Chapter Nine

“I thought this was a cookout. You know, dogs and burgers, Tater Tots, ambrosia salad. ” Dexter picked up a box of Twinkies, tossing them into the cart. “And Twinkies. ”

“It is, ” I said, consulting the list again before I picked a four‑ dollar glass jar of imported sun‑ dried tomatoes off the shelf. “Except that it’s a cookout thrown by my mother. ”

“And? ”

“And, ” I said, “my mother doesn’t cook. ”

He looked at me, waiting.

“At all. My mother doesn’t cook at all. ”

“She must cook sometimes. ”

“Nope. ”

“Everyone can make scrambled eggs, Remy. It’s programmed into you at birth, the default setting. Like being able to swim and knowing not to mix pickles with oatmeal. You just know. ”

“My mother, ” I told him, pushing the cart farther up the aisle as he lagged along beside, taking long, loping steps, “doesn’t even like scrambled eggs. She only eats eggs Benedict. ”

“Which is? ” he said, stopping as he was momentarily distracted by a large plastic water gun that was displayed, right at kid’s eye level, in the middle of the cereal section.

“You don’t know what eggs Benedict is? ”

“Should I? ” he asked, picking up the water gun and pulling the trigger, which made a click‑ click‑ click sound. He pointed it around the corner, like a sniper, taking shelter behind a display of canned corn.

“It’s a way of making eggs that is really complicated and fancy and involves hollandaise sauce, ” I told him. “And English muffins. ”

“Ugh. ” He made a face, then shuddered. “I hate English muffins. ”

“What? ”

“English muffins, ” he said, putting the water gun back as we started walking again. “I can’t eat them. I can’t even think about them. In fact, we should stop talking about them right now. ”

We paused in front of the spices: my mother wanted something called Asian Fish Sauce. I peered closely at all the bottles, already frustrated, while Dexter busied himself juggling some boxes of Sweet ’n Low. Shopping with him, as I’d discovered, was like having a toddler in tow. He was constantly distracted, grabbing at things, and we’d already taken on entirely too many impulse items, all of which I intended to rid the cart of at the checkout when he wasn’t looking.

“Do you mean to tell me, ” I said, reaching up as I spotted the fish sauce, “that you can eat an entire jar of mayonnaise in one sitting but find English muffins, which are basically just bread, to be disgusting? ”

“Ughhh. ” He shuddered again, a full‑ body one this time, and put a hand on his stomach. “Icks‑ nay on the uffins‑ may. I’m serious. ”

It was taking us forever. My mother’s list only had about fifteen things on it, but they were all specialty items: imported goat cheese, focaccia bread, an incredibly specific brand of olives in the red bottle, not the green. Plus there was the new grill she’d bought just for the occasion‑ the nicest one at the specialty hardware store, according to Chris, who didn’t keep her from overspending as I would have‑ plus the brand‑ new patio furniture (otherwise, where would we sit? ), and my mother was spending a small fortune on what was supposed to be a simple Fourth of July barbecue.

This had been all her idea. She’d been working away at her book ever since she and Don had returned from the honeymoon, but a few days earlier she’d emerged midday with an inspiration: a real, all‑ American Fourth of July cookout with the family. Chris and Jennifer Anne should come, and Don’s secretary, Patty, who was single, poor thing, and wouldn’t it be wonderful if she hit it off with my mother’s decorator, Jorge, who we just had to have over to thank for all his hard work on the addition? And wouldn’t it be such a great way for everyone to meet my new beau (insert me cringing here) and christen the new patio and our wonderful, amazing, beautiful lives together as a blended family?

Oh, yes. It would. Of course.

“What? ” Dexter said to me now, stepping in front of the cart, which I’d been pushing, apparently, faster and faster as these stress thoughts filled my head. It knocked him in the gut, forcing him backward, and he put his hands on it, pushing it back to me. “What’s wrong? ”

“Nothing, ” I said, trying to get the cart going again. No luck. He wasn’t budging. “Why? ”

“Because you just got this look on your face like your brain was caving in. ”

“Nice, ” I said. “Thanks ever so much. ”

“And, ” he continued, “you’re biting your lip. You only do that when you’re about to shift into superobsessive, what‑ if mode. ”

I just looked at him. As if I was that easy to figure out, a puzzle that could be cracked in, how long had it been, two weeks? It was insulting.

