Marcus and I are sharing a picnic blanket at the back of the group. A presentation of life in 1720 Williamsburg is going on, the kids are engrossed, and we both seem distracted by the other’s presence. We’ve barely spoken during my first month, and I miss the fun of constant banter with my old friend. Could it be I hurt him more than I thought last visit?
“You seem…”
“How long…”
We speak at the same time and then are both embarrassed. Our conversations have never been work. Now they are pure labor.
“Go ahead,” he says while watching Lou and Daisy pull each other’s hair and giggle.
“I was asking how long you and Lonna have been together.”
“Oh.” He pauses and looks down at his hands as though they have the answer. “We’ve known each other for about a year. It evolved into dating, I guess.” He laughs at himself. “I don’t even recall making the decision, you know?”
“Were you dating when I was here last?” I’m ready to call him on this. After all, he indicated he wanted to date me then.
“No.” Another pause. “Just after.”
Oh. “Is it serious?”
“Can we switch to a new topic? Conversing with you about the whole girlfriend thing is weird, to say the least.”
“Sure. What were you going to say?”
He moves his head side to side in an endearing, nonchalant way. “I notice you seem a little different since your trip to Tucson. Did that go okay?”
“It was a bit rushed. When I got back here, I felt the tug of two worlds.”
“Makes sense. That is a lot to be dealing with. Things with your job okay?”
I give a “pshaw” wave of my wrist. “Fine. Fine. That won’t be a problem. The trip was good. It was just pretty emotional for a long weekend.”
“Because?” he eggs me on.
“Talking with you about the whole boyfriend thing is weird, to say the least.”
“Fair enough,” he says, laughing.
Out of the corner of my eye I catch him looking over at me several times during the performance, but I keep my eyes focused on the kids and the entertainment provided by Cheyenne’s connections.
“I guess if you wanted to talk to me, you could. About the guy. As you know, I’ve moved on. We can have conversations like old friends.”
I give him a look.
“What? You don’t agree?” he asks innocently.
I release my tight shoulders and flip my hair, which is back in a ponytail, so the effect is minimal. “You are the one who said it would be weird.”
“I’ll warm up to it. Maybe I will start as the listener. But even if it is too awkward, we can certainly talk about other things like we used to.”
“I suppose we could. My parents would love it.”
“Yeah. Your dad asked if the cold war had been resolved while he was sick.”
“No surprise. They’d love nothing better—”
“Yes?”
“Nothing better than to see us talking and working together. They like peace in their house.” I try to cover up my near-mention of Marcus and me in the couple form.
He grins. “What is your impression of how things are going with your dad’s recovery?”
I’m thankful for the change of subject. “Well, if Fabio keeps up the good work and Dad keeps up the hard work of taking it easy and eating right, I predict I will be back home in a couple months.”
Marcus looks surprised. “You’d really stay that long? I gotta tell you, Mari, I thought your visit would be short and sweet. Nothing against you. I know you’d crawl to the ends of the earth for your folks and the people you care for, but I also know this place—the center—does something to you. It brings up too much stuff from the early years.”
He knows me so well. I look over at him for a second. I confess, “It did. Not so much anymore. I worked through a lot of feelings last year. A part of me felt ripped off from all those years sharing Mom and Dad with the others.” I pause and then look at him, realizing that he was one of the kids who had me feeling left out with my own parents. “No offense,” I add with a bit of guilt.
“None taken. You had to give up a lot as their child. At a time when a kid should get loads of attention in her life, you were part of the crowd. Of course, your folks didn’t really view you as just one of the group—but it had to be confusing.”
“Thanks.” I pluck a clover from the patch of grass just beyond the blanket. “It’s all good now, so no worries. I don’t resent anyone. Not anymore. Now I can respect how their passion carved out their lives. It is something to model, not fight.”
Marcus pops his knuckles one by one, much to my annoyance.
“Could you stop that?”
“It feels good.”
“Well, it is incredibly annoying.”
He waves all his fingers at me and says, “Not this. I meant us talking. It feels good. Like how we used to act.”
On the way home we start a round of I Spy in the van. One benefit of being around a lot of people—they don’t usually notice if you decide to step out of the conversation. I am deep in thought about Beau’s misstep and about my comfortable afternoon with Marcus. My time with him is completely innocent. I have no reason to suspect or expect any less from Beau and Paige.
Funny how one perspective change can turn a back-of-the-mind dilemma into a solution. I consider how God works with my thoughts and how often he has to untwist them before I see clearly. My dad’s suggestion that I think differently about Kayla seems to be ongoing good advice.
I am so buoyed by this simple revelation that I turn my attention back to the game.
“What are we looking for?” I ask Marcus, who is laughing at one of the kids’ guesses.
He turns to peer over his shoulder at Camden and nods.
“What are we looking for?” I repeat snapping my fingers to get Marcus’ attention back to me and the road ahead.
Camden clears his throat. “I spy something pink.”
“Pink?” I scan the neighborhood houses. We are getting close to the center; there are several old cars and bikes, but nothing pink.
“I want a better clue. Pink and what?” I say, turning to face the game leader.
Camden raises his hand. He is armed with a can of Silly String. They all are. “Pink and you!” He sounds a warrior cry, and I am covered by strips of sticky, gooey string in a matter of seconds.
We have pulled into the driveway before I can clear off my face enough to glare at Marcus. “You! You are going down!” I start to chase him around the yard and the kids start to chase me.
We all careen around the corner and nearly smack into Dad, who is barbequing on the patio. First Marcus falls, then the kids, and me on top.
Dad barely glances up from tending to his pork ribs and deadpans, “Honey, there is a pink Hostess Snow Ball attacking our children.”
The response giggles are so loud that none of us hear the sound of the screen door and the click of a hose nozzle.