MY SUNDAY MORNING TRUE BREW SHIFT IS winding down when my dad’s Durango pulls up to the window. I haven’t spoken to him—haven’t even seen him—since he spotted me at the Yellow Door last night. I’d prefer to keep it that way, but Kyle’s wiping down café tables and chatting up customers, and I’m left with no choice but to slide the window open.
“What can I get for you?” I ask politely, as if he’s a stranger.
He shifts the Durango into park, staring crossly through the open window. “My usual cappuccino, and a minute to talk to you.”
I splash milk into a pitcher and set it to steam. “What about?”
“For starters, I’d like to know what you were doing in Seattle last night.”
“Yeah? Ditto.”
“This isn’t a game, Jillian. You’d better not have been with the Holden kid. I thought I made my feelings clear.”
I jam a loaded portafilter into the machine. My anger is scalding, like water rushing through ground espresso. I look him square in the eye. “I thought I’d made my feelings clear.”
He emits a heavy sigh. “I’d appreciate it if you’d stop acting like a child.”
“And I’d appreciate it if you’d stop acting like an adulterer.” The words are out before I register thinking them, spoken in an acidic tone that makes him wince. I glare, merciless. “You can’t deny it, can you? Last night, you were with her.”
“I don’t know what you think you saw—”
“I saw you, with another woman, smiling and laughing. You were holding her hand. God, Dad. I’m not stupid. You’re cheating on Meredith!”
His righteousness crumples as he looks at his lap. I slap a lid on his cappuccino and hold it out the window, waiting for him to take it. He doesn’t, and we’re left at an impasse; me, pulsating with rage, my arm suspended in the morning air, and my dad, hanging his head. Behind me, Kyle whistles the chorus of Michael Jackson’s “Man in the Mirror” as he completes the midday cleanup duties.
“It’s over,” Dad says quietly.
I draw my arm and his cappuccino inside. “How convenient.”
“Really. I ended it last night.”
“On Valentine’s Day?”
“That’s right. I won’t see her again.”
“Who is she?”
“That’s not important.”
“Were you with her the night Ally was born?”
“That’s not important, either.”
I roll my eyes. “I should’ve known you’d be incapable of honesty.”
He fixes a steady stare on me. “I’m not sure you’re one to judge.”
I refuse to let him point his flawed finger at me. “This is what happened with my mother, isn’t it? You guys had a baby—me—and your wedding vows didn’t matter anymore. It’s no wonder she left. How do you think Meredith’s going to react?”
“You’re going to tell her?” he says, and his surprise—his alarm—bowls me over.
“You’re going to tell her.”
He shakes his head. “I can’t.”
“God, Dad! She deserves to know!”
“But it’s done. I swear to God it is. Please, Jillian. This will ruin her.”
“Like it ruined Beth?”
He flinches, but doesn’t contradict me.
I’ve never missed my mother—I don’t know her enough to miss her—but I’ve missed the idea of a mother, not to mention all the things I imagine they do for their daughters: French braids before school and warm cookies after, Saturday afternoon shopping trips and homemade chicken soup during flu season. I’ve felt sharp stabs of envy watching silent smiles pass between Marcy and her girls, and I spent years holding Meredith at arm’s length because she tried too hard to fill a colossal hole.
Dad says, “Is that what you want? Meredith to move out? She’ll take Ally with her.”
My heart plummets—that’s the last thing I want.
He senses my weakness and seizes control. “It’s over. Let me work things out with Meredith. Let Ally grow up in a house with a mom and a dad and a big sister.”
“You’re not being fair,” I say, but I’m wavering. Ally’s the innocent party in all this; I spent a lot of my childhood with one parent when I would’ve liked two. How can I force the same future on her?
“Jillian,” Dad says, poised and stolid. “I’ll make things right with Mer, and I’ll do everything in my power to help you pay for the International Culinary Institute next year. Now, please. Let me live my life, and I’ll let you live yours.”
I’m tempted to test that last declaration, to flat-out confirm his suspicion that I was with Max in Seattle last night, to tell him Max and I are together, and that I love him more than cookies, cakes, and cobblers combined, but I’m not about to let my father exploit me in the name of keeping his affair a secret. Meredith doesn’t deserve that, and neither does Max.
My heart aches. Dad and I are traveling parallel courses and I can’t imagine our paths intersecting again, but for now, all I want is stability. For Ally. For Meredith. And for me. If Dad’s telling the truth, if he ended things with that woman, and if he’s serious about getting back on track with Mer, then maybe we can start fresh. Maybe everything’ll work out, like he said.
“It’s really over?”
He nods gravely. “Yes.”
“I still think you should tell Meredith.”
“Jill, that’ll only build new problems on top of the ones we already have.”
“But you’ll fix things?” I ask, my voice high, childlike in its desperation. “You’ll make everything at home right again?”
“I’ll do my best. For you and for Ally.”
I thrust his cappuccino through the window. “Fine. Now go.”
* * *
I spend what remains of Sunday in the kitchen, baking my favorite quick breads. I can’t stop thinking about my conversation with my dad; hindsight can be a real bitch. I should’ve demanded he tell me who he’s been seeing. I should’ve insisted he tell Meredith. I should’ve come clean about Max and me. Instead, I did everything wrong for fear of challenging the status quo, which was so stupid.
The status quo sucks.
Before dinner, Max calls. “How’re things?” he asks, and even though he’s just across the street, he feels miles away.
“They’ve been better.” I tell him about this morning: my dad’s confession, and my concession on the Meredith issue. I describe how cheap, how dirty, surrender feels. My throat tightens, squeezing my voice like frosting through a piping bag, and it takes incredible focus to keep my emotions in check.
Max says all the right things, warm and comforting, until: “You told him, though? About you and me?”
“I—uh…”
“Jill, I thought we agreed.”
“I know, but this morning was just … not a good time.”
“There’s never gonna be a good time. You know that, right? You’ve just gotta pull the trigger.”
“I can’t pull the trigger—not yet. I can’t believe you’re pushing me on this.”
“And I can’t believe you went back on your word.”
“My word came before I had a frank conversation with my father about his infidelity. I’ll keep my word, Max. Obviously I will. But it’s not going to happen while my dad and Meredith are in the midst of a marital meltdown. Can’t you just be patient?”
He sighs, an arduous sound that makes me feel like I’m suffocating.
“I’m sorry,” I say, regretting the sharp way I spoke. God, this day … I wish we could reclaim the impossibly perfect moments we spent on his bed last night. “I’ll tell him, okay? I swear I will.”
“Cool,” he says, detached. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
And then he hangs up.
By the time the sun sets, I’ve got double loaves of apple spice, chocolate chip banana, and zucchini, an empty flour canister, and a heavy heart.