“I’m fine, ” I said coolly.

“Ah! The ice queen voice. Which means, of course, that I’m right. ” He came around the cart, holding the edge, and stood behind me, putting his hands over mine. He started pushing and walking in his goofy way, forcing me to fall into his rhythm, which felt as awkward as it looked, like walking with a shoeful of marbles. “What if I embarrass you? ” he said, as if posing a theory, like, say, quantum physics. “What if I break some heirloom family china? Or talk about your underwear? ”

I glared at him, then pushed the cart harder, making him stumble. But he hung on, pulling me back against him, his fingers spreading across my stomach. Then he leaned down and whispered, right in my ear, “What if I throw down a challenge to Don, right there over dinner, daring him to eat that entire jar of sun‑ dried tomatoes and chase it with a stick of margarine? And what if ”‑ and here he gasped, dramatically‑ “oh my God, he does it? ”

I covered my face with my hand, shaking my head. I hated it when he made me laugh when I didn’t want to: it seemed some huge loss of control, so unlike me, like the most glaring of character flaws.

“But you know, ” he said, still in my ear, “that probably won’t happen. ”

“I hate you, ” I told him, and he kissed my neck, finally letting go of the cart.

“Not true, ” he replied, and started down the aisle, already distracted by a huge display of Velveeta cheese in the dairy section. “Never true. ”

“So, Remy. I hear you’re going to Stanford! ”

I nodded and smiled, shifting my drink to my other hand, and felt with my tongue to see if I had spinach in my teeth. I didn’t. But Don’s secretary, Patty, who I hadn’t seen since her tearful bit at the wedding reception, was standing in front of me expectantly, with a nice big piece wedged around an incisor.

“Well, ” she said, dabbing at her forehead with a napkin, “it’s just a wonderful school. You must be really excited. ”

“I am, ” I told her. Then I reached up, nonchalantly, and brushed at one of my teeth, hoping that somehow she would subconsciously pick up on this, like osmosis, and get the hint. But no. She was still smiling at me, fresh sweat beading her forehead as she gulped down the rest of her wine and glanced around, wondering what to say next.

She was distracted suddenly, as was I, by a small commotion over by the brand‑ new grill, where Chris had been assigned to prepare the incredibly expensive steaks my mother had special ordered from the butcher. They were, I’d heard her tell someone, “Brazilian beef, ” whatever that meant, as if cows from below the equator were of greater value than your average Holstein chewing cud in Michigan.

Chris wasn’t doing well. First he’d burned off part of an eyebrow and a fair amount of arm hair lighting the grill. Then he’d had some trouble mastering the complicated spatula in the top‑ of‑ the‑ line accessories set the salesman had convinced my mother she absolutely had to have, resulting in one of the steaks being flung across the patio, where it landed with a slap on one of the imported loafers of our decorator, Jorge.

Now the flames on the grill were leaping as Chris struggled with the gas valve. All of us assembled stood there, holding our drinks as the fire shot up, making the steaks scream and sizzle, then died out completely, the grill making a gurgling noise. My mother, deep in conversation with one of our neighbors, glanced over in a disinterested way, as if this methodic burning and destruction of the main course was someone else’s problem.

“Don’t worry! ” Chris called as the flames shot up again and he batted at them with the spatula, “it’s under control. ” He sounded about as sure of this as he looked, which was to say, with half a right eyebrow and the smell of singed hair still lingering, not very.

“Everyone, please! ” my mother called out, covering gamely by gesturing at the table where we’d set up all the cheeses and appetizers. “Eat, eat! We’ve got so much food here! ”

Chris was waving smoke out of his face while Jennifer Anne stood off to his left, biting her lip. She’d brought several side dishes, all in plastic containers with matching, pastel‑ colored lids. On the bottom of each lid, in permanent marker, was written PROPERTY OF JENNIFER A. BAKER, PLEASE RETURN. As if the whole world was part of an international conspiracy to steal her Tupperware.

