Page 74 of Don't Tell Me How It Ends
His parents have provided a natural buffer between us all morning, but when I finally catch Ro’s eye to make sure I haven’t overstepped by sharing the good news, the rest of the room fades away. Only for a moment, but it’s long enough. My face splits into an embarrassingly proud smile at the quiet contentedness tucked behind his eyes. And now that we’re finally really seeing each other, it’s impossible to look anywhere else.
My face heats when Ro’s dad claps a hand on his shoulder in congratulations, reminding me of our very real audience. His mom beams, but from her knowing smile, it’s safe to say Ro’s art isn’t the only thing on her mind.
A natural lull in the conversation brings out those standardgetting to know youquestions.
“My mom’s in medical sales,” I tell them. Which is partially true, though she’s had to work less and less with each divorce settlement.
Mrs. Jackson nods. “And your dad?”
Ro seems to be debating whether or not he needs to bail me out, but I’ve had to answer this question more times than I can count. I do it easily. “He’s a professor. But he’s not really in the picture anymore.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize,” Mrs. Jackson says. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“More of us with that story now than not,” Mr. Jackson says, folding his napkin and leaning back from the table. “My mama raised us on her own too. All five of us. Divorce is a damn epidemic.”
Well, that’snotthe standard response to my brush-off. I don’t remember the last time I had to go off script like this.
“I see it as an adult, but when it first happened, I felt like I was the only one,” I say, surprising myself. “My family fell apart overnight, but all my friends’ parents were still together.” I gesture to their interlocked hands resting on the table. “Case in point.”
“Oh, this?” Mr. Jackson says, playfully pulling his hand away and flicking his napkin toward Mrs. Jackson for added effect. “Don’t let this fool ya for a second.”
“It’s unnatural,” Mrs. Jackson says, rolling her eyes playfully. “Two fully formed adults, havin’ to make every decision and work through every little thingtogether?”
“Well, you’re still doing it,” I say, laughing at their bit.
Mr. Jackson sucks his teeth, more seriously. “Ain’t nothing harder than staying together in a world that makes it easier to leave.”
Mrs. Jackson’s face is so warm when she says, “It’s all in the picking.”
And when she looks back to her husband, her eyes are soft, like there’s never been a harsh word exchanged between them.
What she says next, though, tells a different story. “Sometimes, especially at the start, love’s a feeling, but other times it’s a choice. You gotta find someone who’ll keep picking you every day. Even on the tough ones. And you gotta decide to do the same for them.”
They smile at each other—a shared secret decades in the making—and say, in tandem, “And therapy.” Without missing a beat.
I can’t help notice the way their hands find each other again, as if drawn together by a force too powerful to resist.
“Now that’s real,” Mr. Jackson says, breaking the connection between himself and his wife to bring me and Ro back in. “Andat two hundred dollars an hour, you better believe I’m dropping knowledge on y’all whether you wanna hear it or not. We ’bout to get our money’s worth.”
We’re all still laughing when Mr. Jackson continues. This time, though, he gestures toward me as he speaks.
“Not like our folks did us when we were coming up,” he says, losing himself in my eyes. “Ain’t that right? Made us learn it all the hard way.”
I look to Ro’s mom to see if I’ve missed the joke, but her smile has fallen and for the first time, there’s a tinge of sadness in her eyes, where before there’d only been joy.
Mr. Jackson’s laugh is sharper this time. It pulls my eyes away from his wife, and when I turn back to him, I realize he hasn’t stopped looking at me.
“Tell ’em bout that time your daddy was sleeping out on the…shit. He was out on the…”
“Mr. Jackson?” I say, surprised by how small my voice sounds.
His words have trailed off, but he’s still searching. Rushing now to fill the space and the silence between us. Growing more agitated with each passing moment. Fear ghosting his usually proud face.
“On the porch.” He says it like it’s a guess. His eyes still tuned only to me. “Isn’t that right, Claire? He was on the porch.”
Seeing Mr. Jackson this way, frazzled and undone, is an unsettling departure from the larger-than-life character I’ve only ever known to be at the helm. Anxiety pricks at my skin as he watches me, expectantly—desperate for a lifeline. But it’s his wife who lifts him from the storm.
Mrs. Jackson wraps both her hands around her husband’s. His eyes fall to where they connect like he can’t quite make sense of her touch, and when he looks up this time, there’s a distance I hadn’t noticed before.
