Chapter 58: Brekka

I’m like the addict who can’t quite flush her cocaine stash.

I know I need to stop texting Rob, because we’re on a collision course for the same misery my parents currently enjoy. But he’s so funny and I love him so much. Every day, I wonder whether today’s the day. Maybe today he’ll ask me to move to Atlanta for him. Maybe today he’ll change his stripes for spots and we can make it work.

That’s why I can’t seem to resist texting him. Or answering when he calls, and telling him all about my day. That’s why I haven’t actually broken up with him.

He texts, -LOOKS PRETTY GOOD ON MY DESK.

He attaches an image of our Stone Dam selfie in a silver frame. The worst part is that it does look good. We look amazing in that photo. Perfect, even.

I’m almost done with a new proposal for Trig and it’s not even 10 a.m. I’ve taken to waking up earlier and earlier, as though I’m on Eastern time. Like I’m prepping to move myself, which I’m not, since Rob will never ask me to sacrifice for him or for us. My entire office usually rolls in around 6 a.m. too now, trying to impress me with keeping the same hours I keep.

-THE REAL LIVE BREKKA STILL LOOKS BETTER. WHEN CAN I SEE HER?

My heart wibble wobbles in my chest. What’s wrong with me? I have a wonderful guy who wants to come see me. He’s offered to come and visit a dozen times. He’s begged me to fly out there. I always make up excuses, but I can’t really remember why anymore, not really.

-CAN YOU COME VISIT THIS WEEKEND? I HAVE SOMETHING TO SHOW YOU.

My fingers hover over the phone. Rob doesn’t usually send three messages in a row without some kind of response from me. Because I’ve reduced him to adhering to typical relationship rules, so insecure about whether I’m still invested in us. A lesser man would have thrown in the towel. But Rob’s not even in the same zip code as any of the other men I’ve dated.

-YES.

Then I delete it. Because I can’t. If I fly to Atlanta, I’ll cave. I’ll tell him to move, or I’ll move, or anything at all to make this work.

Although, this is him asking me to do something. He’s not throwing out ultimatums, but it’s a start. Maybe it’s the stepping-stone to him asking me for what he needs. Maybe he’s becoming vested enough in his own needs and wants to start carving out some space for himself. Could he protect us from what we might become otherwise?

I finally text back.

-WHAT’S THE SURPRISE?

No response. Drat.

Rob and his stupid surprises.

I hate them and I love them. No one has ever tried to surprise me other than my dad, and those are always hit and miss.

Surprise, we’re going to Turkey for a week! You’ll hate the food, and no one wears deodorant. Just what teenage dreams are made of. Or surprise, I’ve decided to buy a three-wheeled car for you to drive! It looks bizarre and feels unsafe. Good luck. Surprise, we’re skipping school for a month to go to Bora Bora. The weather is great, but of course you won’t know a soul and the WiFi is spotty at best.

Mom always hated Dad’s surprises. For me and Trig, sometimes they were awesome, but they were always… unreliable. Rob’s surprises have all been good, so far. Even so, his propensity to insist on leaving me guessing just like my dad worries me.

My mom on the other hand, nothing’s ever a surprise with her. She’ll drill you to death on the details, but she won’t ever take you off guard. Not with presents, which she usually calls me about weeks ahead of the event to pre-approve. Not with trips, which she’s unlikely to ever plan anyway unless it’s for the launch of some new company or product line. And certainly not with family business. She’s always sending out memos and emails and texts updating me on the status of, well, everything. Then her assistant follows up to make sure I received the memo, email and text if I don’t reply promptly.

Why did my parents ever think they might make things work? They’re a circle and a square. My mom hates surprise and it fuels my father, who’s always flitting from one thing to the next. My mom loves work, and growth of financial plans. My dad hates anything to do with numbers and figures. He broke out in hives once when my mom made him attend all the board meetings and weigh in on every trust decision for a month. His doctor literally diagnosed him with chronic stress fatigue.

From one month’s work.

“Mail.” Blake dumps a huge pile of letters into my box.

