Page 22 of Business or Pleasure

Still, I can’t help wondering why, if we’re such good friends, I didn’t merit a better explanation than the one he gave me. I’d love some confirmation that the guy I’ve spent my whole adult life pining for has not, in fact, turned out to be a total fuckboy.

“So what’s the deal with this Finn Walsh guy?” he asks while I crunch too loudly on a baby carrot.

Noemie swings through the living room, balancing a couple trays. “Baked brie, feta-stuffed tomatoes, and mini quiches.” She sets everything down on the coffee table next to a trio of candles. “I guess the theme is cheese?”

“I can’t imagine a better send-off,” I say, reaching for a hunk of brie before settling back into my favorite teal armchair. The one that’ll be empty for the next couple months.

“Were you asking about Finn Walsh?” Noemie asks, turning to Wyatt. “Because I could give a whole TED Talk about him, if you want.”

She proceeds to do exactly this, and I’m grateful for her interference. I’m even more grateful when the doorbell rings again.

“Sorry we’re late,” my mom says, brushing some of her long gray hair off one shoulder. It’s a sight to behold, and she gets constant compliments on it. “Dad had to finish today’s crossword.”

“And I knew Chandler would respect that.” My dad pulls me in for a one-armed hug, a new thing since he started walking with a cane. I try not to think about how his frame feels a little smaller each time I hug him.

It’s only when I see my parents through other people’s eyes that I realize how old they are. Most of my friends haven’t seen my dad with the cane yet, and I catch Wyatt’s eyes widen for a split second as I scramble to take their jackets and generally make them more comfortable. Even as they tell me again and again that they’ve got it.

My parents still live in the house I grew up in, a cozy bungalow in North Seattle. They were free-spirited high school sweethearts who spent their twenties and thirties traveling the world, which is part of the reason I haven’t traveled much with them—because they’d already done plenty of it on their own. They were in their midforties when I was born, and now they’re approaching eighty. I got used to people asking Is that your grandma? when my mom picked me up from school, or gaping at the disabled parking permit in our car when my dad had knee surgery that took him out for months. Even as a kid, I spent a lot of time at Noemie’s house, because her moms were able to do things that my parents didn’t quite have the energy for.

I can’t deny that going on this trip has me worried about them.

“It’s been a while, Lev, Linda,” Wyatt says to them, grinning. “Now it’s a party!”

“You always know just how to boost an old man’s ego.” My dad gives Wyatt a pat on the shoulder, sparking this uncomfortable twinge in my heart. Another thing I always liked about him: he is great with my parents, and they love him right back. He was welcome at every birthday dinner throughout my twenties—always bringing me a big number-shaped candle with my “real” age—and every Jewish holiday. My family’s never gone to temple regularly, but we go all out for Passover with a huge seder potluck. My mom even shared her grandmother’s prized matzo ball soup recipe with him last year.

Stop, I urge myself, because none of this is helping me get over him.

My mom reaches inside a canvas Trader Joe’s bag. “We brought you some of those elote chips you like,” she says to me. “Just in case you get hungry.”

“I’m not going to be gone for that long.” I accept the chips regardless, because I do love them. “And I’m pretty sure they have Trader Joe’s in nearly every state. I’m worried Noemie made it sound like she was getting rid of me forever.”

My dad asks if I’ll join him in the backyard, and I reach for his arm to make sure he doesn’t trip on the loose porch step. He holds up a hand, letting me know for the nine hundredth time that he’s okay.

When he pulls out a joint, I hide a smile. My parents were no strangers to marijuana even before it was legalized in Washington. Now they use it mainly for medicinal purposes, but there’s still something amusing about seeing my late-seventies father with his Coke bottle glasses and entirely white hair getting stoned.

I shake my head when he offers one to me. “Early flight. I won’t want to wake up if I smoke.”

A nod, a puff, that familiar earthy smell. “Now,” my dad says as we sit down in a pair of wicker chairs on the patio, “I know you’re old enough to handle yourself on this trip—”

“Are we having a birds-and-the-bees talk? Because it might be a little late for that.”

My dad lifts his eyebrows at me. “You’re not the only one in this family who worries, you know.” Another puff. “I have to admit, we wound up watching his show a few years back. Thought it looked interesting, and by the end of the third episode, we got sucked in.”

I just stare. “How much did you watch?”

“All of it,” he says with a laugh. “Told you—it was addictive. Of course, we realize he’s probably much different in real life than he was on TV. But you never know with these Hollywood types. This Hux—he’s a decent young man?”

“Finn,” I correct gently, still processing my parents knowing who he was before I did. “Well, aside from the weekly orgies, he seems to be pretty scandal-free.” I shake my head. “Dad, I’ll be fine. It’s just part of the job.”

“And you want to be doing this job?”

It’s not a combative question—he just wants to know.

“I love writing,” I say simply, because no matter what else is happening in my world, that’s still true. “And I haven’t done anything like this before. It’s a good opportunity.”

My mom opens the sliding door. “Noemie’s getting out Cards Against Humanity,” she says. “Didn’t think you two would want to miss out.”

“Never!” my dad says. “I hope you all don’t mind losing.”

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