Friday Date Night

My friend was in town from the West Coast and asked me to go to the Museum and dinner Friday night. I wasn’t sure to accept it as just friends hanging out and getting to know each other better, or more. So I went into Friday night with a clear mind, ready to make the best of whatever was to follow.
I’m pretty sure it was a date. We never had an awkward moment, like the waiter didn’t ask if we were together or separate. I always hate when that happens. It’s happened a few times where neither of us want to say. Oh, and he paid for everything, wouldn’t let me pay a cent. One thing I always enjoyed about our friendship is that we dive into deep philosophical questions without trying. Or we aren’t afraid to ask each other personal questions. Though, keep in mind, we aren’t even that close. Like he’s a good friends friend and was only around here for a hot minute before skipping town again. Like one time, it was his last night before moving out west, and he posted on Facebook that he’d be at the coffee shop if anyone wanted to hang. I don’t know if anyone showed up. But I did without letting him know. And the first minute was silent, just sipping our coffee. Then I asked if he was scared. We talked it out, and the one thing that stuck out was, “you have to be ready to leave. No matter where you are, even if you hate the place. You have to be ready to go. I wasn’t ready the first time around.” That has always stuck with me since then. I always ask myself if I’m ready, really ready.
But yeah I got sidetracked. In other words, we can either say a lot, or very little. And no matter how much comes out of our mouths I always feel fulfilled by our time together. It’s always warm, and calm.
Usually. Until we went to the third stop to get a second round of drinks. He kept mentioning how hot he was. Granted, he’s pretty fine. But it was like 30 degrees out and sweater/coat weather. I was toasty and feeling great. After a while, the bartender asked, “Is it hot in here?” So of course we wrote off his hotflash as normal. Ten minutes later, he wanted to go home.
He woke up that night at 4am, vomiting. I felt like crap! We went to eat dinner at the place I suggested! And he got sick! Not just that, he only had a few days left in town and was supposed to see his extended family the next day. But guess what? He didn’t because he got sick from the restaurant I suggested! Did I mention he got sick from the place I said we should eat at? I still feel so bad.
So I went over the next day with coconut water and veggie broth.
Yup. Made him sick on the first date. I must be a keeper…

He called on Christmas Eve

He didn’t call me for 5 months. Not after a tornado, bad weather, and after hearing that I ended up in a ditch. Not after my Mom refused to stop telling him my life. He texted me a few times, usually photos of paintings he was working on. I don’t know what he expected to come of it, that I would write back how talented he is? How it’s about freaking time he did something he enjoyed, instead of always complaining how much he didn’t have time for it.

But I guess my dad had time to call me finally, on Christmas Eve. And of course, I was having a nice, cozy dinner with Evangelista and her awesome family. I wasn’t about to answer the phone because he finally realized we hadn’t talked in months.

So I waited until Christmas day to call him back. I didn’t want to FaceTime him, but he did try the night before, so I figured it was only fair to give him a chance at it. Sooo, I FaceTimed him, and he sat there for a few seconds holding back tears. Yeah I missed him, but I wanted so badly to be able to reach through that phone and knock his head. This call could have happened months ago. And sure I could have called him, but he would have missed the point if I had. Or so I thought.

Small talk ensued and then I asked about the Christmas card he had sent. The first line read “I haven’t called because I know you don’t want me to.” He said well you didn’t. “Damnet Dad, no. You weren’t listening. I said call me when you are ready to stop lying to me. At this point, I gave up hoping you’d stop drinking. But I couldn’t take the lying.” And with all seriousness, he said, “Oh, then I must have read that wrong.”

And there went 5 months of not talking.

See I thought my dad was hardhead, but shit, not this hardheaded. I asked if he was done, done drinking I meant. And he said he was. I guess I won’t believe it until it hits a year.

He never did say he wouldn’t lie to me anymore.