff dresses. We smiled, posed, argued, then smiled some more. Finally, the photographer gave up and told us to take a break. He secretly got us when we weren’t paying attention. Dad had made some comment about burning his shirt, and both us kids cheered and said we wanted to do the same. The photo was of all of us laughing. And my favorite p
art was that Dad wasn’t looking at the camera or even at us kids. He was staring lovingly at my mom.

  A buzzer shrills from the kitchen, and we both turn toward the lady of the house, who quickly apologizes. “I’ll be right back. Just a few more minutes and dinner will be ready. Darcy?” Her eyes turn pleading because, let’s face it, I’m not exactly winning at the small talk right now. “Can you keep Michael company for me?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say automatically.

  She hesitates, but finally the buzzer wins and she leaves the two of us to awkwardly stare at each other.

  Mom always wanted an open floor plan. One that allowed her to participate in conversation from the kitchen, but when house renovations began, it came down to a five-figure kitchen expansion or a three-thousand-dollar man cave. Unfortunately, frugality won, which is why Michael and I are stuck here in painful silence.

  “So . . .” He draws the word out like he’s trying to come up with anything we could possibly talk about. “I have a daughter close to your age. She lives in Ohio now with her husband.” Michael sits in the chair he vacated earlier and takes a sip of his water.

  “That’s nice,” I say as politely as I can and lean up against the bare wall. Sitting feels too much like acceptance at this point.

  “I keep waiting for that call with news of a grandbaby, but it hasn’t happened yet.” He clears his throat again, checks behind him to see if Mom is ever coming back, then turns around to smile uncomfortably at me. “What about you? Any plans for a family?”

  “Right now, I’d settle for my own apartment. Kids are way off.”

  He nods. “Yeah, my daughter says the same. Career and all that.”

  “Yep.” Oh, my word, this is agony.

  He must feel it, too, because he gets up from the table with far too much nervous energy. “Well, I should probably see what’s taking your mom so long.”

  Yes, because it’s been all of two minutes. Then again, it feels like a lifetime already.

  “Good idea.”

  And then he’s gone like the Road Runner in a Bugs Bunny cartoon.