Ski Lodge

6// Dinner with Becker

Sunday

Well... now what I wear to dinner actually matters. Or maybe it doesn't. I shouldn't care. I mean he is probably just being nice or using his charms on me. Who's to say he even thinks I am pretty; maybe he is saying he used to, but he doesn't now.

I stand in my towel, wool tights, and undergarments staring at the three nice dresses I'd packed. They are in three different styles. One is elegant, black, tight, and backless; that one is disqualified on account of both being an eating-bloat risk and a church-scandal risk. That leaves the other two: one is a high-low, denim dress with a bateau neckline and embroidery around the collar, waist line, and pockets; it is my favorite. The other is a knit burgundy dress that doesn't twirl and is a little more comfortable; it also has pockets, though they droop whenever items are placed in them, and the dress overall has no shape. I decide on the burgundy one; I have no reason to look my best. Nope, none at all.

I apply more makeup than usual, but still not a whole lot because I am NOT going to wear make-up for a man, and put my wavy hair, though not perfectly, into a braid. I slip on my black boots and walk down the stairs.

Everyone else is waiting for me. The Mrs Drs look very nice in their solid colored dresses with heavy coats pulled around their shoulders. The Mr Drs look dashing in dress pants and snow boots, wool coats, and mittens. The children look perfect; Laura's bow sits pert on top of her head while Weston's rests relaxed around his neck. And Becker... well he looks very nice too. He smiles at me nervously; there is a new look in his eyes. He is unsure, unconfident. I haven't seen that before, and it comforts me. I feel as if maybe he is truthful on the stairs about two hours ago. I smile back at him: a slim smile that doesn't give away the new questions I have.

The ladies all exclaim how beautiful I look and pointedly ask their husbands if they'd ever seen such a pretty look about me. I smile and thank them and make my way into the center of the little crowd. Family is obligated to say things like that.

"Ready Freddy?" Dr Greene calls out to the group of us before leading the train down the sidewalk on the snowy mid-afternoon. At first, we appear silly, the lot of us in our nice clothing walking around a ski lodge. But as we get closer to the restaurant, our attire starts blending in better to the crowd around us. And when we reach the front door of the two story building, our clothing style is no longer the outcast but the norm.

"Table for ten," Dr Greene tells the waiter at the front podium.

The waiter's eyes widen slightly and peer behind Dr Greene to get a better view of the lot of us.

"We aren't busy. It's only 4 o'clock. Would you like to make a reservation for later?"

"We are here and ready now, if you'd care to seat us," Dr Eric Becker calls out from the middle of the crowd.

The waiter apologizes profusely and leads us to a long table that sits near the back of the building, parallel to a long window that looks out onto the deck that overlooks the cliff side.

"Can I start you off with something to drink?" The waiter asks once we've all been seated. The adults all sit at one end, then me across from Becker, and then Laura and Weston across from each other at the end.

"What's Pin ot?" Weston asks me as he points to the wine selection menu.

"Oh, that's not for you," I lean over to grab the kids menu. Pointing to the chocolate milk and apple juice selections I say, "these are for you."

"Oh, okay," he grins up at me.

I feel Becker's eyes flicking between his menu and me, but I keep my head down.

The conversation at my end of the table is dominated by Laura and Weston. I learn a great deal about whales and fire trucks from them as they play a puzzle game in between bites of chicken tenders and fettuccine alfredo. The other end of the table shifts between world topics, which I am happy to join in on, and Doctor stuff, which I sit out of. It is in one of these talks on doctor stuff that Dr Patrick Greene, who is sitting next to Becker, starts asking me about my degree. He is curious if I'd be working with buildings, and I tell him perhaps but most likely not often. He starts talking to me about an internship opportunity at his firm, for he practices as well as teaches architecture, and he focuses on sustainability measures and energy use.

I tell him that energy particularly interests me, and he promises to keep a spot open in the internship for me next summer. I feel like a nepo baby, but I am also excited at the opportunity. Plus, it doesn't count as nepotism if it's your parents' friends, right?

The food is amazing, the bits and pieces of conversation lively, and the atmosphere soft. I say not a word to Emmett Becker, nor does he say one to me. He looks as if he is about to on multiple occasions, but he seems to think I should've been the one to start the conversation. I do not, however, and soon the adults pay the check, and it is time to head to church.

"Well, I think we're all ready then," my father says as he holds out one of his arms for me and the other for my mother. I start to take it, but my mother shoos me away when she notices Becker staring at me.

"Emmett, dear," I hear Dr Erica Becker whisper to her son, "offer your arm to Trisha. Be a gentleman, like I raised you."

He never takes his eyes off of me as he nods to his mother and moves over to me. He holds out his arm. I take it, and we walk out into the slippery snow.

It is quiet for awhile as the group of us strolls down the street. The Sun is setting and the lights in windows start fluttering on as we walk. Streetlights flicker to a start and passerby's seem to grow quieter and slower. The afternoon is over and the evening begins, and with this in mind, I start a conversation. Or, at least I try to... I open and close my mouth like a fish, sometimes glancing at Becker, sometimes staring blankly ahead. He notices, of course. The man selling memorabilia across the street notices! I'd never felt so awkward or cowardly.

"The weather is nice," I start.

Becker chuckles. "Trisha," he begins at a whisper, "it seems fitting that we are making our way towards a church because I have to confess something."

My heart skips a beat, and my foot skips a step with it. I would've fallen if not for Becker's arm which I cling to not-so-gracefully.

"Is this going to become a pattern?" he laughs while helping me up.

I notice Dr Erica Becker glance back at us, and I blush.

"Hopefully, not," I smile back weakly.

He grows more quiet and solemn.

He then starts at a whisper again, "I was a mean kid. Horrible, really. A nuisance."

I gape at him. "I agree." He looks a little pained.

"And I apologize," he nudges me.

"Well," I whisper back, "that doesn't make any sense."

He looks at me questioning, begging me with his eyes to explain more.

I start again, "I've spent the last thirteen years thinking you thought I was ugly, annoying, and a burden. You've looked annoyed while you babysat. I didn't need a babysitter at that age, by the way. And..." I falter. I don't know how far to go.

"Trisha," he looks at me intensely, "I've never thought you ugly, annoying, or a burden. If I was annoyed when I babysat you, it's because I knew I shouldn't be getting paid to practically hangout with someone nearly my age. I was annoyed at your mother for pushing us together at a young age and assuming that I would have to be paid to like you. I was insulted on your behalf. I just didn't know how to express it because I was so young."

"Oh. I guess that does make me feel slightly better," I softly smile up at him.

"Slightly?" He asks.

"Yes, slightly," I don't have the courage to bring up the school dance. For that he has no excuse. He didn't talk to my mother directly, nor does he know she or I could hear him over the phone. I don't want him to explain that away so easily as some of the other instances. I want to be mad at him. "It's not just my mother who pushed us together, you know? It was... it is yours too."

"You must admit, not as much, though," he replies. The anger starts biting again; he just insults my mother. Sure she can be vain and pushy, and sometimes too overbearing, but that doesn't mean you insult her in front of her own child.

"Well, I hope I win your good opinion eventually," he smiles back at me. And I have the triumph to think to myself 'not likely.' One apology about an event in elementary school does not a friendship make.