“Conrad and Kirby really hit it off,” I say, telling them briefly about the scene when I walked into the bar, but unable to do it—or them—justice. “It was emotional … very touching. I’m happy for them.”
My dad puts down his mug and holds my gaze. “That is really something,” he says.
“I should have told him so much sooner,” I say.
My mother shakes her head, steadfastly refusing to see it this way.
I ignore her and turn to my dad. “It seems pretty clear that he’ll never forgive me for what I did to him.”
“You can’t go back,” he says. “Just look forward. You’re doing the right thing now.”
“I’m trying,” I say.
“That’s all you can do,” my dad says, hugging me just like he hugged Kirby in the foyer.
* * *
I sleep on the whole flight home, but am still groggy when I walk into my apartment, late in the afternoon. My housekeeper came on Friday, and the place is even more pristine than usual, everything in its place. I open the refrigerator, but as usual, there is nothing to eat—not that I’m hungry anyway. I wander over to my desk and glance at a stack of scripts that I meant to pack and read on the plane, but feel completely uninspired to deal with now. I contemplate a run in the park, but am not in the mood for that, either. I turn on my stereo, but music—any music—reminds me of Conrad and that look on his face when he realized who she was. I will never get over that look. So I finally pick up the phone and call Peter, ask him to come over. He says yes, of course, he will be there as soon as he can, his voice comforting.
He arrives around five, straight from the office. He says he’s been there all weekend, putting out fires. I wonder if one of them has anything to do with my show, but don’t ask. At the moment, I’m too drained to really care. We sit on my sofa and I tell him about the weekend—the conversation with my father in the park, Conrad’s hostility, his touching performance with Kirby. I tell him everything except for the way I’m feeling now—because I don’t even know how to describe it to myself.
“That’s great progress,” he says when I’m finished. He has that satisfied look he gets in meetings after he’s found a solution to a problem, and I realize he deserves a lot of the credit for what happened this weekend. For making me see that I had to confront the past and tell the truth. That as much as I owed that to Kirby and Conrad and my father, I also owed it to myself. “Are you glad you went?”
“Yeah,” I say. “It was tough … But yeah.”
“Anything worthwhile is tough,” he says, taking my hand and squeezing it.
“Yeah. Well, you were right.”
Peter shakes his head as if to say it’s not about being right. “I’m sorry I was so hard on you. I just had a difficult time accepting … all the secrets.”
“I know,” I say. “I understand.”
“But we can move on,” he says. “Right?”
I nod, every part of me trying to do just that.
“I’ve missed you, Champ,” he says.
I tell him I’ve missed him, too, and after we look at each other, really look at each other, he pulls me over to him and kisses me. I murmur apologies, and he whispers back his understanding and forgiveness.
“I want you,” he says, his hands running over, then under, my blouse.
“Let’s go,” I say, leading him back to my bedroom where we silently undress, each of us helping the other with buttons and snaps and belts. Our eyes stay locked the whole time, a silent conversation taking place, until we are both naked, kissing again. He tells me I’m beautiful, running his hands along my hips and back before lowering me to the bed. He is smooth and sure in each movement, every word. I think of all that has happened since we were last together like this, a few nights before Kirby knocked on my door. It feels like a lifetime ago.
“Are you ready?” he says.
I tell him yes. I tell him how much I want him and need him and love him.
His body still covering mine, he pushes up on his hands, one on either side of my face, and shakes his head, as if to tell me I misunderstood. “That’s not what I meant by ‘ready,’ Champ … Are you ready to take the next step? Together?”
I stare at him, in disbelief. This was the last thing I expected. The last thing I’ve been thinking about over the past few days and weeks.
“What do you mean?” I say, just to be sure.
He collapses his full weight back on me, kissing me again. “I’m ready, Champ,” he whispers in my ear. “I’m ready to get you the ring of your dreams. Get married. Have a baby. All of the above. In any order you want.”
I feel myself trembling as I imagine a small ceremony with our families. Aidan and Kirby at our sides. The life I’ve always wanted. We kiss in a way we haven’t kissed in a long time, and certainly not since she found me. Then we slowly make love, his breath in my ear, his arms wrapped tightly around me. We last a long, long time, until we can’t take it another second and both release, together. I can feel him explode inside me, softly moaning my name, telling me he’s going to make me his wife. I tell myself I’m the luckiest woman in the world. I tell him I couldn’t be happier. And as I fall asleep with my head on his chest, I almost, very nearly, believe it.
31
kirby
My parents, sister, and Noah are just finishing lunch when I walk into the house after my five-hour drive. They all light up when they see me, even my mother. I force myself to sit and join them, despite my strong urge to be alone.
“Well?” Charlotte says, as my mother stands to fix me a plate. “How was it?”
“It was awesome,” I say, wishing there was some way to describe just how awesome. “How was prom?”
She and Noah look at each other and grin as she says it was the best time ever. She then informs me that Mr. Tully had to kick five people out for dirty dancing—and eight others for drinking.
“Did you see Belinda?” I can’t help asking.
