Dunkin and Donuts (14 page)

Chapter Forty-Two

I really shouldn’t have agreed to drive myself because, surprise, surprise, I am lost. I have a tendency to get lost. I am directionally challenged, so it is no surprise that, instead of ending up in Center City, as intended, I accidentally got on the Ben Franklin Bridge headed toward New Jersey. Not again! I can’t believe this is happening for the umpteenth time.

I’m now late. I left my house with more than enough time, but after sitting on Bridge traffic, crossing over, looping back around, and, only now, finding my way to the city I am fifteen minutes behind schedule. Shit.

I scheduled this appointment weeks ago and I can picture smoke coming out of my mother’s ears as she waits for me to arrive. I curse under my breath only I guess it’s louder than I’d thought and my window is down. The guy sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic looks at me and nods.

“Fucking traffic is right!” he shouts. “My wife’s gonna kill me. I’m late picking her up again.”

“My mom’s gonna kill me!” I say. “I’m late to my brother’s rehearsal dinner.”

“Shit lady, you’re fucked,” he decrees.

“Tell me about it,” I nod.

I am twenty-eight minutes late when I walk through the door. I’ve called my mother’s cell three times and even texted once (I know, I know, texting and driving is horrible and I try not to do it, but desperate times call for desperate measures).

I walk—okay, run—into the restaurant at 7:28 and, to my surprise, the bridal party is nowhere in sight. Then, I spot my dad sitting in the lobby reading a well-worn copy of
The Great Gatsby
.

“Hey, kiddo,” he smiles. “Have a seat.” He hands me one of my favorite books,
Bridget Jones’s Diary
by Helen Fielding.

I obey. “What’s going on?”

“The rehearsal dinner doesn’t start ‘til eight. You’re early.”

“But, Mom told me to.”

“Yeah, I know. That’s why I’ve been here since seven.”

“I don’t get it,” I am confused.

“Your mom always assumes you’ll get lost or be late anywhere you go. So she told you to come an hour early so that, when you got here, you’d actually be on time or early.”

Damn. The woman is diabolical. And right.

“I came at seven just in case you were on time.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He chuckles. “Your mother threatened me on pain of death.”

“Really?”

“No, but I didn’t want her banishing me to the couch. Anyway, it’s nice to have some time one-on-one with my best girl.”

I raise an eyebrow at him.

“Okay, one of my two best girls,” he admits, referring to my mother.

I sit down, open my own book, and begin to read.

When Mom and the others arrive twenty minutes later, ten minutes early, I nudge Dad and say “follow my lead.”

“I’ve been here since 7:00 a.m,” I say. “How dare you not trust me to get here on time?”

Mom smiles, then holds up her cell phone and winks at me. “Tell me I wasn’t right dear. Or would you like me to replay your voicemails to refresh your memory?”

Damn it. I’d forgotten about the voicemails. When Dunkin rolls in five minutes later, I’m surprised not only to see him, but by the fact that, somehow, he was told the correct time.

“Your dad invited me,” Dunkin says by way of explanation. “He told me to get here at eight and not to leave your side ‘til the night is over. Under penalty of death, I am not to leave you alone with your mother.”

I smile gratefully, stuff
Bridget Jones’s Diary
into my purse and kiss my boyfriend.

“What’re you thinking?” Dunkin asks me.

I guess my eyes must’ve glazed over for a moment.

“I was just thinking that both of my parents sometimes know me even better than I know myself.”

“Tell me about it.” Dunkin wraps an arm around my shoulder and, together, we go inside to dinner.

Chapter Forty-Three

“Shayla Ross, is that you?”

I run through my mental rolodex and try to recall the name of the person standing in line ahead of me at the grocery store. Who is she? How do I know her? I know that the woman looks familiar, but I can’t recall where or when we met. I think that we knew each other years ago, back before wrinkles lined her face and her hair turned gray. She looks about my mother’s age—her chronological age, fifty-five, not the age my mother actually looks.

