A Better Later: A Half of Us Story
By
Arkeym N. Young
ACT ONE
Pizza
It was a humid spring day in Fairhaven, and the residue of rain stuck in the air even after the clouds had cleared. A storm had broken earlier that morning, and Whitney Santolucci had quietly wished it hadn’t. At a red light, she glanced at the dark circles under her eyes in the rearview mirror. She wore her dark hair in the same bun that she did at work, and was losing the slender figure she had years ago as a younger nurse on a rotating shift. Now in her early thirties, with the same diet of poor sleep patterns and even poorer meals, she was tired after a long week and wanted to sleep in.
But the soccer games weren’t called off, so she drove with her son in tow to his team’s designated field for the day. Of course we got the early game, she thought. Still, she knew that keeping her son occupied, especially with sports, would do him good. At least that was what the therapists on YouTube had insisted often enough to sound convincing. As a knee-jerk reaction to overcompensate for his dad’s absence, she’d considered buying him a phone but dismissed it, saying that he was only eight. The knowledge that her contract at the hospital would be ending in a few short months aided this decision. She’d have to apply for aid again too.
She pulled into the parking lot of the city’s lone and modest sports complex. When they arrived, the field was still damp, but was inspected by officials and determined to be safe enough to continue with the day’s matches. Peter Santolucci hopped out of the front seat, pretending to be enthusiastic. He wasn’t looking for a place to go on the field as much as he was seeking a place to hide. Whitney tucked his bright green shirt into his sky blue soccer shorts, colors of the local bank that sponsored the co-ed soccer team. Next year, if he still played, the leagues would split the boys and girls, and his colors would change again. She handed him his soccer ball to practice with.
She looked at her son. He looks just like his father. He might hate that fact one day. “You’re gonna do just fine, okay honey?”
Pete nodded, and smiled at his mom. She always helped him smile.
“Hey, Pizza,” his classmate and teammate, Emily said as she waved and walked by with her dad.
Pizza. The nickname had started in first grade the way nicknames usually get their origins. A simple combination of his first name and the beginning of his last name, “Pete Sa–” was all it took. It blossomed proudly as a term of endearment, a pet name used by his classmates who looked kindly upon him. But as is the nature of many children, good familiarity decayed into playful banter then cruel ridicule as his idiosyncrasies slid him down the pecking order. Staring off into space, rubbing his fingers numerous times before biting his sandwich, even the occasional squinting: these were all telltale signs to other kids that he was different—different in ways that could be made fun of. By second grade, Pizza was a flat-out insult. Emily still said it sometimes, though. He didn’t mind it when she said it.
He wasn’t paying attention either way as he walked on the field. Don’t mess up, Pete, he told himself. Score a goal, and they’ll all wanna be my friends. He smiled dreamily at the thought of everyone clapping and patting him on the back. Well, maybe not patting him on the back. His mother’s hugs notwithstanding, he still didn’t like being touched, and a year was not enough time removed for him to be comfortable like that again yet. As his mind drifted, he stepped in a small divot, and the cool mud had found its way into his cleats, squelching between his toes with every step. Dangit! Stop daydreaming!
Minutes later, after warming up, a whistle signaled the start. The kids took the field and the splashing of muddy grass ensued as each team tried to advance the ball. Whitney watched her son, proud that he was trying. In the same moment, she was also embarrassed that she expected him to mess up, even though she hoped he wouldn’t. The thought sank hard in her stomach as her sunglasses hid the truth of guilt welling in her eyes. What an awful thing for me to think. She shook it away, put her game face on, and cupped both hands around her mouth like a megaphone.
“Stay out wide, Pete!” Whitney warned. “Don’t let ‘em crowd you in.”
He gave a brief look of acknowledgment, not quite understanding, yet not quite oblivious to what was happening on the field. He followed the motion, adjusting in short bursts that never quite aligned with the pace of the game around him. Parents had already gathered along the sideline, with their folding chairs, energy drinks, and bulk boxes of snacks for the kids after the game. Some even had on ponchos, just in case. A few glanced in Whitney’s direction when she yelled without committing to recognition. There was no hostility in it, but no invitation either. She was grateful to be wearing her sunglasses.
“Pizza!” one of his teammates yelled from the field. “Pay attention! You playing or what?” A few of them laughed, not mean enough to call attention to it, but enough for the coach to get his team focused again.
“EVERYbody lock in! Play your zones!”