“Barbara, ” Patty called out, “this is just wonderful. ”

“Oh, it’s nothing! ” my mother said, fanning her face with her hand. She was in black pants and a lime green tank top that showed off her honeymoon tan, her hair pulled back in a headband: she looked the picture of suburban entertaining, as if at any moment she might light a tiki torch and spray some Cheez Whiz onto crackers.

It was always interesting to see how my mother’s relationships manifested themselves in her personality. With my dad she was a hippie‑ in all the pictures I’d seen she looked so young, wearing gauzy skirts or frayed jeans, her hair long and black and parted right down the middle. During the time she was married to Harold, the professor, she’d gone academic, sporting a lot of tweed and wearing her reading glasses all the time, even though she saw well enough without them. Once married to Win, the doctor, she’d gone country club, in little sweater sets and tennis skirts, though she couldn’t play to save her life. And with Martin, the golf pro‑ who she’d met, of course, at the country club‑ she went into a young phase, since he was six years her junior: short skirts, jeans, little flimsy dresses. Now, as Don’s wife, Barb, she’d gone subdivision on us: I could just see them, years from now, wearing matching jogging suits and riding around in a golf cart, en route to work on their back swing. I really did hope this was my mother’s last marriage: I wasn’t sure she, or I, could take another incarnation.

Now I watched as Don, wearing a golf shirt and drinking a beer in the bottle, helped himself to another of the crostini, popping it into his mouth. I’d expected him to be the grill master, but he didn’t even seem to be that fond of food at all, in fact, judging by the vast quantities of Ensure that he consumed, those little cans of liquid diet that claim to have all the nutritional value of a good meal with the convenience of a pop‑ top. He bought them by the case at Sam’s Club. For some reason, this bothered me even more than my now breasty breakfasts, seeing Don walking through the house reading the newspaper, in his leather slippers, a can of Ensure seemingly affixed to his hand, the fffftttt sound of him popping the top now signaling his presence.

“Remy, honey? ” my mother called out. “Can you come here a second? ”

I made my excuses to Patty and walked across the patio, where my mother slid her hand around my wrist, pulled me gently close to her, and whispered, “I’m wondering if I should be worried about the steaks. ”

I glanced over at the grill, where Chris had positioned himself in such a way that it was difficult‑ but not impossible‑ to see that the prime Brazilian beef cuts had been reduced to small, black objects resembling lava rocks.

“Yes and no, ” I told her, and she absently brushed her fingers over my skin. My mother’s hands were always cool, even in the hottest of weather. I suddenly had a flash of her pressing a palm to my forehead when I was a child, checking for fever, and me thinking this then too. “I’ll deal with it, ” I told her.

“Oh, Remy, ” she said, squeezing my hand. “What am I going to do without you? ”

Ever since she’d come home it had been like this, these sudden moments when her face changed and I knew she was thinking that I might actually go to Stanford after all, that it was really about to happen. She had her new husband, her new wing, her new book. She’d be fine without me, and we both knew it. This is what daughters did. They left, and came home later with lives of their own. It was a basic plot in any number of her books: girl strikes out, makes good, finds love, gets revenge. In that order. The making good and striking out part I liked. The rest would just be bonus.

“Come on, Mom, ” I told her. “You won’t even know I’m gone. ”

She sighed, shaking her head, and pulled me close, kissing my cheek. I could smell her perfume, mixed with hair spray, and I closed my eyes for a second, breathing it in. With all the changes, some things stayed the same.

Which is exactly what I was thinking as I stood in the kitchen, pulling the hamburgers I’d bought out of the back of the refrigerator, where I’d camouflaged them behind a stack of Ensures. At the supermarket, when Dexter had asked why I was buying this stuff even though it wasn’t on the list, I’d just told him that I liked to be prepared for any eventuality, because you just never knew. Could be I was too cynical. Or maybe, unlike so many others who moved in my mother’s orbit, I had just learned from the past.

“Okay, so it is true. ” I turned around to see Jennifer Anne standing behind me. In one hand, she had two packs of hot dogs: in the other, a bag of buns. She half‑ smiled, as if we’d both been caught doing something, and said, “Great minds think alike, right? ”

“I am impressed, ” I told her as she came over and opened one of the packs, arranging the dogs on a plate. “You know her well. ”

“No, but I do know Christopher, ” she said. “I had my reservations about that grill from the day we brought it home from the store. He went in there and just got bedazzled. As soon as the guy started talking about convection, he was gone. ”

“Convection? ” I said.

