“Sure, but I just don’t think he was the right dad for me.”
“You think you could have picked a better one?” he says mockingly.
“I think my mom could have,” I tell him seriously. “I think she did.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I think I was supposed to be Nate’s child.”
“What?”
“Think about it. He was an exceptional painter, like I am. He was a free spirit, like I am. He wasn’t naturally smart, like I’m not–”
“Whoa, Liv. You are.”
I blow him off by shaking my head and continuing. “He was cultured, and I’m really trying to read more, and see more, and learn more. You’re helping with that. But really. Couldn’t you see that?”
“Sometimes having a parent that’s just like you isn’t a great thing. They become more of a friend, and less of a parent.”
“I don’t see anything wrong with that.”
“Well, I do. Seeing my mom and her complete lack of discipline for my brothers is disappointing. She just wants to be the cool mom, you know?”
“Well, you turned out okay.”
“I had the influence of my father, and the intuition to know which qualities of my parents were good and which ones weren’t.”
“What was your dad like?”
“He was the disciplinarian. He could be pretty harsh, but I learned early on to stay on his good side. He didn’t expect too much from me. Good grades, good manners, good morals, and a fair amount of independent thought. That’s all he asked for. The first three came naturally, so it wasn’t a stretch.
“The last one came after he got sick, though. I looked up to him so much in life that his beliefs were mine. But when he got sick, I started to become my own man. I had to. Mom’s never really had a belief system. Her world revolves around herself, and that wasn’t a world I wanted to be a part of. So I started doing things on my own–without Dad’s assistance because he couldn’t help, and without Mom’s because I didn’t want her help.
“And that’s what made me this person.
“You know, if you’re so different from your dad, and you feel like he doesn’t get you, you need to pull away less and talk to him more. Tell him what interests you. I guarantee, when he sees how passionate you are about the things you love, he will learn to cherish those things that make you unique. My mom tells me weekly how proud she is of me, and we are nothing alike.”
“You sound like my mom,” I tell him, moving out of his lap and sitting with my legs crossed in front of him.
“I happen to admire your mom.”
“I do, too,” I admit. “And I admire you, too.”
“I’ll be honest, Olivia, I think it’s a little weird for you to look at Nate in that way. You never met him.”
“But I feel like I know him. I know so much about him, from Mom and from Granna.”
“You know what they tell you. Did you know he was a womanizer?”
“Huh?” I do remember mom saying he had a lot of girlfriends, but I’d never heard such a negative connotation associated with him.
“Yeah. He was in the paper all the time. I couldn’t even count the number of women he was linked to.”
“What, did you research him?” Although I don’t like what he’s telling me, I’m paying close attention now.
“Awhile back, yeah.”
“When?”
“It was years ago.”
“How?”
“You can find old articles about him in the Times archives.”
“Well, why were you researching him?”
“I wanted to know who this Nate guy was, whose Art Room I was so lucky to be a part of. I was a little surprised at what I found. To us, he was presented as some sort of saint. But he wasn’t, Liv.”
“They never said he was a saint.”
“They never told us about his indiscretions, either.”
“Why would they? We’re kids. We’re there to create.”
“Exactly. But this man they’ve presented to us–he’s not the man you think he is.”
“Well, you don’t know him, either.” I know that this information about Nate should upset me, make me like him less, but in truth, it only makes my imagination go wild. “Do you remember if there was ever a woman named Simone?”
“There were too many, Liv. I couldn’t possibly remember names. If you’re so interested, look him up.”
“I will,” I tell him with a shrug as I put my boots back on.
“Hey, don’t be mad,” he says, trying to soothe me as he holds on to one of my arms. I struggle free from his grasp and get up, moving to the sofa. “Liv, please.”
“He loved my mother. All those other women didn’t matter to him. She told me that.” I fold my arms in front of my chest.
“I can accept that. But no one knows what sort of father he would have been.”
“I know he would have been better than the one I have.”
Jon grabs his t-shirt and pulls it back over his head. As he puts his button-up back on, he shakes his head at me. “I think you’re wrong.”
“I want to go home,” I tell him.
“Come on, Liv. We’re having a conversation here.”
“I don’t want to talk to you about Nate anymore.”
“Fine, then we don’t have to talk about him.”
I look down at my hands, ignoring him as he walks over to sit next to me on the couch.
“You know, now I am starting to wonder if I can be good enough for you. You have the best father a person could ask for, and you want someone else.”
“That’s not true–”
“Yeah, it is.”
“You don’t know my dad!”
“Tell me something horrible about him, then. Tell me why he’s such a bad father.”
“Because he tells me everything I paint is beautiful.” I realize how stupid that sounds as soon as it comes out of my mouth. “I mean, even the horrible things–”
“You’re going to have to think of something else–”
“He doesn’t think objectively, you know? I can’t get a real honest opinion out of him.”
