Which was what made this hometown visit awkward and terrifying, right?
Because his dad—the man partially responsible for his veryexistence—had basically lived without him for a couple of decades now. And if Maria caught a glimpse of Peter through his father’s eyes, she might find herself willing to do the same.
It would destroy him. Part of him, anyway.
The part that beat only for her, and had done for years now.
The part he’d never intended to risk again, but here he was. Here it was.
Entirely hers to break.
For a full two hours, butter wouldn’t have melted in Maria’s mouth.
Which reminded Peter: While she was in the area, he needed to get her to Culver’s for a butter burger, fried cheese curds, anda hot fudge sundae made with frozen custard, because otherwise he’d consider this a wasted visit, filmed interviews or no filmed interviews.
But in the meantime, it was bizarre to watch her be so... demure? Was that the right word? Cautious? Whatever it was, she was letting his gregarious father do almost all the talking and uttering polite nothings in response as she watched them both very, very carefully.
“Lovely to meet you, Daniel,” she’d murmured when Peter introduced his dad. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
A total fucking lie. He’d barely mentioned his father to her, ever, and she hadn’t pressed for more information, not even on their drive to Madison.
“The restaurant you chose sounds perfect,” she’d said as they headed outside town to a converted nineteenth-century stable for a traditional Wisconsin Friday night fish fry dinner. “I love fish.”
She didn’t even smirk at Peter or produce a jar of herring to shake in his face.
Weird.
“What a gorgeous lake!” she’d exclaimed when they rounded a curve in the SUV—because his father’s small Prius couldn’t comfortably fit two people as tall as Peter and Maria—and Lake Mendota came into view, blue and sparkling and so familiar his throat prickled. “How nice that you live close to the water, Daniel.”
So then his dad discussed what an isthmus was, promised to show her Lake Monona later in the visit, and gave her an engaging, lighthearted, somewhat truncated history of Madison and the university all the way to the restaurant.
“It looks delicious,” she’d said to the server upon ordering thebaked cod, fried cod, and fried whitefish combo platter. “Thank you.”
Which, of course, inspired his dad to explain the origins of the Wisconsin fish fry tradition, along with the state’s other culinary idiosyncrasies. Beer brats. Cheese curds. Also the utter deliciousness known as kringle, even though Peter thought those actually originated from Scandinavia. As had many early white settlers in Wisconsin, which likely accounted for the region’s affection for—ugh—pickled herring.
Luckily, his father didn’t bringthatup.
Maria had heard it all before. Earlier that very day, in fact, at a media event where she’d taste-tested various regional specialties. She didn’t interrupt, though. She didn’t look bored. She just nodded attentively.
And now, as the three of them ate their final bites of dinner, she was listening to his father talk about his training regimen for an upcoming triathlon with every evidence of pleasure and no attempt to change the topic, even though Peter knew for a fact she enjoyed exercise but found discussion of other people’s fitness routinesboring as fuck.
That was a direct quote.
“Fascinating.” With her fork, she dolloped some tartar sauce on her remaining whitefish and teased free a substantial bite. “Do you run marathons too?”
His father nodded, a pleasant smile deepening the lines that bracketed his mouth. “Only half-marathons now. But I attended UW-Madison on a track scholarship, and while Peter was growing up, I still did marathons with my buddy Len. Even now, Len and I like to take the path around the lake and—”
Dad kept talking, and she didn’t interrupt. She also didn’t askPeter whether he’d joined the track team as well, either in high school or college. She knew he hadn’t.
Instead of participating in varsity sports or student government—his father had served as class president too—Peter had joined the drama club. Because he’d loved acting from the very beginning, but also because offstage, the other theater kids let him be as taciturn and introverted as he wanted. They tolerated his silence without commentary, and without offering him mournful bewilderment in response.
His father always bought a ticket for a single performance of each of Peter’s productions and always congratulated him once he’d taken his final bows. But Dad never seemed to enjoy the shows, and he never had much to say afterward.
At one time, Peter had considered that a deliberate slight. A sign of his father’s disdain for what he did and who he was. As an adult, though, he’d come to believe Dad simply didn’t know what to say to him. What would make him happy. What possible feedback would connect the two of them, when Peter was so different from his father. Not sociable or popular or interested in organized sports, but a quiet, creative, sometimes moody loner.
Just like his mom.
Which was why, when she and Dad had separated two years before her death, he’d lived with her. After her massive stroke, after her funeral, he might have returned to that familiar childhood ranch-style house, but it never felt like home again. Not without her.