When I finally went inside, Mom was sitting on the living room couch. “Nice show out there.”
The funny thing is—I think she was proud of me. I was growing up, finally making out with a boy, doing age-appropriate things. What she did when she was my age, back when she was a cheerleader. But then Mom shifted the conversation like a knife across my throat.
“In other news,” she said, “your father moved out.”
“What?”
“Yep.”
“When?”
“About three hours ago. You missed his big blowup.”
“He’s already gone?”
“You can call him on his cell if you want an explanation.”
“What’s your explanation?”
“It doesn’t have anything to do with you.”
“Is it because I quit soccer?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course not,” Mom said, looking out the window, avoiding eye contact.
“When is he coming back?”
“I really don’t think he is, sweetie. I’m so sorry.”
There were tears in her eyes, but I could tell that she felt it was all for the best—that this was a long time in the making, and perhaps final.
From my bedroom, I called my father. When he answered, I could hear a news broadcast playing in the background—and he echoed my mother, saying their breakup had nothing to do with my quitting soccer or me at all. “I think we both knew we’d part ways after you left for college. But we just couldn’t make it that long. We were close, but we couldn’t do it. I’m sorry. People fall out of love, Nanette. It’s just the way it is. But we both love you the same as we ever did. That will never change.”
So everyone was sorry.
As if that helped.
Dad said we’d go out to dinner twice a week and then we’d see how things went while he found a more permanent place to stay, as he was currently in a motel. I would live with Mom in the house where we had all lived for my entire life.
I asked if either of them was seeing anyone else, and they said they weren’t. They each just wanted to be alone for a time. They preferred nobody to each other, which made it all that much worse.
Right then and there, I mentally shifted my allegiance and began rooting very hard for team Stella Thatch and Sandra Tackett.
There was that possibility, at least.
I wanted to believe that love could win in the end.
I called Alex from my bedroom and said, “I vote yes.”
15
This Broken-Family Club
“My parents separated. My dad moved out a few days ago,” I said to Booker as we sat in his sunroom. “It’s kind of funny. Just as soon as I fall in love for the first time, Mom and Dad call it quits—like they were waiting for me to take over for them. Carry high the love banner because their arms were too tired.”
“Well, at least you and Alex are getting along famously.”
“How did you know that Alex and I would be a match?”
“Oh, I just had a hunch.”
“But the timing. I mean—it was like you knew I’d need a boyfriend when my parents broke up. You had a feeling that all this was necessary. You knew. But how?”
“I definitely did not know anything about your parents’ situation. Let’s not entertain magical thoughts. It’s just that all eighteen-year-olds need to be in love. It’s why we have things like proms, even though proms are not for everyone. You’re at a time in your life when you need to feel and believe wildly—that’s just the way it is.”
“Were you ever in love, Booker?”
“Sure.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing, unfortunately.”
“Why?”
“Lack of courage, mostly.”
I thought about Wrigley, who turns and runs just as he’s about to ring his prom date’s doorbell. And how the real-life twins were the prom queens. Had Booker been at the real-life prom? Or maybe had he put on a tuxedo and held a finger up to a doorbell only to flee at the last possible moment? “Do you wish you had done things differently?”
“Of course. Pretty much everyone does.”
“What was her name?”
“Why do you assume it was a her?”
“Was it a him?”
“No, it was a her.”
I laughed. “Tell me about this special mystery woman.”
He looked away.
“Did you never tell her how you felt? Like Wrigley in—”
“Stop right there,” Booker said, and then pointed a finger at my face. “We shall not be discussing my failed novel.”
“It definitely was not a failure.”
“By what standard did it succeed?”
“It’s my favorite novel. Alex’s, too. And this kid Oliver who Alex—”
“I know all about Oliver. Alex writes about him constantly. But is that the purpose of writing a novel—to be someone’s favorite novelist? Is that why we write or make art? Do you think that’s why I wrote that book? For you? You and Alex and Oliver didn’t even exist when I went mad for literature and sent that collection of desperate words to New York City. I didn’t write it for you. No, I certainly did not.” There was anger in his voice, which was not like Booker.
“For whom did you write it, then?” I asked.
He smiled and said, “You won’t get your answers that easily.”
I nodded, and then I had a random thought. “You never talk about your parents. Do you have a good relationship with them?”
“I didn’t know Mom. She left my father when I was little. For a better-looking and wealthier man she’d met while working as a waitress. Dr. Farrell. I believe they had a torrid affair in the back alley and then the local hotel and finally in the man’s mansion across town from where I lived. On the other side of the tracks, as they say.”