Oomph. I grunt bumping into Quade’s back when he comes to a complete stop just inside the door. It would be a lie to deny I manipulated our meeting to end early, and Quade insisted on coming back to the apartment to see how Zinnie was doing.
He holds a finger to his mouth and cocks his head to the side. Then he quietly sneaks us into the kitchen undetected, allowing us to eavesdrop on the scene in the living room. He hands Finn and I a beer before snagging one for himself. Sam and her crew, the two girls, and Claire, who apparently was invited back, are strewn about the living room. Alanis Morisette is playing in the background.
“And the whole time he was trying to make me think I was the crazy one. Like I was being emotional or irrational every time I said that he was hooking up with someone else,” Zinnie says. “I am so over men. I’m going to be a lesbian like you.” She points a spoonful of cookie dough towards Zoe. The area around them is filled with every comfort food you can fathom.
“Not all men cheat,” Charlotte reminds her.
“Who came up with code blue?” Claire asks.
The women each furrow a brow in thought before Zoe declares it was Grace, to which they all nod in agreement.
“Because of Benji,” she recalls.
“Ugh. He was a total dick…tator.” Zoe catches herself, eyes darting to Poppy as Sam bounces a pillow off her head.
“Watch it. This Code Blue is G rated.”
“Fine. Then let’s dance some more. Dancing makes everything better,” Zoe declares standing. “Zinnie. This is the last thing I’m going to say, then we’re going to eat and dance—the prettiest thing a girl can wear is confidence.”
And she’s right because confidence looks damn good on Samantha.
“To Zinnie!” They raise their glasses and dancing commences.
“That’s my cue, boys.” Quade tosses his coat on the island, rolls up his sleeves, and kicks off his shoes. They shriek with surprise when Quade barges in and then swarm him as he throws himself at their mercy.
While Quade basks in the glory of feminine youth, I have spent the last few hours actually working on the issues that came up during our meeting. I’m spent. I lean back in my chair and stretch, checking the clock. I need a break, so I leave my office in search of a snack of some kind.
The music has been turned down but is playing softly. There are wrappers scattered everywhere, pillow and blankets strewn about. The guys have left, but there are still sleeping women strewn about the living room. Zinnie and Claire are bunking on the floor. Poppy is on a couch with Zoe and Grace. Charlotte is wrapped around Sam like a flag.
We grew up in a tidy, reserved house. In turn, I have always had a tidy, reserved house. It should feel unsettling to me to see a living room that cost more than these women make collectively in a year in shambles. Instead, it feels right. I dim the lights and turn off the music all together. Something calls at me, something powerful, and I head back to my room.
I place my watch on the top of the dresser in my closet, and I notice Everett’s letter. The letter has been here all along. I always place my watch next to it at night when I prepare for bed, but I’ve always ignored it, pushed it away. But tonight, I can’t ignore it. I pick it up and the weight it carried just weeks ago is no longer there. The thickness that was once overwhelming now boasts of information and guidance.
I carry the letter into the bedroom. Propping my back against a bank of pillows, I take a long drink of my bourbon. Then another. My thumb traces Everett’s chicken scratch. Walt. A line drawn abstractly under my name. I slide my finger under the sealed lip of the envelope and pull the thick vanilla-cream paper from its confines.
Walt,
Yep. I’m dead.
That’s the only reason you would be reading this. That and the girls haven’t turned 21. I really didn’t want to write this letter. Felt like it wasn’t necessary. Needed. But if you’re reading this, then Jenny was right. Better to be prepared than to have your arse blowing in the wind.
I know I should have asked you. Told you. Given you some kind of clue that if something happened to both of us, you would be raising two girls. But where does one start a conversation like that? How does one say to a man who never intends to have children, “Hey, by the way, you don’t want to have kids, but there’s a minute possibility you will be raising mine. And, oh yeah, they are ten years apart. And, oh yeah, they’re girls.”
God, when Jenny got pregnant with Zinnia, we were kids. We didn’t have a clue what to expect or how to love something more than ourselves. How to be responsible for something that needs oxygen and nourishment to survive. Are you fucking kidding me?
So, I did what I always do. I researched. I went to the university library and read everything I could get my hands on. I talked to people who had paved the road before us. I crunched numbers and solved all the mathematical equations that told me just how much I was going to fuck this up. Anything to give me an inkling what I was getting into. This is what I learned: Nothing.
Nothing that taught me how to be a parent. Nothing that gave me the security I so desperately needed and craved at the time. Nothing. There are no guarantees when it comes to parenting. Sure, there are ways to hedge the odds, but nothing with any surety.
Once I realized there was no guarantee, I went in search of best practices.
I found it talking to Jenny’s grandfather. He told me, “Son. The only thing you have to do is love. Love them more than yourself. The rest will fall into place. You’ll make mistakes, then you’ll correct them, and then you’ll make more.”
I remember looking at him like he was delusional. How does someone love something more than themselves? But I knew I could figure it out. I fell in love with their mom, right? I would eventually learn to love them. It was the only thing I had to hold on to.
Turns out the crazy bastard was right. What he failed to tell me is it would be instantaneous. One minute, I’m Everett. The next, I’m so head over hills in love with the tiny creature placed in my arms that I know there is nothing I wouldn’t do to ensure her wellbeing. And then her sister’s. Their happiness, their sense of security.
So, I wrote this letter, because I do love my girls. I do care about their wellbeing. I want them to be happy and secure. To feel loved and cared for. And when I had to choose who to give the most precious commodity I have to, it was easy to choose. You.
Jenny and I never hesistated. There was no discussion for either of us. We chose you from the beginning. So, don’t fuck it up you fucking asshole.
Sorry. A little beyond the grave humor.
You are going to fuck this up. I can’t tell you how many times I did, because I lost count. And I will let you in on a little secret. Most of the time the girls don’t know when you are.
Also, you’re welcome. I had to figure out that little nugget all on my own.
I’m sure you’re wondering why two people would choose a man who has said so many times that he never wanted children to be my children’s guardian. One word: Finn.
September, first year at uni. It was pledge weekend. We were surrounded by women and prospects. Every guy wanted us in his fraternity and every girl wanted us in her bed. We were on our way to having exactly what we wanted. Your phone rang. You could have ignored it, but it was Finn, so you answered it. He didn’t say anything alarming. He just wanted to talk to his brother for a minute. The senior classmen were giving you shit about being on your phone. When you hung up you told them you had to leave. They threatened you with everything in the book. You wouldn’t make it into any fraternity. You would be black-listed. You would be the one everyone laughed at. I remember thinking, what the hell are you doing? And I said as much, but without an ounce of hesitation, you said he needed you and you were going. I asked you what he said, and you said, “Nothing. I just know he does.” And you left with no regards to what it meant for your future.
To love our kids is programmed, hardwired into who we are. But the kind of man, husband, and sibling we are is a choice. And time and time again you chose Finn. Hundreds of times you put him before yourself.
So. You can blame Finn. Go ahead. I won’t tell anyone the truth. That you love another more than yourself and that is why we chose you.
I know our girls will miss us. I know it will be difficult. But it will get better. You will get better. They can and will come to see you as their dad. And that, my friend, is how you honor me.
You were my greatest friend,
E
I read. And read again. It explains the whys, but the answers to how aren’t in here. For some reason, that’s comforting. Everett didn’t know them either and learned it as he went like I am. I trust he would not have left out anything of value. He wasn’t the kind of guy to leave something to chance. He gave me the map. Love them more than myself. Which, I do. I didn’t at the beginning. And I’m not sure I even did a month ago, but there is no debate about it now. I love those girls like they were my own.