“Wait, why is there so much?” I ask.

He shifts toward the door. “Some of it might have got sorted wrong. Sorry about that.” He darts out.

I exhale and begin to flip through it.

A large, recycled paper envelope catches my eye. The paper is embossed and looks almost like a wood grain. It boasts an Atlanta return address, the Callanwolde Fine Arts Center. I slide my finger under the flap and open it. Inside there’s a thick, creamy invitation to the Grand Opening for the Robert Graham ‘Art To Surround Us’ exhibit, and the launch of Cultivate. It’s tomorrow night at seven.

I think I’ve discovered Rob’s surprise.

I flip the invitation over and my eyes scan for details. On opening night, select pieces will be auctioned, and all proceeds will go to a new charity Robert Graham recently founded. The rest of the pieces will be available the following day at fixed prices, probably based largely on the prices set by the auction. Brilliant.

My eyes are drawn to the bottom, where gold ink outlines the word 'cultivate'.

Robert Graham, a veteran himself and a recipient of the esteemed purple heart, surrounds himself with friends and former vets who have suffered injuries that leave them unable to walk or run as they could before. He’s established Cultivate as a charity intended to: 1) provide accessibility for places without, 2) modify housing and work situations to support differently abled persons, and 3) provide materials and supplies needed by applicants to pursue their dreams without limit.

Rob’s selling his furniture, and he’s doing it to help create a charity I know he believes in strongly. A glint of black and white gloss catches my eye. There’s another paper in the envelope. I pull out the photo, an image of Clive, beaming for the camera from his wheelchair, shining cabinets at his chair height in the background.

“Rob Graham lives what he espouses. He made cabinets for my home so I could cook and clean and function independently. He’s done it for three other friends as well. I’m proud to be the face of Cultivate. I can’t wait to see how far this will go and how many lives we can touch.” Clive Winsworth, 32, Navy veteran, President of Cultivate.

Certainty floods my chest. I’ve been going back and forth with my parents over that trust provision, but yesterday my attorney handed me a bazooka, and I’m ready to use it.

I text my mom.

-LUNCH?

True to form, she replies seconds later naming the place and time. HOTEL MONACO. HALF AN HOUR.

I text my dad next.

-PANZANO, LUNCH? HALF AN HOUR OR FORTY MINUTES?

It’s dumb to say Panzano instead of Hotel Monaco like Mom insists on calling it, but he probably knows Hotel Monaco is her favorite spot. I’m worried he’ll figure out my plan. I’m hoping the actual restaurant name might throw him off the scent.

Sometimes I don’t hear back from Dad for days at a time. But I’m in luck.

-SURE, BUT I’M BUYING.

-DEAL.

I’ve never tricked my parents into being in the same place before, mostly because it’s a terrible idea, like convincing Russia and America the other is firing nukes and standing around to see who strikes first. If I manage to pull this off, I hope I survive it.

I’m already at Hotel Monaco when my mom walks in, and I’m prepared for battle.

“I was happy to hear from you,” Mom says. “I feel like you’ve been avoiding me ever since Trig’s wedding. We haven’t had lunch in weeks and weeks.”

I have avoided her, mostly because I can’t handle her gushing about someone I’m trying to dump.

“I’ll admit, I was hoping there would be three people here today,” she says.

“Oh there will be,” I say, excited to surprise her. In a bad way.

Her eyes widen. “Oh, that’s wonderful. I’ve missed Rob terribly.”

My mom never misses anyone except her children. I knew Rob impressed her, but not this much. “Why do you like him?”

Mom shakes her head. “I can’t say, and I know that’s a little odd. I’ve thought about it a lot, and the only thing I can pinpoint is that he felt genuine. He clearly cared for you, and he’s bright. When I researched him, what I found surprised me. He hopped around from place to place, you know. Marine, deployed, and then his injury you know and the subsequent recovery, and then back home. I can’t find a clear pattern, but every person we spoke to raved about him. I couldn’t find a single individual, in all that research, who had anything negative to say about Robert Graham. It’s almost like he’s an honest to goodness saint.”