Page 90 of Before We Say Goodbye
“Then we’ll both go.”
“No way,” Mike said.
Rebecca and Otis had drawn straws. Otis had won and was driving along Highway 12 in their new sedan while bestowing further nuggets of wisdom to his young whippersnapper.
Mike was already exhausted by Otis’s advice. He checked himself in the mirror and straightened his white T-shirt. “Dad, I know how to do it.”
“I did the same for Cam. Let me do my dadding.”
“Things have changed since the twenties.”
“The 1920s?” Otis said. “Is that how old you think I am? I’ll have you know I first pursued your mother in 1969, the Summer of Love. It wasn’t that long ago.”
“Trust me, things have changed. You probably didn’t even have movies back then. Or electricity.”
Otis slowed down and looked over. “Okay, a few things have changed, though we did have electricity; however, many things have been the same since Adam and Eve. You open the door for a girl. You give her a compliment. Tell her she’s pretty. You pay for her ticket, buy her whatever she wants. Skittles, popcorn. Twizzlers. Treat her with respect, you understand? Don’t you dare kiss her, as much as you might want to. Maybe hold her hand, but you have to read the situation first.”
Mike looked up to the roof of the car. “Why me?”
When they pulled up to her ranch-style house in Santa Rosa, Otis slid to a stop. There wasn’t a vine in sight, and he wondered whether he could trust these people. God, what if the parents weren’t wine drinkers? “Want me to walk up with you? I should probably meet the parents.”
“No, please, I’m begging you.” He spoke quietly, despite no one being around to hear. “Mom already knows them.”
“You think I’m going to embarrass you?”
“Yes.”
“Very well. Remember: eye contact; shake hands; be respectful.”
“I know.”
Otis set his hand on his son’s arm. “Never forget, she’s the lucky one.”
His second-born son climbed the steps and knocked on the door. Otis loved seeing the warrior in Mike, especially after struggling with bullies and depression and all the other shit that life throws at a kid.
Here he was, though, propped up by a girl. Like father, like son.
Mike looked uncertain as he escorted his girlfriend back to the car. They’d been together almost a month now, sealed by a box checked on a handwritten note, but they barely spoke and stayed a good distance from each other. Otis was beyond sure he didn’t have to worry about Mike kissing her.
Yet.
Mike opened the door like a gentleman, and Annette climbed in. She was adorable, brown hair topped with a beret. “Hi, Mr. Till. It’s nice to meet you.”
“And you, Annette. I’ve heard so much about you.”
The way things worked, though, when one member of the family reached the top, another fell. Bec would say it was a self-fulfilling prophecy and warn Otis not to say such things, as if he were the conductor of this dark, dysfunctional orchestra of mad violinists, cellists, and the like.
“So you think that if I say it’s going to go well,” he suggested en route to her parents’ house, “then it will go well?”
“Not in front of Mike.”
“He needs to hear, Bec.” He turned to the back seat and gestured for Mike to pull off his headphones. Once he had, Otis said, “Please be on your best behavior. It’ll be over in a blink of an eye.”
“Otis,” Bec said, “this is my family you’re talking about.”
“Theyarekind of difficult,” Mike confessed.
“I know,” Bec replied, finding her son’s eyes in the rearview mirror, “but they’re your grandparents. You’ll be sad one day when they’re gone. And your uncle loves you, despite his troubles.”