She sighed, pushing her hair out of her face. “It has to do with the heating process, ” she explained. “Instead of the heat just rising up, it surrounds the food. That’s what got Christopher in. The guy just kept saying it, like a mantra. It surrounds the food. It surrounds the food. ”

I snorted, and she glanced over at me, then smiled, almost tentatively, as if she had to check first to make sure I wasn’t making fun of her. Then we just stood there, both of us stacking meat products, for a second, until I decided we were on the verge of a Hallmark moment and had to take action.

“So anyway, ” I said, “I’m wondering how we’re going to explain this last‑ minute menu substitution. ”

“The steaks were bad, ” she said simply. “They smelled off. And this is just so kitschy, all‑ American, burger and dogs. Your mom will love it. ”

“Okay, ” I said, picking up my plate of patties. She grabbed the buns and her plate, then started toward the door to the patio. I followed behind, glad to let her handle it.

We were halfway out the door when she turned her head, nodding to the front yard, and said, “Looks like your guest has arrived. ”

I glanced out the window. Sure enough, there was Dexter, coming down the sidewalk, a good half hour late. He was carrying a bottle of wine (impressive) and wearing jeans and a clean white T‑ shirt (even more so). He was also holding a leash, the other end of which was attached to Monkey, who was charging ahead, tongue out, at a speed that seemed impressive considering his old age.

“Can you take this? ” I asked Jennifer Anne, handing over my plate of patties.

“Sure, ” she said. “See you outside. ”

As I came down the driveway, the screen door slamming behind me, Dexter was tying Monkey’s leash to our mailbox. I could hear him talking to the dog as I came up, just as you would talk to anyone, and Monkey had his head cocked to the side, still panting, as if he was listening carefully and waiting for his turn to respond.

“… might not be into dogs, so you’ll just stay here, okay? ” Dexter was saying, tying the leash into a knot, then another knot, as if Monkey, whose back leg was trembling even as he sat down, possessed some form of superhuman strength. “And then later, we’ll go find a pool so you can take a dip, and then maybe, if we’re really feeling crazy, we’ll take a ride in the van and you can put your head out the window. Okay? ”

Monkey kept panting, closing his eyes as Dexter scratched under his chin. As I came closer he saw me and started wagging his tail, the sound a dull thump against the grass.

“Hey, ” Dexter said, turning around. “Sorry I’m late. Had a little problem with the Monkster here. ”

“A problem? ” I said, squatting down beside him and letting Monkey sniff my hand.

“Well, ” Dexter said, “I’ve been so busy with work and the gigs and all that, you know, I’ve kind of neglected him. He’s lonely. He doesn’t know any other dogs here, and he’s really quite social. He’s used to having a whole network of friends. ”

I looked at him, then at Monkey, who was now busy chewing his own haunch. “I see, ” I said.

“And I was getting ready to leave this afternoon, and he was following me around, all pathetic. Whining. Scratching at my shoes. ” He rubbed his hand over the top of Monkey’s head, pulling on his ears in a way that looked painful but that the dog seemed to love, making a low, happy noise in his throat. “He can just stay out here, right? ” Dexter asked me, standing up. Monkey wagged his tail hopefully, perking up his ears, the way he always seemed to do at the sound of Dexter’s voice. “He won’t cause any trouble. ”

“It’s fine, ” I said. “I’ll bring him some water. ”

Dexter smiled at me, a nice smile, as if I’d surprised him. “Thanks, ” he said, and then added, to Monkey, “See, I told you. She likes you. ”

Monkey was back to chewing his haunch now, as if this last fact didn’t concern him much. Then I got him some water from the garage, Dexter double‑ checked the leash knot again, and we headed around the side of the house, where I could already smell hot dogs cooking.

My mother was deep in conversation with Patty when we walked up, but at the sight of Dexter she stopped talking, put a hand to her chest‑ a trademark fluttering gesture‑ and said, “Well, hello. You must be Dexter. ”

“I am, ” Dexter said, taking her hand as she extended it and shaking it.