“How are you dear? It’s been ages.”

“I’m good,” I say, trying to find a conversational foothold. “How are you? It has been ages, hasn’t it? I can’t even remember the last time we saw each other. It’s been so long.”

“Yes. Must’ve been twelve years ago now. It was during a pool party, back when you were still in college.”

I try to bluff. “Yeah, those were the days. So… what have you been up to?”

The unknown woman chuckles and calls my bluff. “You don’t know who I am, do you dear? It’s okay. No use pretending, although you had me for a minute.”

I shake my head. “I know I know you, but I can’t place the connection,” I admit. “I’m sorry. What gave me away?”

“Your eyes, dear. You look like a deer in headlights. And no need to apologize. I’d have done the same thing in your shoes.” She smiles.

I smile back.

“I’m Shirley, Gabe’s aunt. Tina’s sister. You remember Gabe. He always considered you the one that got away.”

I shift uncomfortably. Gabe and I dated for about a minute and a half in high school, then rekindled things for a brief interlude in college and, even up to last summer, he was continuing to check in just to let me know that he was available.

I’d chickened out on telling him the truth—that I’m not interested and never will be—and, instead, led him to believe that I was a lesbian as a way of getting out of his advances. It hadn’t worked. His mother had outed me as gay to my mother who, after discovering that I am simply a heterosexual with a less than stellar dating record, outed me as straight among her social set. Gabe and I haven’t been in touch since then and I’d really like to keep it that way.

“You must come over to the house. Come and see Gabe,” Aunt Shirley says.

“Um…”

“He’d love to see you. Especially after what just happened to his father. Everyone is coming tomorrow night to pay their respects.”

I’m in the dark. “Did something happen to Mr. Madras? I hadn’t heard.”

It’s Shirley’s turn in line and she instructs the cashier to use paper, not plastic, bags.

“Oh yes dear. He died. Heart attack. You absolutely ought to come by the house though to offer your condolences. I’m so glad I ran into you.”

I think back to high school, to Gabe’s father with his man belly and bad comb-over, his off-color jokes and the way he’d shake your hand just a little longer than was comfortable. He hadn’t been my favorite person, but Gabe and I
had
grown up together and I’m not doing anything tomorrow night anyway.

I’m sure Aunt Shirley will tell Gabe she ran into me and the last thing I want to do is add insult to injury by not paying my respects. I owe it to my old, childhood classmate and long-ago boyfriend to stop by. And his father’s funeral is probably the safest place for me to see him. No way he’ll hit on me there. I decide to go. Besides, I know my parents will want to come. They knew his folks too and, while they were never exactly close, they are part of the same social set.

As it turns out, Mom had made plans awhile ago to get together with a group of her girlfriends in the city and they have tickets to a show so Dad and I go alone to the Madras’ family house to offer our condolences.

“Do you remember when that boy used to stand outside your bedroom window serenading you with cheesy love songs at all hours of the night?”

“Don’t remind me,” I laugh.

“One time, I almost turned the hose on him, but your mother stopped me.”

“What for? You totally should’ve. Maybe, then he’d have taken the hint.”

“Well, your mom has this weird thing about getting you kids married off. She always said that, the way Gabe loved you, if you were ever out of options, you could do worse than ending up with him.”

“I’d rather be alone than with the wrong person, Dad.”

“He’s a nice kid, Shayla. Anyway, we don’t have to worry about a plan B for you. It looks like you’ve found the one.”

“I didn’t know you cared about getting me married off.”

“Frankly, I don’t. I want what’s best for you. It just happens to work out incredibly well for me if what makes you happy also makes your mother happy.”

I smile. As much as I sometimes resent my mother for her insistence on micromanaging my love-life, she and Dad have a good thing going on and I hope one day to find the kind of love that they have.

The cars outside the Madras’ house stretch all the way down the block so we park on a side street then backtrack, walking toward the blue and white colonial where Gabe grew up.

