Page 35 of It's Always Sonny

She laughs. “Yeah. That’s okay.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” she says.

“I don’t have a clue what’s going on right now.”

She laughs again but she doesn’t say anything else.

All we said was okay.

Why does it feel bigger than that?

I look around the dark woods. “I can’t believe you’re out here in the wilderness. Are you staying on site or back at your place?”

“No, I’m staying here.”

“Here? Parker Jane Emerson is camping?”

“Ha! Not even in a zombie apocalypse would I sleep in a tent on the ground. If it comes to life or death, I would rather die.”

“But how do you really feel?” I ask, and she laughs again.

Oh, I love making this woman laugh. I love knowing that even when she’s carrying a burden around, I gave her relief from it. It’s the most powerful addiction in the world.

“I’m staying in one of the cottages.”

“That makes more sense.”

We get back to the pavilion and put the plates and plasticware down. Anthony’s kids, Felix and Max, have grabbed all the dirty utensils and are laying them end-to-end around the table. Anthony and Amber give each other an exhausted look, while my parents pat their backs and laugh.

“Man, you guys are cool,” PJ says. “I’ve never seen so many happy people.”

“It’s hard not to be happy when you know you’re loved,” I say.

“I bet,” she whispers, watching Felix and Max’s utensil barrier grow.

I always knew her childhood was messed up. I knew from our third date when she was so thrown to find out my parents and I said we love each other. I felt sick even considering a world where that wasn’t a constant.

I picked up on how rigid and inflexible her parents were fast, but seeing PJ’s reaction tonight makes me think it’s worse than I ever imagined.

“Oh, Thomas and Evelyn Emerson,” I say, trying not to spit fire.

“Tell me how you really feel,” she says sarcastically.

But I take her at her word. “Okay, I’m disgusted. I’m outraged on your behalf. You’re an only child of parents who resented you for being a child. They robbed you of everything that matters most. You should have grown up knowing how special you are, knowing how brilliant and talented and kind you are. But you should have especially known you were loved. They should have told you they loved you so much and so often that you could have blown your house up and you wouldn’t have doubted their love for a second. I hate them for robbing you of that. I hate them.”

“Whoa,” she says, her eyes welling with tears. And it’s like my words have sent cracks through her walls. I see different emotions peek through each of those cracks in almost imperceptible expressions across her face. The tug of her lips says embarrassment, but the lift of her brows says gratitude. I spot flattery or pride, maybe, in the softening around her eyes.

But then she slams her eyes closed, and each of those expressions gets ironed smooth. I lean back against the table with a noisy exhale.

“I’ve wanted to say that for a long time, sorry.”

She folds her arms around herself. It’s chilly out, but I’m too incensed to feel it.

“It’s all right,” she says.

“You’re not mad at me for talking about your parents?”

---