“I recognize you from the wedding! ” she said, as if just now putting this together, even though I’d told her at least twice about the connection. “What a wonderful singer you are! ”

Dexter seemed pleased and somewhat embarrassed at this. My mother was still holding his hand. “Great wedding, ” he said finally. “Congratulations. ”

“Oh, you must have something to drink, ” my mother said, glancing around for me, and of course, I was right there between them. “Remy, honey, offer Dexter a beer. Or some wine? Or a soft drink? ”

“Beer would be fine, ” Dexter said to me.

“Remy, sweetie, there’s some more cold in the fridge, okay? ” My mother put a hand on my back, effectively steering me toward the kitchen, then hooked her arm in Dexter’s and said, “You have to meet Jorge, he’s just this brilliant decorator. Jorge! Come here, you absolutely have to meet Remy’s new boyfriend! ”

Jorge started across the patio as my mother kept trilling about how fabulous everyone within a five‑ foot radius was. Meanwhile, I headed into the kitchen to fetch Dexter a beer, like hired help. By the time I brought it back out to him Don had joined the conversation and now everyone was discussing, for some weird reason, Milwaukee.

“Coldest weather I’ve ever felt, ” Don was saying, popping a handful of imported nuts into his mouth. “The wind can rip you apart in five minutes there. Plus it’s murder on cars. Salt damage. ”

“Great snow, though, ” Dexter said, taking the beer as I handed it to him and managing, very subtly, to brush his fingers with mine as he did so. “And the local music scene is really coming on there. It’s early, but it’s there. ”

Don huffed at this, taking another swig of his beer. “Music is not a real career, ” he said. “Up until last year this boy was majoring in business, can you believe that? At UVA. ”

“Well, isn’t that interesting, ” my mother said. “Now, tell me again how you two are related? ”

“Don is my father’s brother‑ in‑ law, ” Dexter told her. “His sister is my aunt. ”

“That’s just wonderful! ” my mother said, a bit too enthusiastically. “Small world, isn’t it? ”

“You know, ” Don went on, “he had a full scholarship. His way paid. Dropped out. Broke his mother’s heart, and for what? Music. ”

Now, even my mother couldn’t come up with anything to say. I just looked at Don, wondering where this was coming from. Maybe it was the Ensures.

“He’s a brilliant singer, ” my mother said again to Jorge, who nodded, as if he hadn’t already heard this several times. Don seemed to be distracted now, looking out across the patio, holding his empty beer. I glanced at Dexter and realized that I’d never seen him like this: a bit cowed, uncomfortable, unable to come up with the quick funny retort that always seemed so close at hand. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at it, then glanced around the yard, taking another sip of his beer.

“Come on, ” I said, and slipped my hand around his. “Let’s get some food. ” Then I pulled him away, gently, over to the grill, where Chris seemed very happy to be poking at the hot dogs, back in his element.

“Guess what, ” I said, and he glanced up, eyebrows raised. “Don’s an asshole. ”

“No, he isn’t, ” Dexter said. He smiled, as if it wasn’t any big deal, then put an arm over my shoulders. “Every family has a black sheep, right? It’s the American way. ”

“Tell me about it, ” Chris said, flipping a burger. “At least you weren’t in jail. ”

Dexter took a big swig of his beer. “Only once, ” he said cheerfully, then winked at me. And that was it: so quickly, he was back to his old self, as if all that had just happened was a big joke, one that he was in on, and didn’t bother him in the least. I, however, kept looking at Don, my stomach burning, as if I now had a score to settle. Seeing Dexter so quiet, if only for a second, had somehow made him more real to me. As if for those few moments, he wasn’t just my summer boyfriend but something bigger, something I had a stake in.

The rest of the evening went well. The burgers and dogs were tasty, and most of the expensive olive‑ and‑ sun‑ dried‑ tomato spread went uneaten, while Jennifer Anne’s deviled eggs and three‑ bean salad were a hit. I even saw my mother licking her fingers after consuming a second piece of Jennifer Anne’s chocolate pudding pie, which was garnished with a healthy scoop of Cool Whip. So much for gourmet.

