Page 17 of It's Always Sonny

I blink and look around to see if I’m on a prank show. No cameras anywhere in sight.

I read my father’s text again.Is this real?

Last year, Jane & Co did a major rebrand of the underwear company, McLadyPants, and they went public this week. They’re already outperforming expectations. I’m not surprised, but I am excited. This success is another feather in our company’s cap, and frankly, we killed it.

Why is my dad texting me about it, though? Does he even know I worked on that account? We haven’t said more than a handful of words to each other in the last year, and half of those words were, “Happy birthday,” and “Merry Christmas.”

He’s not … he’s not proud, is he?

The room must be dusty, because my allergies are suddenly out of control. My nose and eyes are watering, and my throat aches, and I cannot succumb to any of those things.

I put down my phone and rub my temples. I didn’t get enough sleep for this.

What do I say? Do I give it a thumbs up? Do I pretend I don’t know and say how interesting that tidbit is? Maybe a simple, “I’m glad I could finally do something worth putting down your scalpel to acknowledge?”

That puts a lump in my throat.

I take a long drink of my Cheerwine. I refuse to let my emotions take control.

When we were dating, Sonny talked to his family constantly. The first time I overheard him talking to his parents on the phone was just before our third date. I heard voices outside my apartment door and opened it to find Sonny on the phone.

“Gotta go, guys,” he said quickly, shooting me an almost nervous look. “She’s here.” He paused as the person on the other side of the call said something, and then he gave one of a hundred different smiles I would memorize over the next year and a half. This was a small, certain smile. “Love you, too.”

I still remember that feeling of surprise hearing how he ended his call. “Who were you talking to?”

“My parents.”

“Again? Didn’t you talk to them yesterday?”

“We talk all the time. My brothers and sister, too. Don’t you talk to your parents every week?”

“Yes, but not like that.”

Sonny’s head tipped to the side. “What do you mean? I wasn’t rude.”

“No, it was just so casual. And you just … told your parents you love them.”

“Of course. We say it every time we talk,” he said with a confused laugh. And then he stopped and his expression changed to another one I would quickly recognize: pathos. “You guys don’t say it, do you?”

My laugh was sharp and bitter, and I shook my head to try to erase it from the air. “That isn’t the Emerson way.”

“But they love you,” he said confidently.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

We were standing in the open doorway to my apartment with students passing by and staring at us. Yet Sonny grabbed my hands like he didn’t notice another soul. “If they don’t love you, that doesn’t mean something’s wrong with you. It means something is wrong with them.”

I tried to laugh it off. “You don’t know me well enough to say that.”

“Yes, I do.” He brought my hand up to his lips and kissed it. “They’re wrong. If you don’t see that, I look forward to smoking you on our midterm, you cute dummy.”

I laughed then, because his comment was so perfectly executed. He always knew how to balance the heavy with the light.

And now, that job falls solely on my shoulders. I’m better than I used to be, but I still suck at it.

I squeeze my temples harder, trying to erase the memory.

Enough.

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