Page 25 of Dirty Husband
He's not the boy I loved. And I'm not the girl he loved either.
That girl had big ambitions. She had dreams. Now, my biggest dream is for Dad to survive.
I'm not sure I can have that. But I can have him walk me down the aisle. That's something.
A lot even.
"What would Olivia say?" I let my hand fall to my side.
He watches our touch break, but he doesn't mention it. "Tea is sunshine in a cup."
I can't help but smile.
"No matter how awful or wonderful your day, it will get a little better with a cup of tea."
I nod.
"Now, don't frown," he says, still in his mom's voice. "You'll get wrinkles."
A laugh falls off my lips. I can remember her saying that to him. It was always half teasing. "She was right."
"I don't see any lines."
Is it that obvious my life is more frowns than smiles? "About the tea. It does make every day better."
"Allow me." He motions to the table.
I sit next to the tray of espresso. He nods athank you, finishes the last sip of his coffee, takes the tray with him to another room. The kitchen, I guess.
I stay busy looking around the room. The walls are new, a freshly painted ecru. Covered in modern paintings. I recognize one from his house in the Bay. His mother's work.
All of these are his mother's. Abstract shapes in bold colors. Somehow, she tells a story or creates an emotion with only a teal triangle and a mint circle.
How is that possible?
Visual art isn't my expertise. I try to learn more, to understand brush strokes and styles, but it doesn't come naturally.
My parents always pushed me toward math and science. They wanted better for me than a career as a seamstress or a restaurant owner. I never did understand why that was such a terrible fate. Aunt Mai works long hours, but she loves her restaurant. And it's hers. She's always the one in charge.
But I didn't question them. Like a good Vietnamese daughter, I aced every class. Science was hard for me. Math too—though Shep helped. English though… that came naturally.
My parents praised my skill with language. I didn't seem like a first-generation girl. I spoke with the sort of vocabulary of a normal American girl. No, an intellectual, well-educated American girl.
I never asked if I could pursue a career in acting or writing. I knew it was out of the question.
Yes, I convinced them the school play was a good idea—it looked great on college applications and it helped with my fluency—but I knew it came second. After AP Chemistry and Algebra Two.
Now… I use my math skills every day. And my English ones. The acting comes in handy too. I know how to fake a smile.
For a while, I let myself believe it was possible. That I could participate in community productions once my career in statistics settled down. That I could write in my spare time. Or, at the very least, stay busy watching every play in town. The Bay doesn't have the best theater scene, but it is flush with avant-garde stuff. One-man shows. Burlesque. Drag.
Now…
I don't know what to think, honestly. Mr. Billings is an ass for firing me, but I'm sure every other executive in the industry will make the same decision.
If I want work, I need to move in a different direction.
Shep is providing me a place to live. He's paying for my father's care. That covers all my necessities. I don't need a job. But the idea of not working?
