Page 58 of By the Book

Bobby set his bottle back on the table. The glass clinked against the wood.

“That’s down the road,” my mom said. “We don’t have to talk about it now.”

“Bobby and I haven’t talked about kids,” I said. “We haven’t talked about getting married. You’re making this super weird.”

Straightening her flatware, my mom said, “Don’t be dramatic, Dashiell. We’re excited for you, that’s all. You’re on track. It’s good to have a plan.”

I looked over at Bobby. He was staring straight ahead, his expression painfully blank. I said, “I’m so sorry about this.”

He gave a tiny shake of his head.

“We’re just talking, kiddo,” my dad said. “These are just ideas.”

“No, they’re not. They’re super specific plans. This consulting business for Bobby. Surfing on the East Coast. Moving back to the farm.”

“We’re—”

“And what, I’m supposed to nod and pack my bags? I don’t get a say? Bobby doesn’t get a say? My God, if he wasn’t going to run before this crazy show, he’s definitely going to split now.”

“Dash,” Bobby said in a low voice.

“You always have to make such a production out of things,” my mom said.

“Excuse me?” I said.

“We’re trying to think big picture,” my dad said. “What’s best for everybody.”

“What’s best for everybody? You don’t know what’s best for me. You don’t know what I want.”

My mom took a pointed sip of her water before replying, “Not everything is about you.”

“Wow,” I said. “Just wow.”

“If you don’t want to move back,” my dad said, “nobody’s going to force you. Bobby, if you don’t want to move to New Hampshire, that’s all right. I want you to hear it from me. We want you boys to be happy.”

“Why don’t we talk about something else?” Bobby asked. “Are you going to spend any time in Portland while you’re here?”

“It was one thing,” my mom said, “when you were ungrateful with Hugo. But here we are, bending over backward to make things work with the new one, and all you can think about is yourself.”

The clink of flatware, the rise and fall of voices, a long toot from a ship clearing the harbor—they were all strangely lulling.

“Okay,” I said to Bobby. “We’re leaving.” To my mom, I said, “The new one? That’s really nice, Mom.”

“What?” my mom said. “Heisthe new one. I don’t see what’s so wrong about that.”

Bobby whispered, “Dash, it’s all right. She didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Of course she did,” I said. “She’s a writer—all she does all day is think about picking the right word.”

“Everybody calm down,” my dad said. “Dash, your mother didn’t mean anything by it. Can’t we enjoy a nice meal and celebrate?”

“I don’t know what we’re celebrating,” I said. “Colleen or Joan or whatever her name is, she’s going to get a slap on the wrist.”

Any argument about that, though, was forestalled by the arrival of appetizers—calamari (for Bobby), bruschetta (for my parents), and shrimp wrapped in bacon (for me). I mean, in theory, we were all supposed to share, but everybody seemed tounderstand that now was not the right time to get between me and my bacon-wrapped shrimp.

Then, out of the blue, my mom said, “Tell him.”

My dad shot her a look I wasn’t used to seeing on his face—frustration, almost annoyance. He said, “Let’s enjoy our meal.”

---