Things We Didn't Say_ A Novel - Kristina Riggle [78]
“Dylan’s not going to be a factory worker.”
“My son the newsman. So literal.”
“I’m not taking him for granted, either.”
“No? Ah look, we’re back in Michigan. Lots of hours left, but that feels like a milestone to me.”
My dad turns up the classical music to indicate he’s done with the revelatory conversation.
I turn back to look at Dylan, the highway lights flashing on his face, and try to remember the last time I had a serious heart-to-heart chat with him, the quiet one in the family.
Chapter 34
Casey
Yes! Exactly!” Mallory slaps her hand on the kitchen table so hard I jump. “He’s so nitpicky. Like it matters how you load a dishwasher, especially when he’s not the one unloading it.”
Lucinda Williams sings from the CD player, “It’s a real love, a real love . . .” We have moved on to potato chips and dip in the kitchen, under a circle of yellow light from the hanging fixture.
I should feel bad about this. Unloading to his ex-wife, of all people. But it feels like I’ve been straining under the pressure of holding stuff in, and now I finally let it go and the relief is so powerful I could weep. I don’t have any girlfriends anymore, not since I left JinxCorp. No one I know from school will talk to me since I dumped Pete. I don’t even have Billy, who I think would have understood, despite not being a wife.
The dishwasher thing almost made me start throwing plates on the floor. I’d had a horrid day. Jewel was home sick with an earache, and I was trying to program a database for a grouchy, demanding client, and then I had to arrange a new ride home for Angel when her carpool canceled, and Michael was working late and came in just as I was loading the dishwasher.
I didn’t get a “Hi honey” or “How was your day?” or anything. He hung up his coat, looked at me, and said, “Those pans will never get clean in there, you have to scrub them in the sink.”
I told him I’d use the pots and pans setting.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said, sighing. “And all the bits of food will get caked on there and it will be twice as hard to scrub, later.”
I tell Mallory now, “I used to think I was lucky that he’s so domestic, but it’s like, everything has to be done exactly his way. He gets after me about the way I fold the socks, too.”
“It’s like living with your parents, isn’t it?”
“I went on strike for a couple days. I figured if he was going to nitpick how I did stuff, he could do it himself. But he was working so hard it just didn’t get done, and I felt bad for the kids not having clean laundry. It’s not their fault.”
“Yeah, kids. They mess up all the best revenge plans.” Mallory winks at me.
“The bitch of it is? He was right about the dishwasher. I had to spend twenty minutes scrubbing the stupid pans the next day.”
Mallory flops her head down on her arms. “Oh, the rightness!” she says, her voice muffled by the table. Then she pops up again. “My God, he’s right all the time. I wish he were a fuck-up, you know? So then I could be relieved at not being awful in comparison.”
I nod, knowing what she means. It’s hard enough for me, and I’m a pretty stable person. These days, anyway. As far as Michael knows.
She goes on, “I used to try to lighten him up, but whenever he relaxes, he always assumes the world is going to crash down on him. And look what happens? Dylan ran away anyway. You can’t control this kind of thing, no matter what kind of grip you have.” Mallory shakes her head suddenly. “Enough. Tired of thinking about it now. Want something to drink? I’m thirsty.”
“Sure.”
She roots around in a paper bag on the counter I hadn’t noticed before. She must have ducked out when I was napping.
She smacks a bottle of Jack on the counter. The sound is like a gunshot.
“No thanks.” My voice comes out funny. Overly high, fake-casual.
“Aw, what’ll it hurt? The girls are asleep, the guys won’t be back for hours. Just a nightcap to shake off this day.”
“I thought you gave it up?”
“Not entirely, one hundred percent. Just . . . mostly. But today,