Pete moved then, quickly correcting the hesitation that had preceded it in the same manner that adults speed up after cutting one another off in traffic. He sprinted through the uncomfortable moment, and his mom watched him get in a better defensive position. Whitney recognized the change though, as her son tightened up slightly. It wasn’t anger, but an internal misalignment between what he understood and what was happening. The soccer match was slipping away from him. He was running down the field more to remain active than to establish any sort of advantageous position, drifting too far upfield and losing the line. But in doing so, he’d blown past a defender and cut inside without realizing it, finding space ahead of the play. One of his teammates saw the opening and kicked the ball through to him. Unsure of himself and surprised that he was being given an opportunity, Pete hesitated, misjudging the timing, and the ball slipped past, rolling out past the sideline.
“Come on, Pizza. You gotta move!” one of the boys said, jogging toward him with the number twelve on his shirt bouncing with his strides.
The laughter that followed was more of awkward encouragement, but it arrived at the wrong moment. The parents knew the truth, that for the most part they were watching a bunch of their unorganized, clumsy kids try their best to have more fun than to be competitive. Advanced sports would weed them out in the years to come when more serious athletes started the bottleneck of competition, especially once puberty kicked in. The kids at this age were just having fun for the most part, and most reasonable parents understood this. Laughing lightly to encourage someone else’s child was par for the course. But in the mind of an unsure eight-year-old kid, they were making fun of him. Pete was still trying to find his feet under him after his mom had taken him and left the hands of his father whose punishments extended further than healthy corporal punishment. So, if it made him feel uncomfortable, then he assumed that the malice was intentional.
The play stopped for a moment again as someone’s loosely tied shoe flopped off, and number twelve trotted over to him, only trying to help. The boy reached out and placed a firm hand on Pete’s shoulder.
“Pay attention, man. You’re fast, but you gotta watch the ball.”
To anyone else, it was innocent, competitive motivation, but Pete went rigid, removed from the moment as it was happening. The hand lifted away, but it had already done what it would do. Something in him shifted back to his dad’s hand, reaching past the present into something older, something already learned.
“Get your hands off me!” His body moved before his mind caught up. He turned and shoved his teammate back with both hands. The boy stumbled, startled and raising his hands in reaction
“What—?”
Pete didn’t wait for the rest. He swung his fist. He was off-target, but completely committed to his fist in the moment. Luckily, he missed his mark and his punch squished into the field. But the altercation had already been sparked, and his teammate grabbed him as they both wrestled in the soppy grass. The whistle cut through the noise as voices rose around them. A coach stepped in, separating them, but Pete continued to press forward, breathing heavily, and muddy. Anger now fueled his own confusion and embarrassment.
“I was trying to be nice to you, Pizza!”
The boys were separated, but Pete was still fuming, struggling to get free.
“Pete.”
Whitney was already moving and calling his name. She reached him and grabbed his muddy arm with enough force to stop him without triggering something worse.
“Pete!” He finally looked at her, seeing the concern in her eyes with blood dripping from his bottom lip. It was the same look she wore when inspecting some of his past bruises. He didn’t like seeing her unhappy with him, and he calmed down, shrinking within himself.
Why’d I do that? He looked at his teammate and tried to apologize, but it didn’t come out right. It never did.
“Just don’t like being touched.”
“Whatever. You tried to punch me!”
“I’m so sorry,” Whitney said, looking at the boy and his parents.
“Come on, Pete.” She guided him away from the field. The coach called after them, saying Pete was done for the day, then his attention had already returned to the game.
Whitney gave a wave without turning back. At the end of the field, where the grass gave way to gravel and asphalt, she stopped right before the parking lot.
“Why’d you do that?” she asked.
He didn’t answer immediately. He just stood there, still breathing hard, the warm taste of iron oozing in a thin red stream from his mouth. His neurons still firing after the adrenaline flush, yet cooling down enough for coherent thoughts to squeeze through. He didn’t touch me to be mean, but I still didn’t like it. Pete looked at his mother, who was still waiting for an answer. She wore an expression that Pete knew wasn’t for show, a look that told him this was serious and that they’d stand there all day until he gave a sincere answer.
