▪️Saturday, January 3rd, 2018▪️

▪️Seattle, WA▪️

I didn't expect clear sunny skies when I flew to meet Angie in Seattle before her tour resumed. I forgot how much the weather changes my mood. Or is it the Angie effect? Day one and two flew by in a bubble of food, kissing everywhere we went, dancing at a club, talking in dinky dive bar, and drowning in the relentless desire that left me breathing harder than a sparring match. The worst part about my long weekend with Angie is that it has an end date.

"I'll miss you." I kiss her temple, and my lips are as warm as her skin. She smells of bananas and coconuts—the perfumed sunscreen she slathered all over her face the moment we arrived at this beach. Seattle in December doesn't have what I call a bikini weather, but the unusually sunny day and an extra layer of scarfs and hats we're both pros with after living in Chicago makes it plenty warm for us to sit on the bench at the pier and watch the crashing waves, the strolling people, and a group practicing Tai-Chi.

"I'll miss you so much, we'll have to video chat every day. Texting is just not enough. Even then I'll miss you." I press another kiss into her unblemished skin.

"No, no, no. We are not talking about that. I forbid you to utter the word miss. Take it out of your vocabulary."

"Miss. Miss. Miss." I laugh as I shout the words at her, even though I want to squeeze her tight and never let her go.

Angie sticks her fingers into her ears. "La, la, la." She sings and examines the clear cloudless sky.

Missing someone while you're still with them is such a waste of time, I know, but that's what I've been doing today, instead of looking forward to getting back to the office tomorrow.

I'd cancel my job if I could spend the time with Angie instead. Mom would read me a lecture if she heard these thoughts. But I know it's true by the way my heart squeezes, counting down every minute, finding any excuse to touch Angie. The life I want is here with her. She is the main event, not me sitting in the office spending more hours staring at my computer screen and memorizing formulas. At least I arranged with Poppy to spend Angie's birthday weekend on the bus with them. I can survive three more weeks without her.

"And where is Mike's head at now?" Angie slides closer to me on the bench, so that our shoulders touch.

"It's right next to yours." I turn, and our noses are inches apart. This is the furthest away from her I'd like to be. Impossible, but doesn't make me want it any less.

"And yet you're miles away." The sun bathes her face in light that enhances the shine in her eyes. Angie's my favorite thing to look at. She's so full of life, and joy, and she glows. Her glow ignites my every cell with fire: bright and comforting. Her energy transforms the shadows that missing her created into the hope that even when I'm not near, we'll stay close. Closer than ever before. She squints and shields her eyes from the sun glare behind me. "Are you worried about the renovations again? Did you hear back about the design options we worked out?"

We won't hear about the loan for another week, but Ben's full steam ahead with lining everything up. We spent an hour yesterday on the phone with Ben and the supplier, when the materials we wanted ended up on back order. Angie has an eye for these things, and she found a better solution by using the flooring material on the wall instead-something Ben and I would've never come up with.

"They're not working today or tomorrow. I'll send you the updates when they open back up."

"So, if it's not about starting the renovations, what is it?"

"It's about the fact that it sucks being a responsible adult."

"Can you be more specific?" She tilts her head and caresses my cheeks with her gaze.

I don't have to see it-I feel every intangible stroke. "You forbade me to talk about the first thing, but the second is work-related. Nothing new."

"We are not talking about how much time we have left, because we are enjoying the now, and not dreading the future." She rolls her eyes, like this is the most clear and logical thing in the world. "But the work situation? Why are you even doing it you don't like it?"

"Because Mom wants me to never be in a position she was after the divorce." I clench my teeth at the unfairness of what my father did to Mom. "She has plans for me. She dreamed for me to have a stable, reliable career."

"Those were her dreams. Tell her what your dreams are." She places her fingers on a ticking muscle in my jaw. "You're a grown-ass man. Life is short. Why do you need to do what your parents want you to?"

"It's not like that." She doesn't get it. She hasn't been there. Hasn't seen Mom working herself to the bone to get us not be on food stamps. "My mom matters. My father. . ." The only way to make her understand is to tell her the truth. At least the truth about my father. "He's a criminal."

"A criminal, like he killed someone?" Angie's tone is sharp.

"Killed? No." I take her hand and hide her icy fingers in my palm. I watch the ocean that reminds me of the beach outings of my LA childhood with Dad before our world crumbled. "He's not a violent criminal. He went to prison for tax evasion. He sank all his money into another movie project he was a hundred a ten percent sure would be the breakthrough of the year. He 'borrowed' against the employees' tax fund when he needed money to maintain the pretenses, and the lavish lifestyle that the fucker assured us was a necessary investment. 'Success attracts success,' he used to say. He forgot that hard work had to be involved." My stomach lurches, but I stop the brewing anger from surfacing.

"The house was over-mortgaged, the cars were leases, everything we owned was repossessed or sold by the government at an auction. Dad got five years in prison, and we were on our own. Mom hasn't had a job since Louka was born. It was either going to a homeless shelter or returning to Chicago to live with my aunt while Mom found a job and got back on her feet. Mom's a warrior. She didn't deserve what that joker did to us. To her. I can't do the same. I can't disappoint her."

"I'm sorry about your dad." She sets her other hand on top of our interconnected fingers, and its weight removes some of the heaviness that's gathering in my gut. She lays her head on my shoulder, wind blowing about her long strands she didn't put into a braid today. "Must've have sucked."

Grinding my teeth to keep the string of fucks inside, I nod even though she can only feel and not see my movement.

"I can't pretend I get exactly what you're feeling." She brings our intertwined digits to her lips and murmurs into them. "I've been lucky. My dad's the best."

I free my index finger and stoke her cheek. "And your mom?"

