Page 93 of The Seven Year Slip

I tilted my head, debating on an answer. I guess this was as good a time to tell him as any. “Actually... I quit my job.”

Dad’s mouth dropped open. He blinked his big brown eyes. “Erm... do you... have an offer somewhere else?”

“No.”

“Then...”

“Yeah.” I looked away. “I know it was a stupid decision, but... I sort of realized over this summer I wasn’t all that happy where I was, and I know it wasn’t smart, but the moment I turned in my two weeks’, I felt this knot in the middle of my chest come undone. It was a relief.” I glanced back at him, hoping that he could understand, even though he’d never quit anything in his entire life.

He thought about it for a good half a minute. That was really what I loved about my dad. He was kind and patient. He evened out my mom, who was loud and quick and bombastic, so I always liked to tell my dad big news first before surprising Mom. “I think,” he finally said, choosing his words carefully, “that nothing lasts forever. Not the good things, not the bad. So just find what makes you happy, and do it for as long as you can.”

I set down my butter knife, and put my napkin over my plate. “And if I can’t find that?”

“You might not,” he replied, “but then again, you might. You don’t know what the future holds, sweetheart.” He scrubbed my head like he did when I was little, and gave a wink. “Don’t think too much about it, yeah? You have some savings...”

“And I can sell Analea’s apartment,” I added quietly.

His eyebrows shot up. “Are you sure?”

I nodded. I’d been thinking about it for a while. “I don’t want to live there forever. It just feels too close to her, and I’m tired of living in the past.”

Somewhat literally, too.

He gave a shrug and sat back in his chair. “Then there you go, and your mom and I will be here if you ever need anything—Ah! My love!” he added with a start when he realized that Mom was standing behind us and probably had been for a while. “How, haha, how long have you been there?”

She towered over us, and turned her sharp gaze to me. Oh, no. “Long enough,” she said cryptically.

Dad and I gave each other the same look, a silent pact that we’d dig up the other person if Mom decided to dump one of us in an unmarked grave.

Then Mom sat down in her chair, turned to me, and took my face in her hands—her fingers were long and manicured-pink tomatch the flowers on her blouse—and said, “Youquityourjob, Clementine?”

I hesitated, my cheeks squished together between her hands. “Y-yes...?”

She narrowed her eyes. Before she retired, she was a behavioral therapist, and she employed a lot of those skills to handle my father and me. Then she let go of my face, and gave a tired sigh. “Well!Thiscertainly wasn’t a plot twist I was anticipating.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be. I’m glad,” she added, and took my hand in her cold ones. Her hands reminded me of Aunt Analea’s. Mom and I never really saw eye to eye, and even though I tried to be like her, I ended up being more like her sister. “You’re finally doing something for you, sweetheart.”

That surprised me. “I—I thought you’d be angry.”

My parents gave each other a baffled look. “Angry?” my mother echoed. “Why would we be that?”

“Because I’m quitting. I’m giving up.”

Mom squeezed my hands. “Oh, sweetheart. You aren’t giving up. You’re trying something new.”

“But you and Dad always find a way to make something work. You do things over and over, even when it gets hard.” I blinked back tears that stung in my eyes. Of course I’d find myself having a midlife crisis in the Eggverything Café, where all the servers wore splattered egg graphics on the fronts of their shirts and had egg puns on their name tags. “I feel like a failure for not being able to just push through.”

“You aren’t. You’re one of the bravest people we know.”

Dad agreed, “Hell, you had a conversation with a stranger in a cab and decided to be abook publicist. That’s braver than anything I could do. I spent ten years deciding to be anarchitect.”

That was true. I had caught a cab with a stranger from the Monroe the day I came back from that summer abroad, and he asked about the book I was carrying—it had been the travel guide I’d painted in all summer abroad.

Mom said, “You will be happiest when you’re on your own adventure. Not Analea’s, not whoever you’re dating, not everyone who thinks you should do what you’re supposed to do—yours.” Then she clapped her hands together, and signaled for the server to bring us the check. “Now! We arealmostdone! Who wants to get celebratory birthday ice cream after this from the cart out front of the Met and go for a walk in the park?” she asked, her eyes glimmering, because it was the exact same thing we’d done for—well, you know. I tucked their words into the soft matter of my heart, and I followed my parents to get frozen ice cream sandwiches, and we walked through the park on this glorious golden Saturday at the beginning of August, pretending like it wasn’t too hot and too bright, even though we’d done it a thousand times.

There was something nice about doing it again, sitting at the same park benches, feeding the same ducks in the pond, so well-worn and natural. Not safe, really, because each trip was different, but familiar.

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