Whitney had admittedly overcompensated and allowed him to indulge via food and toys over the past year, a byproduct from her guilt. As his boundaries and respect for authority became blurred without his dad’s iron fist, she knew she had to swing the pendulum back the other way before her son grew to become someone else’s burden. So over the past several weeks, she’d begun to deploy the most important word in a child’s understanding of how things work in the real world: no. Of course, he gave her pushback at first, but she’d learned the delicate balance between discipline and abuse. He both subconsciously and willingly absorbed this new, better way of structure without fear. But Rome wasn’t built in a day, and today, a few bricks had fallen out of place.
“He grabbed me,” he said at last.
“I know.” Whitney accepted it with a single motion. “I also know he was just trying to be a teammate.”
“I know. I just don’t wanna be touched like that.” He felt his lips quiver, and the tears carved clean streaks down his muddy face.
She cupped his cheeks. “Oh, sweetie, I know.” She also began to tear up, hating herself. Why the hell did I stay so long? I shoulda left his ass after the first time! She too was learning to rebuild, and wiped the tear behind her sunglasses. “But we both know that’s not how you get that point across. You’re gonna apologize later today.”
They left before the game ended. A few minutes later, clouds returned, and rain poured. The game was called shortly thereafter. She shook her head and gave a cynical sneer while looking heavenward. Of course, it rains NOW. She almost chuckled at the irony. On the drive home, Pete watched the world outside the window without focusing on anything long enough to follow it.
After a moment, he asked, “Am I still on the team?”
“Don’t know,” she said, then she looked at him. “You wanna be?”
He knew that he wanted to be liked, even if he had to pretend. “I dunno.” He looked down at his muddy fingers. “Do you want me to?”
“I think you need the social structure,” she said, then immediately grimaced at her wanton parroting of something she’d heard a therapist say on one of those short video clips. “It’s good for you to be around other people. They’re not all bad.”
He accepted that without pressing further.
That night, after she’d called the boy’s parents and Pete apologized, she sent him to bed after dinner and a bath. After all, he did start a fight, and the punishment would be no television. She had to draw a line, even when it hurt her. But it wasn’t about making sure she felt good; it was about positioning him to become a better person. He grumbled a bit at the punishment, but obeyed nonetheless. Checking on him, she walked down the hallway and opened Pete’s door slightly, hoping that tonight’s punishment would pay dividends for him later. He was already asleep, one arm stretched across the pillow. Despite his meager protest, the day had taken a lot out of him, and his young mind and body welcomed the rest. She watched him a little longer, half smiling as his deep breaths almost gave way to a snore.
Whitney stood there another moment, absorbing all the pain of her son, then turned off the hallway light and closed the door most of the way, leaving it open just enough. Then, she hurried to her room, where tears of guilt and relief awaited.
***
ACT Two
Em
The clouds had begun to clear from the morning storm, but some were still hanging over Fairhaven. The air was still thick, and the ground wet, giving the promise of a muggy morning and humid afternoon. Ron Wallace sat behind the wheel, looking through the windshield as the sunlight peeked behind the cloud cover, teasing of a sunnier day to come. But he watched the sky with skepticism. Storms like that sometimes circled back. He sighed and looked at his daughter, Emily, who was sitting in the passenger’s seat. They’d been parked for a few minutes, long enough that they should have exited by now so she could join her team in warm-ups.
This is good for her, he thought. She needs to see that order and discipline don’t always come with cruel intentions. He missed her mother, but not enough to offset the damage she’d caused. Good sex was no longer a fair trade for his daughter’s self-esteem. Besides, he was just the better parent. The judge agreed when she awarded him custody. Now, his ex was free to pretend to be a victim amidst the revolving door of guys that only sought her for recreational use. But now it was time to pivot and get his game face on for Emily, who looked hesitant about playing today.
She didn’t really want to play soccer, but her dad said she needed something to do. “You have it so good compared to other kids,” he’d say. Whether he was right or wrong was something she didn’t yet understand or have the capacity to probe further. She just knew she didn’t want to play, and she had to do it anyway. But more importantly, she didn’t want to disappoint her father. Having another parent criticize her was something she definitely didn’t want. Her father’s voice broke her trance.
“Just a little rain, Em,” he said. “No biggie. Maybe you’ll get a nice slide in the mud,” he joked.
“Gross,” Emily laughed. She began to get into character as the happy daughter. Her dad told her that she didn’t have to pretend all the time, that she could be sad around him if that’s what she was feeling. But she wasn’t quite ready yet. A year removed from the cutting words of a selfish mother had not yet proven to be enough time to remove that mask.
