“So are you dating anyone?” I say, trying to deflect from the dangerous topic of age.
“I don’t really think that’s the issue here.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize we were discussing issues now. I thought we were discussing art.”
“And somehow it got turned around, so let’s continue,” he says, and I brace myself. But his question surprises me. “How are things going with your therapist?”
I put my fork down. “Really? You really want me to tell you how things are with my shrink?”
He stops eating too. “Yes. Really. You don’t have to go into the details. I understand it’s personal what you talk about with her. But is it going well? Is it helping you? Because I just want you to be happy in life. I want you to be able to have the sort of happiness your mother and I never had.”
I had that kind of happiness.
Only I can’t say that because then I’d be spinning more lies. But, he’s my dad. He’s the one parent I can at least try to be honest with.
“Okay, so you want to be all open, then here you go. Here’s what I’m getting out of seeing Caroline. I’m learning how to move on from what I did. Because I was complicit in her affairs. By lying for her and covering it up and saying So-and-So is just a friend and So-and-So was just over for dinner. And I’m sorry I lied for her. I’m sorry I hurt you by never saying anything to her, by never telling her to stop.” My dad covers his mouth with his hand, and he looks like he’s going to cry. “Dad, what did I say wrong?”
He shakes his head and speaks softly. “You did nothing wrong, Kennedy. Not now. Not then. You have to know that. It was never your fault. Please don’t blame yourself.”
“I’m a pretty good punching bag for myself though,” I say, reverting to jokes and sarcasm, because this is comfortable terrain for me. I pretend to punch my own arms.
He is undeterred by my attempt at humor. He remains starkly serious. “I mean it, Kennedy. Your mom has to live with what she did. It’s not your fault.”
But I don’t really think she’s living with it. And since we’re letting it all hang out, I decide to ask him something I’ve always wanted to know. “Why didn’t you ever tell Mom you knew about her affairs? After you left her? Why didn’t you tell her you knew?”
“Why,” he says softly, repeating. He exhales deeply. “Because. Because I knew if I told her then it would always be there, it would always exist, we would always be aware of it every single time we talked about you or anything. And I didn’t want to have to think about it every time I talked to her. I didn’t want to have it in front of me all the time. I wanted it to be behind me.”
“Self-preservation,” I say.
He nods. “Yes, I suppose it was self-preservation.”
“Dad, I’m old enough to know what real love is. I’m the opposite of her. You have to know that.”
“I know, sweetie. I know you are.”
“Then why do you worry so much about me?”
“Because you are young, Kennedy. Because you are too young to feel that way for anyone. And especially because you know how I feel about him,” he says, and there’s a steeliness in his normally warm brown eyes, a hard glint that tells me exactly how he would feel if he knew how much I want Noah back.
When I go to bed, it is quiet. I never have to worry about overhearing my dad having sex. I can sleep peacefully, and while I still long for Noah, for a note, for a picture, it’s not necessary for my health and sanity like it is when I’m at my mom’s. I shove my phone under my bed so I’m not tempted to reach out, so I’m not seduced by this peaceful, easy feeling. Staying away from him is my amends to my dad.
After he found the bits and pieces of the letter, he freaked out to the nth degree. I had no choice but to conjure a heap of tall tales around the letter, so many that I was dancing dangerously close to the edge of sanity. I had to end it with Noah. I didn’t want to be another source of stress for my father. That was the least I could do for my dad, considering all he’s done for me. The biggest thing he’s done is to just be a normal dad, a normal parent who doesn’t ask his daughter to keep his secrets.
I have a copy of the letter still, a chronicle of my so-called “21 Stolen Kisses.” I keep it in a safe-deposit box so no one can ever see it. That’s the only thing in the box, because it’s the only thing I have that’s priceless to me.
I wrap the sheets around me one more time. Maybe I should just start over. Maybe I should just go out with boys my age. That’s what my dad wants, and he’s the only one who’s remotely normal among the two people who passed on genes to me.
But really, what’s normal? This is New York City. Nobody is normal anymore.
Chapter Nine
Noah
After a few rounds of hoity-toity hors d’oeuvres, consisting of fig-wrapped ricotta cheese and polenta cups with sweet peppers, and a painfully detailed conversation about the upcoming story arc in Lords and Ladies with my date, Jenna, who works on a late-night talk show, I spot an opening with Tremaine. He’s made his way to the bar as his wife heads down the hallway to the restrooms. We’re at The Modern, the restaurant that overlooks the sculpture garden at the Museum of Modern Art.
The salt-and-pepper-haired TV show creator holds up two fingers to get the bartender’s attention. I excuse myself from Jenna and join the man my boss wants me to nab.