He pauses, then cuts his eyes to Carmine. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-four.”
“Clarissa is twenty-two.”
“I know.”
“And you think that’s appropriate?”
Carmine gives me the same look he did when I put my hand on his chest at King Ink and told him we were the same where it mattered.
“I think your daughter is the most capable woman I’ve ever met. And I’m not going to insult her by pretending she can’t decide for herself. You’ve raised a fine woman,” Carmine says, leaning forward slightly. “You might trust that you raised her well and trust her decisions.”
My father stares at him. The redness has climbed past his collar to his jaw. His hands are fists at his sides, and I see the man who gripped my arm at King Ink—the knuckles going white, the grip he thinks is a sign of love.
“I’ve heard enough.” Final. “I need time to think.”
He turns his back and walks toward the kitchen.
I look up at Carmine. “Let’s go.”
My mother is in the kitchen doorway. She steps forward toward Carmine and me.
“Stay for dinner.” Her voice is steady, but her eyes are wet. “Please. Try to talk to him. Give him a chance.”
I look at Carmine. He looks at me. His thumb moves once across the back of my hand, and he nods.
My mother exhales. “Sit down. Both of you. I’ll set two more places.”
Stayingfor dinner might have been a mistake.
“I will not stand by while my daughter ruins her life.” My father hasn’t touched his dinner. “For a man with tattoos on his throat who runs a parlor on Birch Street.”
“Enough!” The word comes out louder than I planned. “Father. I choose to work at King Ink. I choose to be with Carmine.” I take a deep breath, because if I don’t stand up for myself now, I won’t respect myself. “You don’t get to control my life. I need you to respect my decisions because they’re mine. They have nothing to do with you.”
“You are my daughter.” His voice cracks ondaughter.”Everything you do has to do with me.”
“No.” The word comes out gentle, and it still cuts the room in half. “I will always be your daughter. But I am not your property. You can be part of my life, or you can lose me. Those are your choices, Father. I’ve already made mine.”
“You don’t know what you’ve chosen.” He leans forward. “You’ve known this man—what, six weeks? Seven? And you’re willing to throw away twenty-two years of family for him?”
“I’m not throwing away anything – you’re the one who wants to throw me away because I’m not doing what you want me to do. I’m adding something and someone. This is my life and my choice.”
His palm hits the table.
My mother puts her hand on his forearm. “David. Please.”
He pulls his arm away from her. “Don’t.” He looks at Carmine. “You haven’t said a word.”
Carmine sets down his fork. “Because this is between you and your daughter, sir. She doesn’t need me to speak for her.”
“How convenient.”
“It’s not convenient because there are a hell of a lot of things I could say.” Carmine’s voice is level, but there’s an edge under it now that I’ve only heard once before—at the counter, when my father had his hand on my arm. “I’m here to support Clarissa, not speak for her. It’s respect. Something you could try showing her.”
My father’s chair scrapes back six inches. “You’re going to sit at my table and tell me how to treat my daughter?”
“Somebody has to.” Carmine doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. “Because the last time you were in the same room with her, you assaulted her and left bruises on her arm.”