“You can’t be that dumb! Fix your face!”
“Seriously, be careful.” Her father’s voice broke through. “And try to have fun. Remember that if the coach says something, he’s not being mean. It’s just a game.”
“I will,” she answered. Her response came quickly, already prepared. She looked at her fingernails, making sure they weren’t dirty. Then she checked to make sure her socks were pulled all the way up.
They both got out of the car, and she saw one of her teammates. His mom adjusted his shirt while he stood still, staring off into space at the soccer field as Emily often did. She knew that look, and wondered if his mom had chastised him about his untucked shirt the way hers would have. Emily would drift off in the same way, to keep from crying. She didn’t think Pete was as weird as some kids at school had said.
“Hey, Pizza,” Emily said as she passed.
The nickname caught him wrong at first, and she saw a frown forming as he looked up, already bracing himself for the source of the voice. Then he paused when he saw it was her. Something in him eased just enough to turn his mouth into a small, uncertain smile before he turned back toward the field. Emily walked on without looking back.
Ron noticed the exchange and gave the boy a small, polite smile. Then he noticed the boy’s mother. He gave her a fuller smile, with an informal note of intention. She returned it after a brief pause, her face softening in a way that suggested the gesture had reached her more than she cared to show. Ron held the moment just long enough to recognize it before letting it pass. Two ships adrift, he thought, before he let the words trail off into something unfinished.
Ron carried his and Emily’s lawn chairs toward the sideline and sat amongst the other parents, choosing a place that allowed him to watch without having to socialize much. Shortly after, the mom and her son from the parking lot set up shop a few feet away from him. The grass was still dark in patches from the rain earlier, and each step the children took left behind a soggy crater of mud.
Emily reached her group and adjusted herself into it without drawing attention. The other children were already doing overhead stretches. I hope they’re not mad at me for being late. Her mother’s voice rang in her memory, with each correction presented as criticism rather than instruction.
“Jesus, Emily, your clothes aren’t a napkin! Sometimes, I can’t believe you came from me. Must be your father’s side showing through.”
“Emily, you’re in,” the coach called.
She handed her dad her sports drink after taking a sip and turned away. A girl beside her said something, and though Emily only caught part of it, she recognized that a joke was intended. She smiled and let out a small laugh that aligned closely enough with the moment. The game started without the structure that would be expected of kids in older age groups. Here, children gathered in sloppy, overlapping zones and spread out around the ball in uneven bunches. Emily followed the flow without leading or trailing, adjusting constantly and making small corrections that never came from confidence. She understood the game and positions well enough, but couldn’t get out of her own way, overanalyzing each decision before committing to it.
Across the field, a play opened unexpectedly. The ball moved ahead of the bunch, finding space where no one had yet arrived. Her classmate Pizza was in a sprint but hesitated, misjudging the timing as it slipped past him and rolled out along the sideline.
“Come on, Pizza. You gotta move!” one of the boys called, jogging toward him, the number twelve on his shirt rising and falling with each stride.
Ron heard the call and followed it with his eyes, watching the boy who he’d greeted in the parking lot about fifteen minutes ago. He recognized him from Emily’s class, and had classified him as simply a quiet, but awkward kid. He saw the hesitation as a delay that arrived a step too late, the kind that came from trying to understand the moment after it had already passed, a commonality for most kids and sports at this age.
“It was a good try,” he said, turning to the boy’s mother. “He’s pretty fast.”
“Thanks. He’s still learning,” she responded politely, turning to face him. “Your girl seems to have the hang of it.”
“She overthinks it some, though. Maybe she’ll get more comfortable. I’m Ron, by the way. She’s Emily.”
“Whitney,” she said, half shrugging at her son’s missed play and moving her sunglasses to the top of her head. “Pete,” she said, nodding in the direction of her son.
The laughter that followed carried lightly across the field, easy enough to pass as encouragement. The parents understood it for what it was, a loose response to a loose game. It held no weight for them. Emily noticed the exchange without attaching to it. Don’t be embarrassed, Pizza, she thought. Play stopped again when someone’s shoe came loose, and the children drifted back into position without urgency. Emily was flanked to Pete’s left. Number twelve stepped beside Pete on the right.
“You gotta watch the ball,” he said, and rested his hand briefly against Pete’s shoulder, not forceful, but in a reassuring manner.
From the sidelines, parents watched, chatting idly through the break.