By dark everyone was saying their good‑ byes, and my mother disappeared to her room, claiming to be completely wiped out from the party because entertaining, even when other people do most of the work, can be so exhausting. So Jennifer Anne and Chris and Dexter and I stacked the dishes and wrapped things up, tossing most of the gourmet crap and the burned steaks, saving only one, with the blackened stuff trimmed off, for Monkey.

“He’ll love it, ” Dexter said, taking it from Jennifer Anne, who had wrapped it up in foil, the edges folded neatly. “He’s really a Dog Chow kind of guy, so this is like Christmas to him. ”

“What an interesting name he has, ” she said.

“I got him for my tenth birthday, ” Dexter told her, glancing outside. “I really wanted a monkey, so I was kind of disappointed. But he’s turned out to be much better. Monkeys get really mean, apparently. ”

Jennifer Anne looked at him, somewhat quizzically, then smiled. “I’ve heard that, ” she said, not unkindly, and went back to covering leftover pita bread with Cling Wrap.

“So if you’ve got a minute, ” Chris said to Dexter, wiping the counter down with a sponge, “you should come up and see my hatchlings. They’re amazing. ”

“Oh, yeah, ” Dexter said enthusiastically. Then he looked at me. “You okay? ”

“Go ahead, ” I said, as if I was his mom or something, and they took off up the stairs, feet clumping, on the way to the lizard room.

Across the kitchen, Jennifer Anne sighed, shutting the fridge. “I will never understand this hobby of his, ” she said. “I mean, dogs and cats you can cuddle. Who wants to cuddle a lizard? ”

This seemed like a difficult question to answer, so I just pulled the plug on the drain, where I was washing dishes, and let the water gurgle down noisily. Upstairs, it sounded like the honeycomb hideout: giggling, various oohs and ahhs, and the occasional skittering noise, followed by uproarious laughter.

Jennifer Anne cast her eyes up at the ceiling, obviously unnerved. “Tell Christopher I’m in the den, ” she said, picking up her purse from the sideboard, where it was parked next to her plastic containers, now cleaned, lids accounted for. She drew out a book and headed into the next room, where a few seconds later I heard the TV come on, murmuring softly.

I picked up the foil‑ wrapped steak and walked outside, flicking on the porch light. As I came down the front walk Monkey got to his feet and started wagging his tail.

“Hey buddy, ” I said. He poked at my hand, then got a whiff of the steak and started nudging my fingers with his nose, snuffling. “Got a treat for you here. ”

Monkey wolfed down the steak in about two bites, almost taking part of my pinky with it. Well, it was dark. When he was done he burped and rolled over onto his back, sticking his belly in the air, and I sat down on the grass beside him.

It was a nice night, clear and cooler, perfect Fourth of July weather. A few people were popping off firecrackers a couple of streets over, the noise pinging in the dark. Monkey kept rolling closer to me, nudging my elbow, until I finally relented and scratched the matted fur on his belly. He needed a bath. Badly. Plus he had bad breath. But there was something sweet about him, nonetheless, and he was practically humming as I moved my fingers across him.

We sat there like that for a while until I heard the screen door slam and Dexter call out my name. At the sound of his voice, Monkey instantly sat up, ears perked, and then got to his feet, walking toward it until the leash was stretched to the limit.

“Hey, ” Dexter said. I couldn’t see his face, just his outline in the brightness of the porch light. Monkey barked, as if he’d called him, and his tail wagging grew frenzied, like intense windmill action, and I wondered if he’d knock himself down with the sheer force of it.

“Hey, ” I said back, and he started down the steps toward us. As he came closer across the grass, I watched Monkey, amazed at his full‑ body excitement to see this person he’d only been away from for an hour or so. What did it feel like, I wondered, to love someone that much? So much that you couldn’t even control yourself when they came close, as if you might just break free of whatever was holding you and throw yourself at them with enough force to easily overwhelm you both. I had to wonder, but Monkey clearly knew: you could see it, feel it coming off him, like a heat. I almost envied him that. Almost.

It was late that night, when I was lying in Dexter’s room on his bed, that he picked up the guitar. He wasn’t much of a player, he told me, as he sat across the room, shirtless, barefoot, his fingers finding the strings in the dark. He played a little riff of something, a Beatles song, then a few lines of the latest version of “The Potato Opus. ” He didn’t play like Ted, of course: his chords seemed more hesitant, as if he was plucking by sheer luck. I leaned back against the pillows and listened as he sang to me. A bit of this, a bit of that. Nothing in full. And then, just as I felt I might be drifting off to sleep, something else.