Now, I wonder if Gabe’s mother will continue to live in the house or if the memories of her newly-deceased husband will be too much for her. A lifetime of accumulated objects, shared heartache, laughter and joys. I can’t imagine that kind of loss and it is for her that I am here—her and Gabe and the childhood me who used to trick-or-treat in this neighborhood far past the age of adorable when I was too old to be begging for candy but did so anyway because I could. And because I’ve always loved mini candy bars—large sized too, come to think of it.

When Dad and I enter the foyer, I recognize a lot of faces from my childhood. Gabe and I grew up together, had a lot of the same childhood friends and our parents had been friends with each other. I smile the appropriate sad smile that one wears at funerals and wakes, the smile that says, “I would be happy to see you if the circumstances were different. As it is, know that I am grateful that you and I are alive and that we share a past.”

The bittersweet smile of the still living. Each person wears his or her upturned frown briefly then passes it to the next, none of us wanting to seem joyous on this somber occasion. People tell Mr. Madras stories. There is some laughter, a few tears. It’s sad but not devastating. At least not for me. I didn’t know Mr. Madras well and I didn’t like him all that much.

“Shayla, you look great! It’s good to see you.”

I turn around to see Gabe, standing tall in a black suit with his hair brushed rakishly into a bouffant.

“Hey Shay.” I’ve always hated being called Shay. I’m not a frigging Stadium. But, the guy’s dad just died so I don’t say anything.

“Hi Gabe,” my own dad says, taking his hand. “We are so very sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” Gabe nods.

“Yeah. I’m really, really sorry. It must be so hard to lose your dad. Was it unexpected?” I ask sympathetically.

“Yes and no. Dad took piss-poor care of himself and had somewhat of a temper. He’d get himself all riled up about little things. Even watching football, he’d scream at the TV so loud that my mom would yell at him ‘Harry you’re gonna give yourself a heart attack!’ I guess she called it.”

His sad half-smile is the most heartbreaking smile I’ve ever seen. He’s trying too hard to pretend to be okay, but his performance isn’t convincing. Gabe has never been stoic. He’s the most sensitive straight man I’ve ever known. My heart goes out to him.

“Come here,” I tell him, wrap my arms around him, and give this man who I knew as a boy a hug.

He hugs me back and, as he hugs me, he starts to cry. I hold him. He shakes with the weight of his grief.

When I finally pull away, Gabe turns his eyes on me and whispers, “I love you Shayla.”

“Thanks. I really do love you too Gabe. I mean, we grew up together.”

“No. I love you,” he repeats.

The words hit me like a ton of bricks. It was a mistake to come. I knew it. How do you tell a guy at his father’s funeral that you’re just not that into him? I should’ve listened more closely to Gabe’s Aunt Shirley’s words. The one that got away. Shit. Apparently, not far enough away, that is. I decide that the best tactic is diversion. No way I’m going to kick a man while he’s down by refusing him outright.

“You’re grieving,” I tell him. “This isn’t the time to worry about all this. Focus on your dad right now. He deserved that much.”

This seems to quiet him. “You’re right,” he says, misunderstanding me entirely. “There’ll be time for us in the future. After this.”

I am about to tell him that that’s not what I said—and certainly not what I meant—when my dad intervenes, taking my arm and nudging me toward the door.

“It was good seeing you Gabe. Sorry about the circumstances. Hang in there. You’ll get through this,” Dad says kindly.

We’re out the door and heading back to the car before I can say a word.

“Why’d you drag me outa there?” I ask.

“Because that poor kid doesn’t need you rejecting him just days after his father has died.”

I refrain from pointing out that Gabe isn’t a kid anymore, hasn’t been for years.

“Besides,” Dad says, “that was the grief talking. No one is so desperate as to hold onto a high school crush. I mean, you are incredibly lovable, but you and Gabe were just kids when you dated. He can’t still be in love with you after all these years.”