Page 114 of Ripped & Shipped
I sit on the chair opposite him. “Okay. Let’s get this over with.”
“Son,” Dad starts.
It’s never good when he says, son. It’s a warm term of endearment, but in our family it’s always been used as a lead in for a lecture.
“I’m not one to give heed to rumors. This town has had its way with our family in the past. Even when the hearsay is true, it’s often not anyone’s business. But you know how it goes. People with nothing better to do find entertainment in discussing the comings and goings of others.”
I nod. I don’t really need a lesson on Bordeaux gossip. But he’s my dad. I’ll respect him enough to let him say his piece.
“But,” he continues. “When the gossip pertains to one of my children, that’s another matter. I want to go to the source and straighten out whatever I heard so I know the truth.”
“Okay.”
“And what I heard is that you and Ella Mae Lindstrom are in a romantic relationship. I’m pretty sure I heard wrong, but then the next thing I heard is that you traveled out of town for the weekend last weekend, and then you took her out of town Wednesday night. That’s leading me to believe these rumors are grounded in some facts. Add to that the detail that you’ve been avoiding my calls and your sister’s calls, and I think we’ve got ourselves a concerning situation.”
“Concerning situation?” I echo.
“She’s a Lindstrom.”
“That she is.”
I’m not about to make this easy on him. If he wants to come after Ella Mae, he’s going to have to go through me. And that’s pretty much a wall of defense he doesn’t realize he’d rather avoid. He will realize it, though.
“And we’re St. James.”
“Right again.”
“And she’s …”
I sit quietly, my arms loosely folded over my chest, a kind, but firm expression on my face.
Dig your ditch, Dad. I’m right here watching you.
“The history between our families is something well-known by everyone. And she’s … so different from the type of woman I’d expect you to pursue.”
“How so?”
I’m making him spell it out.
Say it all, Dad. I’m not going to save you from your prejudice or your misguided perceptions.
“Well, you know how … eccentric she is. Loud. Outspoken. Flashy. Materialistic.”
My arms fall from my body and I grip the armrests of my chair, reminding myself to keep a cool head. No battle is ever won by a strict show of force. Battles are won by the clear-headed.
The silence in the room thrums with tension.
“Do you know her well?” I finally ask.
“I’ve known her her whole life.”
“Known her? Or known of her? Have you had any real conversations with her? Do you know what she does with her free time? Have you talked with her about her dreams, or discovered what makes her tick?”
He stares at me, obviously not having expected this response from me.
“Because, I have. I’ve spent hours with her. I’ve seen her vulnerable. I’ve watched her persevere against odds. I’ve gotten to know her creative, spunky side. I’ve laughed hard with her. I’ve been changed by her, Dad. By Ella Mae. She’s the one who has made me realize how much guilt I’ve been carrying around that isn’t mine to bear. Not the therapist you hired. Not the VA people. Not my best friends. Her.”
Dad looks incapable of forming thought, so I continue.