“This lullaby is only a few words, a simple run of chords‑ ”

“No. ” I sat up, now wide awake. “Don’t. ”

Even in the dark, I could see he was surprised. He dropped his hands from the guitar and looked at me, and I hoped he couldn’t see my face either. Because it was all fun and games, so far. Just a few moments when I worried it might go deep enough to drown me. Like now. And I could pull back, would pull back, before it went that far.

I’d only told him about the song in a moment of weakness, a time of true confessions, which I usually avoided in relationships. The past was so sticky, full of land mines: I made it a point, usually, not to be so detailed in the map of myself I handed over to a guy. And the song, that song, was one of the biggest keys to me. Like a soft spot, a bruise that never quite healed right. The first place I was sure they would strike back, when the time came for them to do so.

“You don’t want to hear it? ” he asked now.

“No, ” I said again. “I don’t. ”

He’d been so surprised when I told him. We’d been having our own challenge of sorts, a kind of Guess What You’d Never Know About Me. I found out that he was allergic to raspberries, that he’d busted out his front tooth running into a park bench in sixth grade, that his first girlfriend was a distant cousin of Elvis. And I’d told him that I’d come this close to piercing my belly button before fainting, that one year I’d sold more Girl Scout cookies than anyone else in my troop, and that my father was Thomas Custer, and “This Lullaby” had been written for me.

Of course he knew the song, he said, and then hummed the opening chords, pulling the words out of thin air. They’d even sung it a couple of times at weddings, he said: some brides picked it for the dance with their father. Which seemed so stupid to me, considering the words. I will let you down, it says, right there in the first verse, plain as day. What kind of father says such a thing? But that, of course, was a question I’d long ago quit asking myself.

He was still strumming the chords, finding them in the dark.

“Dexter. ”

“Why do you hate it that much? ”

“I don’t hate it. I just… I’m sick of it, that’s all. ” But this wasn’t true either. I did hate it sometimes, for the lie that it was. As if my father had been able, with just a few words scribbled in a Motel 6, to excuse the fact that he never bothered to know me. Seven years he’d spent with my mother, most of them good until one last blowout, resulting in him leaving for California, with her pregnant, although she didn’t find that out until later. Two years after I was born, he died of a heart attack, never having made it back across the country to see me. It was the ultimate out, this song, admitting to the world that he’d only disappoint me, and didn’t that just make him so noble, really? As if he was beating me to the punch, his words living forever, while I was left speechless, no rebuttal, no words left to say.

Dexter strummed the guitar idly, not picking out any real melody, just messing around. He said, “Funny how I’ve heard that song all my life and never knew it was for you. ”

“It’s just a song, ” I said, running my fingers over the windowsill, easing them around those snow globes. “I never even knew him. ”

“It’s too bad. I bet he was a cool guy. ”

“Maybe, ” I said. It was weird to be talking about my father out loud, something I hadn’t done since sixth grade, when my mother found therapy the way some people find God and dragged us all in for group, individual, and art until her money ran out.

“I’m sorry, ” he said softly, and I was unnerved by how solemn he sounded, how serious. As if he’d found that map after all and was dangerously close, circling.

“It’s nothing, ” I said.

He was quiet for a second, and I had a flash of his face earlier that night, caught unaware by Don’s pronouncements, and the vulnerability I’d seen there. It had unsettled me, because I was used to the Dexter I liked, the funny guy with the skinny waist and the fingers that pressed against my neck just so. In just seconds I’d seen another shade of him, and if it had been light where we were now, he’d have seen the same of me. So I was grateful, as I had been so often in my life, for the dark.

I rolled over and pressed myself into the pillow, listening to the sound of my own breathing. I heard him move, a soft noise as the guitar was put down, and next his arms were around me, circling my back, his face against my shoulder. He was so close to me in that moment, too close, but I had never pushed a guy away for that. If anything I pulled them nearer, taking them in, as I did now, sure in my belief that knowing me that well would easily be enough to scare them away.