“Maybe he doesn’t want to hurt your feelings.”
“I don’t like that! I don’t want to be lied to!”
“Maybe he’s not lying. Maybe he just thinks your creations are beautiful things, you know?”
“Now you sound like him!” I tell him, frustrated, standing up and going to the dining room table to clear some dishes.
Jon follows me, taking dishes of food to the counter. He starts putting the leftovers in small plastic containers. “What’s another horrible thing about him?”
“He never lets me do anything.”
“Well we know that’s not true anymore. He’s lightened up, big time, since you and I started seeing each other. Hello? Midnight curfew?”
“Which just might be too late for me tonight,” I say spitefully. “Where’s your dishwasher?” I ask him angrily.
“It’s called a sink,” he says back at me. “Ever used one of them before?”
“You don’t have to be mean to me.”
“Well, then, stop acting like a spoiled brat!” I pick up a plate, ready to throw it on the floor, but his hand catches mine and he takes the dish from me. “We don’t have a disposable supply of ceramic dishes, Liv. And this is my mother’s china, which somehow hasn’t been pawned over the years. I’d appreciate it if you’d treat it with some amount of respect.”
He places the dish carefully in the sink, rinsing it with a steady stream of water. When it’s clean, he shuts off the tap and leans against the counter, his arms tense, his head down and eyes closed.
“I think I should go,” I tell him.
“This was not how this night was supposed to end.”
“What, were we supposed to sleep together?”
“Stop that,” he says, looking up at me. “Stop trying to make me into the bad guy here. I’m not that. And you know dam
n good and well I had no intention of sleeping with you tonight.”
I tap my boots on the floor nervously.
“Why are you so angry?” he asks.
“He was not a womanizer,” I state adamantly. “My mother wouldn’t date a womanizer. He was a good man who loved her more than anything in the world, from the day he met her. How could that make him a womanizer? A lost soul, maybe. Confused, probably. But don’t you dare call him a womanizer. It implies he was disrespectful, that he used women for personal gain. I don’t think that was him at all.”
“Alright, Liv. I’m sorry I said anything. I had no idea that it would affect you so much. I just wanted you to know the truth about him–”
“Well, that’s not the truth. Don’t believe everything you read, Jon. You of all people should know better.”
“You’re right. Maybe the stories were more tabloid than truth. But there were a lot of pictures of him at events–”
“It doesn’t matter!” I tell him. “So what? So he made a few bad choices! So have you! Does that make you a womanizer, too?”
“Liv, I’ve been with two other women–”
“In a matter of months you were with two other girls! How many years of articles did you scan? Ten? What, were there thirty women? More?”
“I didn’t count.”
“Well, I bet his average is better than yours.”
“You’re probably right,” he says, throwing a dishtowel on the countertop. He walks quickly out of the kitchen and back into the living room. “I don’t know why you’d waste your time on me anymore. I could never be good enough for you.”
I stay in the kitchen, stunned, calling out to him. “Jon, that’s–”
“No, you’re absolutely right.” He stands in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. “I messed up, and it doesn’t seem like you’re going to let me forget it, either. I can’t change what I’ve done, Liv. Believe me, I would if I could, but I can’t. But I don’t want you throwing that in my face every time you get angry with me, either.
“I’m not going to feel guilty about that.”
“I’m not trying to make you feel guilty,” I tell him softly. “I just want you to see that he was as human as you are. And you’re not a bad person. Stop telling me you’re not good enough for me. Let me be the one to make that decision.”
“Well?” he asks. He bows his head to the floor, messing with a scratch on his thumb, as he waits for my answer.
“I can appreciate that you’re trying to help me sort through my issues, but I think you should stay out of my situation with my father.”
“Olivia, if your relationship with him isn’t good, it’s only going to make things more difficult for us. Why can’t you see that?”
“I can handle it.”
He walks toward me and takes my hands in his, speaking directly to me. “Will you just listen to me for a second? And then I’ll drop it–for tonight at least–”
“Drop it for good–”
“I’ll try, but I can’t make that promise.”
“Alright, go ahead.”
“So, this Nate-as-a-father thing. Let’s think about that for a second.”
“Okay.” He drops one of my hands and leads me back over to the sofa. “My mom would never have let him be a bad father.”
“I think you’re right. Just like she doesn’t allow Jack to be a bad father.”
I smile at him weakly before he continues.
“One of your issues with your dad is that he’s not honest with you about your work.”
“Yeah, that I don’t think he understands it.”
“And you’re sure Nate would?”
“I have no doubt. He was an artist.”
“And you think you’d respect his opinion?” he asks.
“Definitely.”
“Do you respect mine?”
“Of course,” I assure him with a smile.
“Alright. You know that painting you have hanging over your bed? Of your lake house?”
“This one?” I ask him, picking up my phone from the coffee table and showing him the background picture.