“Just for a minute right when we got there,” she says. “Her dress looked sick. So good. She ended up getting that turquoise one she tried on.”
I nod, pretending to be surprised, feeling not only disappointed that she didn’t change her mind about wearing it but strangely sorry for her, too. It can’t have made her feel good—no matter how good she looked.
Charlotte pushes away her plate of half-eaten tuna salad and says, “So? Did you meet him? Your birth dad?”
“Yeah,” I say, as my mother hands me a plate of tuna salad and a bowl of tomato soup.
“What’s he like?” she asks, everyone staring at me in anticipation.
“He’s still a musician. He owns this bar called Zelda’s and it has live music three hundred sixty-five days a year.” I avoid eye contact with my parents as I stand and grab a can of Coke from the fridge, then sit again, cracking it open and taking a long drink.
“You went to a bar?” my mother says. She just can’t help herself.
“Yeah,” I say. “But I didn’t drink. It’s no different than half the restaurants in St. Louis. Anything on the Hill,” I say, referring to the Italian restaurant district where my dad always grabs a mixed drink at the bar before he joins us. “It was all kosher, Mom. Trust me.”
She nods and says she does trust me. Completely.
Seeming eager to get off the subject of Conrad, my father says, “What about Marian’s parents? Were they nice?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I liked her dad more than her mom. Her mom was kind of a snob. But nice enough.”
My mother looks intrigued with this, perhaps relieved that I still have my snob radar working. “What do they do for a living?”
“She doesn’t work. He’s a lawyer for, like, Oprah. They’re rich.”
My parents nod, as if they assumed this already.
“What’s he look like?” Charlotte says. “Your dad.”
“My dad’s right there,” I say, pointing to my father who grins back at me.
Charlotte goes, “Right!
You know what I mean—your birth dad.”
“I can’t lie—he’s good-lookin’. He looks like a … rocker,” I say, laughing. I glance at my mom, who looks all worried again. “Not a long-haired, druggy, eighties rocker, Mom. Just, you know, an artist. He’s really cool. Really, really nice.” I start to tell them how we sang together on stage but decide I want to keep that to myself for a while. Besides, I don’t want to upset my dad. I know how I feel about him having more in common with Charlotte; there’s no point in making him feel the same way. Then, just to throw my mother a bone, I say, “Oh—and Mrs. Caldwell really liked the napkins.”
“She did?” my mother says, perking up.
“Yeah. She thought they were really pretty. And she appreciated the pie, too.”
“Did you eat it?” she asks.
“No,” I say. “But probably just because she wanted to save it. They’re not allergic to nuts or anything.”
My mother beams as Charlotte and Noah stand to go, announcing that they’re headed to a pool party. “You wanna come?” Charlotte asks me, clearly a gratuitous invite, her hundredth of the year, but still nice.
I tell her no, thanks, I’m pretty beat after the drive, and have a lot of studying to do. Then, as I watch the two leave hand in hand, I think of Philip, excited to call him, see him, kiss him again.
I tell my parents I’m going to go unpack, but they stop me, say they have something else to talk to me about.
I brace myself, expecting one last lecture about college, but instead they say it’s about Belinda.
“What about her?” I say. My mind races, trying to determine what they know and if I’m going to be somehow implicated.
“We know about the dress she stole from Robin’s,” my dad says. Then, before I can debate whether to play dumb, he says, “You knew about it, right?”
I stare at him, thinking this is typical and so unbelievable that I’m about to get in trouble, but I know it will be worse if I lie, so I say, “Yeah, I knew about it. How do you know about it?”
“The manager of the store called me,” my mother says. “On Sunday morning. She remembered that Belinda had tried on that dress and suspected her when she realized it was missing from their inventory late last week. She was waiting to see if she wore it to prom.”
“Why’d she call you?” I say.
“She thought Belinda was my daughter.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I said she actually wasn’t my daughter, but a close family friend. And that I would find out and get back to her.”
“And?”
“I asked Charlotte what dress Belinda wore. I didn’t tell her why I wanted to know. But she confirmed that yes, she wore that dress.”
“Is she going to get arrested?” I ask, panicked.
My mother looks at my dad, who says, “No. The manager was going to call the police. Until your mother and I paid for it.”
“You did what?” I ask, floored. It is pretty much the last thing I could ever picture my parents doing. Covering for a criminal.
“They were going to press charges,” he says. “I told her I’d pay for it and handle the matter. Then I called Belinda.”
“And what happened?”
He says, “We asked her to come over and we sat down and just … talked to her.”
“Belinda is very confused right now,” my mother says. “It’s been hard for her since her dad left. And they’re having a lot of money problems. Not that that excuses what she did. But we don’t want her future ruined. We think she’s a good kid, deep down, but she’s just a little lost right now.”
“What did she say?” I ask.
“She was really upset. And not just because she was caught. She seemed genuinely sorry. She promised to pay us back and begged us not to tell her mother.”
“Are you going to?”
“We have to,” my father says. “We’d want to know if you did something like this.”
“I wouldn’t,” I say.
