By the time I caught up with my father and Margo, they were in the kitchen, which was cluttered with boxes and packing supplies. “I really need to get the bulk of this stuff boxed,” he was saying. “But dealing with Benji and this deadline I’m on for my article, it’s been impossible.”
“We can look into prices for packers,” Margo suggested.
“Paying movers is expensive enough.”
My sister considered this. “Well, then Emaline could do it.”
“Me?” I said. “I’m supposed to be at work now.”
“This is your work,” she said to me.
“Does that mean you’re going to do the towel runs and organize the request checks when we get back? Because I’m leaving the office right at five today, whether they’re done or not.”
“Emaline,” she said. She glanced at my father, who had picked up his phone from the counter and was now studying its screen, then lowered her voice. “What have I told you about discussing personnel issues in front of clients?”
“He’s my father,” I reminded her. “And you can’t just dump everything on me.”
“Fine. I’ll ask Morris.” She made a note on her pad, then said, “Joel, I’m just going to make a few calls. The first movers should be here in a few minutes for that estimate.”
“What?” My father looked up. “Oh, right. Thanks.”
Margo smiled, then picked up her purse from the chair beside her and stepped out onto the screened side porch. Within moments, I could hear her on the phone, talking too loudly as always. I tipped my head back, looking up at the ceiling as if there might be strength there.
“He informed me this morning,” my father said after a moment, “that when I take him back to Connecticut, it will in effect ruin his entire life as we know it.”
I was startled, not least because I’d thought my father was absorbed in whatever text he was reading or sending. “Benji did?” I asked stupidly. Like it would be anyone else.
“To say he was disappointed when I said I’d be doing it regardless is a massive understatement.” He sighed, pulling out a chair from the table and sitting down. I did the same. “He’s become very fond of you. Obviously.”
“Well, that’s sweet,” I said. “But I don’t think it’s only about me.”
“I don’t think you give yourself enough credit.”
“Maybe not.” I looked out at Margo, pacing around the porch, phone to her ear. “But really, I think it’s Colby, the summer . . . the whole package. He just doesn’t want to think about everything changing.”
“Change is inevitable, though,” he replied. “As is disappointment. Best to get used to it now.”
“How can you get used to it?” I asked. “It’s always changing.”
At this, he smiled, and I realized how few times I’d actually seen him do so, especially on this trip. “You’ve always been a smart one, Emaline.”
“I think I can just relate,” I said. “With him and me, there’s a lot of big stuff ahead. My whole life is changing at the end of summer, too, with school and all.”
I really wasn’t thinking as I said this; it just came naturally, as truths tend to do. It was only after the words left my mouth that I realized what I’d said, and to whom I’d said it. Sure enough, his face was already reddening, his discomfort obvious.
“Yes, well,” he stammered, then coughed into his hand. “Again, it’s part of life in general. One must learn to adapt, move on.”
Move on. This, clearly, was when I was supposed to do just that. Back off again, sparing him all the discomfort he had easily caused me. But I’d already waded out this far. For once, I decided to dive in.
“The truth is,” I began, then paused as he shifted, still noticeably uncomfortable, in his chair, “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about that. My going to school, and what happened between us, back in the spring.”
And there it was. The elephant in our collective room, the shared albatross around our necks, recognized and out in the open. This was my moment to ask him all my questions, just like the ones I’d written out for Mr. Champion’s class all those years ago. No time for drafts or polish, though. I just had to do it.
“Oh,” he said quickly, shifting again. “Well, I’m not sure this is the right place or—”
“I just never really understood why you didn’t answer my messages,” I pressed on. “And then when you didn’t respond to my graduation invitation, after all the work we’d done . . . I felt like I’d done something wrong.”
“Emaline.” He held up a hand, palm flat out to me. “Not now.”
“But I just—”
“No.”
In that one word, two letters, I heard it: the sharp, final tone I associated with my actual parents, the one that let you know when something went from a maybe to no chance and keeping up pushing would most likely lead to a punishment. No talking. No explanation. Just: no.
“Think I just heard the movers pull up,” Margo reported, coming in from the side porch. “And they’re on time. Early, even! That’s a good sign. I’ll go let them in.”
She started for the door, and I just looked at him, his red face, the way, without me even really noticing, he’d at some point pulled back from the table, putting that much more space between us. I just knew that if I said another word he’d be gone from the room; another sentence, from the house. This was the way it had to be, or so I was figuring out. When it came to the two of us, it didn’t matter if it was the summer, this past year, or all our lives. The one constant, beside change, was that we played by his rules. Otherwise, the game was over.