intentionally doing so—or at least not consciously. I wanted him to like me, sure, but if we were truly soulmates, wasn’t that already guaranteed? For the first time in a long time, I began to wish I knew more about the world my father lived in. I knew some of the myths and legends, but not all of them—my Coming of Age ceremony had been interrupted before I could learn everything I was meant to learn. I felt a little lost with this man whom I already felt I knew, yet also knew that I did not know at all, and I supposed it made sense that in my nervousness I was acting like a teenage girl with a crush.
It pleased me that I didn’t seem to be the only one. Mark, too, seemed to be openly yet subtly flirting, returning each of my sarcastic barbs with one of his own. He matched me joke for joke, smile for smile, and once or twice when our skin touched—when that electrical current raced through my veins and I drew my breath in surprise—I do believe he did the same.
Once we had sat down at the table with our cheese-and-pepper omelets and fried potatoes, Mt. Dew to drink again because Mark didn’t drink orange juice except in the morning, I was a little startled to see him bow his head to say grace. Pleased even. I bowed my head as well and said a silent prayer of thanks that he had at long last been brought into my life, and I asked for the guidance to handle our unique situation with tact and delicacy—and for a sign that would tell me when it was time to tell him the truth about me. I also asked for a calm temperament when I confronted Angel, which I hoped would be soon so that I could have the unpleasant business taken care of.
Digging into the food, Mark declared that my omelet was indeed delicious, and when I asked him if it compared to his mother’s, he told me that he was going to plead the Fifth—he didn’t want to get in trouble with her or me, so he was calling it a draw. I had to laugh at the comical expression on his face as he feigned innocence, and I wondered about the whine and huff Angel emitted from her place by the back door.
As we ate, we talked some more, and I learned that the mother he spoke of so fondly was indeed a stepmother. Though I was surprised he revealed the information so soon, I was also glad to have one of my questions about his past so quickly answered. He told me that his biological mother, Patricia, had been attacked while she was pregnant with him and that she had died in the emergency room—there’d barely been time to save him by cesarean. Monica, his stepmother, had been a nurse in the ER, a very sympathetic one who had offered to help the devastated Daniel Singleton take care of his newborn son. After some time, the deep gratitude he felt for Monica’s assistance turned into love, and two years after the loss of his first wife, he married again. After another three years, they gave Mark a little sister named Juliette.
Because he had been so forthcoming with his own painful past, I felt it my obligation to share mine. I told him that my own mother had also died giving birth to me, and that my father had been through a string of mistresses ever since, never staying with any one woman for very long—although I did have a younger sister. I told him how I did not get along very well with my father or my sister, who was deeply jealous of me, but that I adored my older brother. When Mark asked about my mother’s side of the family, whom I had earlier claimed the farm had come from, I told him that I honestly did not know if any more of them were living. The truth, of course, was that I had some distant cousins, descendants of my mother’s twin brother Clarence, but I did not have any contact with them. I thought that was for the best even though I did keep track of some of them, and when my cousin Kendra (fourth or fifth cousin, I’m not sure which) had wanted to go to UC San Diego as a visual arts major, I used my various contacts to make sure she got a full-ride
It pleased me that I didn’t seem to be the only one. Mark, too, seemed to be openly yet subtly flirting, returning each of my sarcastic barbs with one of his own. He matched me joke for joke, smile for smile, and once or twice when our skin touched—when that electrical current raced through my veins and I drew my breath in surprise—I do believe he did the same.
Once we had sat down at the table with our cheese-and-pepper omelets and fried potatoes, Mt. Dew to drink again because Mark didn’t drink orange juice except in the morning, I was a little startled to see him bow his head to say grace. Pleased even. I bowed my head as well and said a silent prayer of thanks that he had at long last been brought into my life, and I asked for the guidance to handle our unique situation with tact and delicacy—and for a sign that would tell me when it was time to tell him the truth about me. I also asked for a calm temperament when I confronted Angel, which I hoped would be soon so that I could have the unpleasant business taken care of.
Digging into the food, Mark declared that my omelet was indeed delicious, and when I asked him if it compared to his mother’s, he told me that he was going to plead the Fifth—he didn’t want to get in trouble with her or me, so he was calling it a draw. I had to laugh at the comical expression on his face as he feigned innocence, and I wondered about the whine and huff Angel emitted from her place by the back door.
As we ate, we talked some more, and I learned that the mother he spoke of so fondly was indeed a stepmother. Though I was surprised he revealed the information so soon, I was also glad to have one of my questions about his past so quickly answered. He told me that his biological mother, Patricia, had been attacked while she was pregnant with him and that she had died in the emergency room—there’d barely been time to save him by cesarean. Monica, his stepmother, had been a nurse in the ER, a very sympathetic one who had offered to help the devastated Daniel Singleton take care of his newborn son. After some time, the deep gratitude he felt for Monica’s assistance turned into love, and two years after the loss of his first wife, he married again. After another three years, they gave Mark a little sister named Juliette.
Because he had been so forthcoming with his own painful past, I felt it my obligation to share mine. I told him that my own mother had also died giving birth to me, and that my father had been through a string of mistresses ever since, never staying with any one woman for very long—although I did have a younger sister. I told him how I did not get along very well with my father or my sister, who was deeply jealous of me, but that I adored my older brother. When Mark asked about my mother’s side of the family, whom I had earlier claimed the farm had come from, I told him that I honestly did not know if any more of them were living. The truth, of course, was that I had some distant cousins, descendants of my mother’s twin brother Clarence, but I did not have any contact with them. I thought that was for the best even though I did keep track of some of them, and when my cousin Kendra (fourth or fifth cousin, I’m not sure which) had wanted to go to UC San Diego as a visual arts major, I used my various contacts to make sure she got a full-ride
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