“–will build her confidence in the long run,” Ron continued.
“Yeah, same for Pete,” Whitney said, and Ron noticed her eyes brighten with agreement. “I mean, he’s shy, but he’s strong. Just needs to be around something to keep him busy.”
Then, a motion on the field caused her to jerk her head in that direction away from Ron. He also turned to see what had caught her attention.
Ron saw the contact from where he sat. Pete had turned and shoved number twelve back with both hands. He swung before anyone could close the distance between them. Voices rose, and a whistle cut through. The officials stepped in and separated them, but the boy continued to wrestle.
Emily remained where she was, watching and frozen. She wasn’t used to seeing people fight and though her mother had given her plenty of verbal lashings, she’d never lain a finger on Emily. But Ron could see that his daughter was frightened.
“Emily,” Ron called.
She turned, giving him a cracked smile and the thumbs up. “I’m okay.”
He studied her for a moment longer then moved his attention to her classmate being led off the field. Whitney hastily folded their chairs, and Ron helped her gather their belongings. She mustered a “thanks,” but the air between them had already shifted. The reprieve was over, and their break as adults having a quick chat gave way to a parent’s responsibilities. Conversations continued around them, but theirs had stopped. Something had been decided without being spoken.
“I got it, thanks,” Whitney said, grabbing the rest of her things from Ron. Her sunglasses were back down and she was carrying her bundle back to the car. Pete followed closely beside her, still red-faced and breathing hard.
The game resumed. Minutes later, thick clouds smothered the sun, and sent buckets of rain on the field. The game was called. In the car, Emily sat quietly, her hands resting where she had placed them, choosing not to engage with anything that didn’t require her attention. Without the rush of gameplay, her mind slowed down to replay the fight. Seeing Pete react that way after number twelve was being nice had scared her a little. Partly because of the violence, but mostly because it reminded her of her mom’s short temper. Ron started the engine and glanced once more at her.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“It was a little scary, huh?”
“Yeah, a little.”
“That was between them. I don’t know what happened, but you didn’t get involved.”
Is that bad? Did Daddy want me to step up and fight too? She didn’t know what to say. The fight was a little scary, but nothing she’d have nightmares over. She just didn’t want her dad to be mad at her for not matching Pete’s temper.
“You did fine, Em,” he said. “I’m glad you stayed outta trouble.”
She waited for something else, something that would criticize her play, her speed, the mud on her socks that transferred some tiny splotches on his seat when she got in. But her dad didn’t correct her or add anything else. The absence of the other stuff –as she called it–sat in an unusual but kind way. She bit her lip, forcing away a genuine smile. The approval without a backhanded compliment felt odd, and she wasn’t ready to show her eagerness for more yet. She thought about asking him a follow-up question then. Would you have been mad at me if I did fight with them?
Or maybe it was something else. She wasn’t sure. The words never stayed long enough for her to say them out loud. She looked at him for a moment, then back through the windshield. He’s not mad at me. I don’t think. Not gonna mess it up by asking something stupid. He’d already given her what he thought she needed. Anything more might change that. So she let the question go, holding the rest in place instead.
He drove without speaking again. Ron knew he had to be careful with his feedback to his daughter. He was a man who’d always spoken directly, but he needed to remain mindful that his child wasn’t ready for such a strong dosage of constructive criticism. How do I correct her without hurting her feelings? How can I compliment her without spoiling? It was a balance that he’d have to make, while providing room for her to grow into feedback without cruelty. I should say more, give more advice, but I don’t want her to feel like she’s being lectured. For now, he decided to keep quiet and hope it wouldn’t be mistaken for apathy.
She wasn’t used to silence being used as an opportunity for peace. Her mother’s voice had leveraged such quiet as a lull before the next aftershock. But today, her dad didn’t criticize her or make her feel that a mistake was something only reserved for bad people. He didn’t treat her like she was a bad person.
Later that night, she laid in bed thinking about Pete and his possible punishment for fighting. I wonder what his mom will say to him? Does she cuss at him too?
She closed her eyes, weary from the day, but also because nothing was being asked of her.
And for once, that was enough.
***
ACT Three
Peter and Emily
The neighborhood had a buzz about it with a few more cars than usual moving through as families and teenagers stood in driveways and on porches for photo-ops to commemorate Fairhaven High’s Senior Prom. In between swatting mosquitoes, pictures were taken by freshly washed cars. It was the kind of place where people noticed who came and went without needing to say anything about it.