“That’s the one. You really like that one, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“I don’t,” he says evenly. “I think it’s quite possibly one of the worst things you’ve ever painted.”
I look down at the picture and study it. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
“What don’t you like about it?”
“I don’t really like anything about it. It’s completely one-dimensional. It’s cliché. The colors are so flat and uninteresting. And I know this house is special to you, and filled with life and love and good memories, but you convey nothing like that with this painting. It’s just any other house. There’s nothing special about it. No interesting angles. No surprising elements. No vibrant hues.”
“Oh,” I say, surprised. I take a deep breath and consider his critique.
“How does that make you feel?”
“I never really thought about it. It’s a place I love. It’s special because of that.”
“Right. And now that you know how I feel about it, what are you going to do?”
“Well. I kind of see what you mean,” I start. “I guess I wasn’t able to separate myself from the emotional attachment to the house. To me, I see depth, and dimension, and perspective, and life–”
“But those are from the memories you have of it, right?”
“Right.”
“So what are you going to do about it?”
“I’ll probably take it down.”
“See, Liv, no. That’s not the right answer.”
“Well, I could do it over. I could make it better. I mean, that was done years ago–”
“That’s not what this is about.”
“I’m not following you.”
“Let’s consider that Nate had something like that to say about your work. From when you were four until now. How many paintings would have come and gone from that bedroom wall?”
“Probably a lot, but I’m sure I’d get better,” I tell him.
“Or you’d get beat down. And you’d stop. It happens all the time. But with the way your dad deals with this, whether he understands your work or not–and I have a feeling he understands a lot more than you’re giving him credit for–he’s leaving it up to you to decipher what’s good and what’s not. What you feel is good or not. In the end, it’s just an opinion. My observations about your painting, they’re just my opinions.”
“But your opinions matter to me.”
“And I bet your dad’s do, too–above all else–whether you’re willing to admit that to yourself or not. He just doesn’t want to hold you back or hinder you. He lets you create, unfettered.
“I don’t want you to take that painting down because I don’t see in it the emotions it conveys to you. That’s not what art’s about at all, and you know that.”
“I know. But I’d hate for you to have to look at something you hate.”
“Well, I doubt I’ll be hanging out in your bedroom much, anyway, so that’s not actually a concern.”
“True,” I laugh. “But I think your opinion is valid and brings up some good points.”
“Okay... and what are you going to do about that?”
“I’m going to try to paint it again soon. And maybe you can come with me to do it.”
“I would be honored to,” he says. “Just think about what I’ve said about Jack, okay? And, I mean, even if Nate would have been the best father in the world, the truth is, you can never have him. You can continue to live in this pipe dream of ‘what-ifs,’ but in the end, Olivia, that will only make you unhappy. It will keep you from enjoying so many of the things you do have, including a father who might find it difficult to communicate with a daughter that’s very different from himself. But anyone on the outside can see how much he cares about you. He has no way to hide that.”
“That’s just an opinion, too,
” I say to him, obstinate, but joking. I stick my tongue out at him playfully. “But I do respect your opinion.”
“Okay,” he whispers.
“I love you, Jon.”
“I love you, too, Olivia.” He leans in to kiss me, and slowly puts his arm under my knees, bringing my legs into his lap. My arms around his neck, he lays me down on the couch and lies down beside me. We make out sweetly until an alarm sound disrupts us both.
“What’s that?”
“It’s time for you to get home,” he says with a frown. “It’s eleven-thirty.”
“Already?”
“Yeah. Already.”
“I’m sorry we fought,” I tell him.
“I’m glad we made up,” he says with confidence. “This is how this night was supposed to end: with a kiss, and you in my arms.”
“I wish every night could end like this.”
“Someday, Olivia. They will.”
I walk in the door with five minutes to spare, waving goodbye to Jon in the cab at the curb.
“Hey, sweetie,” Mom says from the couch. She’s got her computer in her lap and a cup of tea on the coffee table in front of her.
“Hey. Late night planned?”
“Yeah, I’ve got some last minute revisions on these holiday party programs,” she says. “I’m trying to knock them out over the weekend so we can have the entire week to goof off.”
“Cool. Where’s Dad? He’s never not waited up to make sure I made it home on time.”
“I’m sure he probably heard you come in. He just said he was tired about an hour ago and went up to our room. I could go get him–”
“No, that’s okay,” I laugh. “But I’m on time.”
“You sure are. Your hair’s a little crazy, Liv. I didn’t realize it was so windy outside.”
My pink cheeks probably give me away as I struggle to calm it down. I just shrug my shoulders.
“Did you have a good time tonight?”
“Yeah, it was great. Dinner was good. Jon’s mom is... different. His brothers are really sweet. They seem to be good kids. They really look up to Jon.”
“What’d you have to eat?”
“She made some chicken and rice dish. It had a ton of cheese in it.”
“Well, you probably loved that.”
“It wasn’t bad, I’m not gonna lie.”