"Her too. Mom and Dad are total couple goals: best friends, partners in crime, and all that. The real deal. But it looks like your mom is the real deal too."

"She is." I smile. "Mom sacrificed ten years of her life for us. If she asks, I'll do it. Even if I'd rather do something else." The smile falls. The argument we had over me buying the dojang with Ben resurfaces in the back of my mind. "I'm her son. I owe her."

"Love her, sure. Of course. Owe? I don't get it. I seriously don't." Angie sits up and repositions herself: her feet crossed on the bench, her elbows are on her knees, and her head leaning over them. "Your Mom, she chose to have kids. It's not like you forced her. Being a parent isn't something you can lord over your children. My mom, dad, and I had several arguments on the topic." Her brows furrow and maybe the first time since I've known her, she looks twenty-three. The youthful spark and contentment fades from her features.

My hand goes to smooth the wrinkles I put there with my words. I want to rewind to the beginning of the conversation. Lie that I was not thinking of anything, but I don't want to lie to Angie. "And who won?"

"We agreed to disagree. Or disagree to agree?" She flashes me a quick smile, the eyebrows still tense. "They wanted me to go to college, like they did. Study whatever I wanted. Music. Business. Nursing. Art. They didn't care. They offered to pay for my tuition and my living expenses, as long as I was enrolled and not flunking. But I wanted to do music and not just learn about it." She touches the scar and the crooked fingers with the back of her other hand, and I want to pry, to ask for the details of that conversation, but I want the sunny, carefree Angie back more. "So I moved out, but we still have a great relationship. The week between Christmas and New Year's Eve with them in the RV reminded me of the cross-country trips we took as a child. I should've known then they wanted to travel. They would've started earlier if I didn't come back to Chicago."

Maybe she just doesn't feel as strongly about her parents as I do about my mother. "You're not close with them, huh."

"What gave you that idea?" Her forehead creases in a whole new way when she meets my eyes, disbelief in them as vivid as the indignation was a moment ago. "I love my folks. We can talk about anything. They're amazing. They've been my rock, and I'll be forever grateful for their support, and for picking up the pieces after my car crash. If I ever need help again, they'll be there in a second for me. We don't have to agree on everything to be there for each other. I can always tell them when I think they're wrong."

I can't imagine saying something like that to parents if they were even half decent, offered love, put the food on the table. Hers did a lot more than that. "So you don't respect them?" Why else would she talk to her parent like that?

"What?" Angie shakes her head again, finds the rubber band holding her ponytail together, and releases the cascade of hair that falls and covers her face. "You're wrong. I do respect them. It's because we respect each other that we have the boundaries they will never cross."

I reach out and move the hair off her face. She doesn't look up. "Isn't doing something you don't like when your parents ask you, part of respecting them?" How can our view of parenting be so different? My chest floods with the warmth and security Mom filled my life with. That's been the driving force behind my successes. The reasons I got up and tried again when I failed. I wanted Mom to know the time, energy, and sacrifices she spent on raising me were worth it. "Isn't doing something for them for a change part of being a good child, good human being?"

Angie jerks away from me, like my words hurt her. "No way. Spending your life in a job that you hate to make your mom happy doesn't make you a good human. That's not something anyone has to do. Not talking to your mom about what you want for your career doesn't make you a good son. That's you not taking care of yourself to please someone else." Angie stands up and tugs her beanie down on her ears so hard, it might swallow her entire face if she pulls it any farther.

"That's fucking unfair." I jump up and circle around to face her. "I'm not trying to please Mom. I care about her."

"And I care about you." Her eyes glisten, and the expression in them claws at my heart. "If she's as good of a person as you say she is, she cares about you too. Maybe you should give her the benefit of a doubt and tell her how you really feel."

"I don't want her to worry about me." I shove my hands into my pockets and loose the staring match. The wide boards of the pier look grayer and much less vacation-like. I'm no longer on a high.

My temples pulse with the anger I've battled every day of my adolescence. The anger at myself, at life, at my father. The anger that made me do things I regret, be the person I never want to be again, the bad person. I'll be a good guy, even if that means following a career path that I'm good at even though I don't enjoy it.

How did we get from me leaving her again to going back to my office job to fighting about parents? This is not how I wanted to spend the remaining hours Angie and I have together today. A group of people who were practicing Tai-Chi finish their session and head our way. I remember the magic words that should get us back on track.

"Bruce Lee," I say.

Angie gives me a confused stare. "What are you talking about?"

"Bruce Lee. Our pact. You promised."

"Bruce Lee." A smile returns on her face as she remembers as well.

She unzips my parka and slides her arms around me inside it. Her forehead finds my chest and rests there. "You're a softie." Angie's ragged sigh signals she's no longer as mad as she was. "And I'm not sure how I feel about that."

My ray of sunshine returns, and I burrow my nose into her hair. The sugary smell of the pink Cake shampoo she uses settles the bile in my stomach our fight brought up. I don't ever want to fight. I'd much rather we go back to the Mike and Angie who have fun together. "Softie, huh. Maybe you forgot what you were shouting this morning-"

"No sexuendoes," Angie says into my shirt. She turns her head, puts her temple where her hard forehead was, as if she's trying to hear the emotions I'm strangling in my chest. She sneaks her fingers into the belt-loops of my jeans and moves closer. "I'm serious. You need to talk to your mom. She might surprise you. I'm sure she just wants you to be happy. Talk to her."

I wrap myself around her and clasp my fingers behind her lower back. "We might have to agree to disagree on this one. Mom's everything to me. I won't disappoint her. Not if I can help it."

Angie moves her head. Her eyes skim my neck, chin, and rest at the blue swath of sky above us. I follow her lead and scrutinize the Seattle winter sun until tears blur my vision. We stand chest to chest, but all I can think about are the miles, which are about to separate us again.