Pete checked his reflection in the side mirror before he got out of the car, adjusting the red bow tie at his collar and smoothing his dark brown hair. He brushed his thin mustache, whose thickness hadn’t developed in lockstep with his height yet. The tux fit better than he expected, not perfect for a rental, but close enough to make him stand a little straighter. He’d matured over the years, both in body and mind, and no longer buried his chin in his chest. The engine ticked behind him as it cooled and his patent leather shoes tapped on the concrete driveway. Across the way was a well-tended lawn and a small plumbing van sitting in a neighbor’s driveway, its side panel carrying a simple logo with a line beneath it, Done right the first time, along with a small designation for Client Choice Award – NextGen Independent Contractor. It blended into the street the way most things did, and Pete didn’t give it a second look.
The porch light was on for Ron’s house, and Pete strolled up the short walkway and knocked thrice. He waited with his hands at his sides, shifting his weight and tugging his lapel once before the door opened. Ron stood there, taking him in from head to toe. He feigned seriousness before breaking character with a smile.
“Good to see ya Pete,” Ron said, stepping back slightly, “How is it that you’re taller than me already? I thought you were gonna play soccer in college, not jump straight to the pros.”
Pete let out a small laugh. “Growth spurts hit hard.”
Ron shook his head with a smile and opened the door wider. “Come on in before we let the cool air outta the house.” Pete walked inside, laughing to himself and thinking about visiting Ron’s house over the years, and how the man was still a thermostat general.
He looked at Pete, his eyes dancing with a pride on his face befitting that of a father looking upon a son that was never his. Still, he’d helped to mentor Pete through the years, often from a distance that could still allow growth. Time and circumstances never afforded a relationship between he and Whitney to blossom into anything other than peer-to-peer interactions about their struggling children. As single parents, they both made the sacrifice of foregoing their adult indulges for parental obligations. Although, much to his slight dislike, she’d dipped her toes in the dating pool a bit more than him. But they’d both taken separate plunges nonetheless, and he knew in his heart of hearts, their timing back then would have made for a disastrous bond. Worse, it might have prevented the supportive guidance he’d been able to foster for Pete over the years.
“She’ll be out in a second,” Ron said. “You know how it is,” he added with a smile.
“You look good, young man.” He gave Pete a light pat on the shoulder, the kind of gesture that would have once drawn a reflexive pull away.
This version of Pete now understood and accepted the difference, and didn’t move from it. He received it without recoil, as if the contact belonged there. “Thank you, sir.”
Ron looked at him again, measuring. “You nervous?”
“Nah.” Then wiping a bead of sweat from his brow, Pete conceded with a light chuckle. “A little.” He looked into Ron’s eyes and saw strength and age, and in that moment, a small reflection of himself, a reflection that might not have existed without Ron.
“Good,” Ron said. “Means you care. We’re cool, but my daughter will be in your care tonight.” Ron paused, calculating the drastic and not-so-subtle subject change with his next question. “So…how’s your mom?”
Pete, while not quite an adult yet, still understood many of the dynamics. One that persisted over the years was Ron likes my mom. And he’d known that his mother would let any conversation that included Ron’s name to linger a bit longer than others. He looked at Ron with a knowing smile. “She’s good. We’re gonna drive over there for more pics before going to eat.”
“That’s good. I was wondering why she didn’t just come with you over here. But then I remembered you’re driving her car, so how would she get home?”
Ron’s charade wasn’t lost on Pete, who was still smiling. YOU know you’d have to take her home, he thought. “Yeah.” Then, a pause. “You know, her and–”
Footsteps came from down the hall, and seeing his friend dressed up caused the rest of Pete’s words to disappear before passing his lips. Emily appeared a moment later, slowing as she reached the room. Her sandy blonde hair fell in full, sculpted curls that framed her face and caught the light as she moved. The sequined red dress followed through with its purpose, fitted and reflective, its neckline dipping just far enough to test the boundary of what her father would have preferred for his eighteen-year-old daughter, though not enough to incite a riot in their house. She was becoming a woman in body and in mind. Her figure curved in ways that would now receive attention in ways that she wasn’t fully prepared for, but her mind had been steeled with the readiness of a father’s words: “You’re stronger than you think you are.”