“We know. She told us about your fight. And that’s why you didn’t go to prom.”
I nod, waiting for them to tell me I should have come to them. I should have done something more. Instead my mother says, “That must have been a really tough spot for you, Kirby.”
My father nods and says, “Yes. And most kids wouldn’t have been strong enough to take a stand like that.”
I look down, embarrassed, although I’m not sure why. I guess it’s because I’m not used to this sort of attention. It’s been a long time since they said they were proud of me. “I wanted to go to Chicago, too,” I mumble, my head bowed, wondering why I’m trying to give back some of the credit.
“Why don’t you call Belinda?” my dad says. “She’s waiting for you.”
* * *
A few minutes later, I arrive at Belinda’s front door, knocking this time. She answers right away and leads me upstairs to her room. We sit on her bed, in silence. Her skin looks terrible, like she’s either been crying or binge drinking or both. I look away, over at her wall, which is covered with writing—mostly lyrics of dumb pop songs such as, Where would we be if we couldn’t dream? A decent enough quote if she hadn’t lifted it from a Jonas Brothers’ song.
“My parents told me what happened,” I say, the words barely out of my mouth before she starts crying. I lean over and hug her.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I was such a bitch to you…”
“Yeah, ya were,” I say, pulling back and smiling at her.
“I’m sorry,” she says again. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me … I’m just so depressed all the time … and sick of being poor and never having anything cute to wear.”
“I know, Bel,” I say.
She shakes her head and says, “It’s different for you. You don’t have a deadbeat dad—you have two dads and two moms and one’s really rich. And Charlotte told me you were going to meet your birth dad … Was he a total rock star?”
I shrug, trying to downplay it, but say, “He was really cool.… But we can talk about that later…”
She blows her nose and says, “I guess I’ve been a little jealous, too. About all the exciting stuff happening for you. And even Philip. He really likes you.”
“Jake likes you,” I say.
“No he doesn’t. He’s just like all the rest. He just wants sex—that’s it…”
“They all want sex,” I say, smiling, even though I know Belinda is right—it is way different with me and Philip.
“And your parents. God. I know you think your parents suck, Kirb, but they are so awesome,” she says.
I scoff. “Okay. I’m gonna have to beg to differ with you there.”
“No. Seriously. I woulda been dragged off in handcuffs if it weren’t for your dad. God. I owe him. More than the four hundred dollars, I really owe him. You are soo lucky to have them as parents. I’ve always wished they were mine…”
I look at her, surprised that she feels this way. In all the years of listening to me rag on them, she never once said anything like this.
“They’re strict, but at least they care,” she says, tearing up again.
“Your mom cares, too,” I say.
“I know, but it’s not the same. She’s never around … Not that it’s her fault—she has to work … But I don’t know. It just sucks, Kirb … I mean, I know it’s my fault—and that there’s no excuse for what I did. But I’m just … so sick of … everything.”
I hug her again, wondering how I didn’t know that my best friend in the world felt this bad. It occurs to me that maybe everyone does. Except for Charlotte, that is. And God, maybe even Charlotte.
“Do you forgive me, Kirb? For how I treated you?”
“Yes. Of course I do. You’re my best friend. You always will be.”
Then I look into her eyes and tell her that everything is going to be all right. Really all right. Like with our lives and our future and everything. I say it again, and for the first time in a long time, I actually bel
ieve it.
* * *
On Monday morning, I find Mr. Tully in his office and ask for a guidance pass to get out of PE. “Unless you think I need badminton skills in life?”
He smiles, points to my usual chair, and says, “How’s studying for precalc coming along?”
“Perfectly shitty,” I say. “Or is it ‘shittily’?”
He ignores my language, and my grammar question, and says, “I see you need a seventy-two to graduate. Think you can pull it off?”
“Yeah,” I say, waving the question off. “It’s in the bag.”
“Well,” he says. “That’s a refreshing bit of confidence!”
“I’m a changed girl.”
“Oh? Does this have anything to do with your trip to Chicago? Or your new boyfriend?”
I look at him, surprised and a little embarrassed. “How do you know about Philip?”
“Facebook espionage,” he says, as I think of the increasingly sweet messages that we’ve been exchanging on our walls.
I smile. “Yeah. Philip’s good, but this is all about my birth dad.”
“Do tell,” Mr. Tully says, cracking his knuckles and leaning toward me.
I start to grin, then divulge the whole story, how much we hit it off, how thrilled I am to be related to someone so talented, even sharing the emotions I felt onstage.
Mr. Tully seems to hang on every word, even more than he usually does, and tells me he wishes he had been there to see it. “One day,” he says. “When you’re the next American Idol.”
I roll my eyes.
“And I can say I knew you back when…”
I smile. “Yeah. Maybe I’ll even get you backstage passes.”
He laughs and says, “You better not big-time me!”
I laugh and promise him I won’t. We chat for a few more minutes until he says, “So? You know we have something else to cover, don’t you? One final housekeeping matter…”
I give him a look. “Please tell me this isn’t about Mizzou.”