Ron had contemplated that neckline with much apprehension two months earlier when they bought her dress. He’d held his ground long enough to be heard before choosing not to push further. He knew what this was and what it wasn’t. She and Pete had formed a solid friendship over the years, a friendship that hadn’t asked to become anything else. But Ron couldn’t help but wonder if seeing one another like this would test that boundary. That was for the future and fate to decide though. If he had suspected otherwise, the conversation in that store would have taken a different direction.
Ron looked at his daughter, her once childlike frame giving way to that of a young woman. He immediately felt both pride and trepidation over the eyes that would begin to fall upon her. But this was their senior prom, and for now, he allowed instinct and judgement to yield for celebration, and left it there. He shifted his attention between them.
Her eyes settled on Pete and stayed for a moment. He looks nice, she thought.
“Hey, Pizza,” she said.
She looks good, thought Pete. “Hey.”
But space between them maintained without pressure. Nothing needed to be filled, and neither of them tried, especially with Ron in such close proximity. But they’d never seen one another without a hoodie, gym shorts, or their respective fast food restaurant uniforms. It was clear that this newness was attractive, even if it ultimately simmered down to fortify their platonic bond.
“Oh, wait! I forgot something!” Pete zoomed out the front door and unlocked the car, reaching for something inside.
While Pete was outside, Ron reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He slid a credit card free and held it out toward Emily. He’d intended to find a way to slip it to her before they’d left. What was most important was that he didn’t do so in front of Pete, a young man whose ego he didn’t want to risk chipping, especially on Prom Night.
She glanced at it, then back at him.
“Don’t make me regret this,” he said. “It’s still my name on that thing.”
Emily took the credit card with a faint smile. “I’ll try not to, Dad.” Her dad’s stern but playful warning would’ve cut her soft skin much deeper in years passed. But time and love had shown her how to decipher help from harm. She put the card in her purse and it made a clinking sound against her lipstick tube.
He gave a slight nod. “I know you will. I trust you with it. That’s why I’m giving it to you.” Ron looked at his daughter a moment longer. “You look beautiful, sweetheart.”
Emily couldn’t fake her smile if she wanted to, and it beamed across her blushing face, welcomed by the words of the man who’d helped her find it. “Thanks, Dad.”
What he didn’t know was that Pete had already saved a month’s wages to pay for their dinner and any souvenirs they would buy. Although Pete and Emily were just friends, Ron had helped to teach him the nuances of chivalry, even in friendship. Pete returned with a pink and red pixie carnation corsage and slipped it on her wrist. After about five minutes of pictures, they moved toward the door together. Pete opened it for Emily, stepping aside to let her pass. She walked through, and he followed, closing the door behind them with care. Ron watched from the doorway, smiling, blinking away his watering eyes.
The evening air had cooled enough to calm the heat from earlier in the day. They walked to the car and Pete opened her door and waited until she was inside before circling around. As he reached for his handle, he glanced back toward the house.
Ron stood in the doorway. “Y’all be careful. Have fun! But be careful!”
Pete lifted a hand in a small wave.
Ron returned it. “Take care of my daughter, Pete.”
“I will. Promise.” Pete paused for a moment, then called out just loud enough.
“Oh, and not for nothing, but… my mom and Steve broke up last month.” Pete’s head gave an encouraging tilt. “Just thought you’d like to know.”
Ron stood there, taking it in. He nodded at Pete, and waved at them as Pete backed out of the driveway and drove away. A smile formed, before he went back into the house. He picked up his phone to call Whitney and let her know that the kids were on their way over there for pictures.
At least, that would be his initial intent for the call.
***
Whitney picked up on the first ring.
“Well, hello there, proud papa.” Her voice did not betray her enthusiasm. They’d both helped one another indirectly by helping the other’s child. Ron’s limitations were supported by Whitney’s nuanced nurturing, and her shortcomings were fortified by his discipline and transparency. Ron had been a man that he didn’t need to be for her son. Such altruism was naturally attractive, but she’d withheld, telling herself that a man wouldn’t want such baggage from a portly woman. To the latter, she remembered once when she and Ron ate sandwiches while waiting for their kids to finish their pre-college exams last year–before she started dating Steve–when familiarity allowed flirtation to test boundaries after so many years.
“I should be eating a salad instead of this,” she’d offered with a self-deprecating tone.
Ron didn’t miss a beat. “Well, I like my women how I like my chili: thick and spicy!”
She laughed loudly back then, overly amused, and slightly encouraged. She knew the way Ron looked at her. But she didn’t want to risk the friendship they’d developed. They were both busy working and parenting. Something as risky as a relationship wasn’t worth chancing. Even now, she still smiled at that conversation though. And wondered.
She had wondered then too. Not in a way that demanded anything, and not in a way she allowed herself to follow too far, but enough to know it was there. Enough to recognize what might have been if their lives had gone differently. But they had both understood the weight–even the burden–of what sat in front of them. His daughter needed him. Her son needed her. And somewhere between soccer games, awkward conversations, and quiet observations from across the field, they had chosen their children over whatever might have come of it.
She thought about Emily then, about the way the girl once carried herself, guarded and unsure, as if every word needed to be checked before it was spoken. That had changed over the years. Not all at once, and not because of anything she could point to directly, but it had changed. Whitney had never tried to replace what was missing. She simply made sure not to repeat it. Sometimes that was enough.
And Pete, her Pete, had learned too. Not just how to keep his hands to himself, but how to carry himself in a world that didn’t always understand him. It’s different for boys, and in a world far less forgiving of their actions, she had worried for so long that what had been done early would define him. Tonight told her otherwise.
She let out a small breath, something lighter than relief, something closer to acceptance.
“Hey there, proud mama. I was just calling to let you know they’re on their way over there.”
“Thanks for the heads up. I’ll hide the booze and coke.” She laughed, a little surprised by her own brashness.
“Guess I won’t stop by then,” Ron joked.
She pulled the humor back a little bit. “You know me better than that.”
“I know. But I was gonna stop by if you didn’t have plans after the kids left.”
“Ok, sure.” She didn’t want to seem too eager, but also didn’t want to snuff out an ember by being too deadpan. “I’ll whip something up.”
“You sure? I could pick up something.”
“Nah. I’m trying to get away from that takeout crap. My body can’t take that.”
Ron pounced on the opportunity of that double entendre. “See, I’m trying to be good here.”
She laughed, as loudly as she did at the chili comment a year ago. And she’d meant for it to be heard that way. “You’re silly. I’ll cook you something.”
After a few more moments of conversation, her car pulled into the driveway. “Kids are here. I’ll call you when they leave.”
“Okay. See you soon.”
“Okay.” She hung up, feeling a warmth in her chest that she’d thought was long ago lost.
She opened the door, beaming at her handsome son and his beautiful date. For a moment, she just took them in. Pete stood a little taller than she remembered when he’d left to go pick up Emily, his shoulders set in a way that no longer seemed unsure. Look at him, he’s proud, she thought. And beside him, Emily had grown into confidence that hadn’t always been there, her smile no longer rehearsed.
Whitney felt it before she could stop it. Her shaky hand came to her mouth, and her eyes filled then spilled over as she let out a soft, disbelieving laugh.
“Look at you two…”
Pete shifted, half-smiling and shaking his head. “Ma, here you go.”
“I can’t help it,” she said, shaking her head, stepping forward. She reached for his arm. “You look… you look good. Both of you.”
Emily smiled, dabbing at her own tears through a tissue.
Whitney wiped her tears, not hiding them. “I’m proud of you,” she said, looking at Pete, then at Emily. “Both of you.”
Pete took it in, and Emily’s smile softened as she received it.
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Thank you, Whitney.”
Whitney gathered herself just enough to take pictures. “Alright, go and have fun. Take pictures when y’all get there. And don’t let him spend all his money,” she added, glancing at Emily.
Pete let out a quiet laugh. “I got it.”
“I know you do,” she said.
Pete looked at his date, extending his elbow. “Ready, Em?”
“Sure thing, Pizza.”
They moved past her then into the night with the kind of ease she hadn’t always been sure they’d find. Whitney watched them go, then headed inside.
Their children would always need them in some capacity, even as adults. But not in the same way that wouldn’t afford time for a relationship anymore. Had life hardened her too much to pursue something serious with Ron? After the weight of single fatherhood, could he be patient with her if she needed it? They’d never known before. But perhaps now, she and Ron would be allowed to see what’s there.
She picked up her phone, excited and nervous to find out.
***
© 2026 Arkeym N. Young / Notakwoda Press. All rights reserved. This story is provided for personal, non-commercial reading only. No reproduction, distribution, reposting, adaptation, sale, download, or commercial use is permitted without prior written permission.