Page 95 of Holding On

“I like Maya,” I say finally.

“I know you do.”

“I love her.”

“She’s my niece and I love her too.”

“Well, that makes two of us, then,” I say. I lick my lips quickly and meet his gaze. His hand on my shoulder is warm, and he gives it a shake. Then, leaning forward, he sets the sweaty beer bottle onto the apple crate between our chairs.

“Go on,” he says.

That’s enough to open me up, and words start coming fast. “I think, honestly, I’ve been in love with her since that summer she came out to take care of us. Then this summer, she just shows up. And Geo, I’m telling you, it was immediate. Like a lightning strike. What happened this past week tells me I’d do anything for her, risk everything for her safety and to have her with me.”

He sits there with his legs up on an overturned milk crate, his leather moccasins soft with age and widened by feet wearing too many pairs of winter socks.

The silence grows between us, and his face is impossible to read.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” I finally say.

There’s a thud under my ribs, and I realize how desperately I need him to acknowledge this, to feel it. Because without appreciating what I’m saying, he won’t understand the rest.

“But there’s a problem,” I say. “This is what I have to talk to you about.”

He lifts the bottle to his lips, takes a long drag of beer, and then sets it down. Immediately, he burps. “Excuse me. I wish I could switch over to that damn red wine Devon likes so much, but it just cuts my throat.” He winces, and he’s given me room to smile. But I can’t.

“So what’s the problem?” he says. “Let’s just get it out.”

I swallow. “The thing is, she’s in law school—her last year. And I’m going to start field trials and my thesis.”

Last fall, Geo told me what a bad idea it was to sign up to write a thesis. Too much pressure, he said. It’s an elective, but one I think I need if I want to go into research.

“So, you decided to do one.”

“Yes. It has to do with marine biology and my research. My advisor—”

“This Blakely person?” he asks. I nod. “Yes, go on.”

“Dr. Blakely supports my decision. I’m interested in studying octopuses. I want to write a thesis focused on brain and neuro development in the octopus.”

“Where are you going to do this thesis? Don’t you need a site for field work?”

I explain how a contact at Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute—a major oceanic research think tank for the United States down in Cape Cod—already heard my case. “I secured a three-month slot. I’m also going to be going off the coast with a submarine crew up in Winter Harbor in October. I’m scheduled for a couple of dives.”

Geo smiles. “Damn, son. You’re kicking ass.” He scratches his chin. “So what’s the problem? She finishes in California, you finish here. That’s just a one-year-long long-distance period, and you kids—man, you’ve got phones and cameras and Zoom, and a zillion ways to see each other.”

“Compared to you, you mean? When you had to write letters and talk on a phone attached to a wall?”

“Smoke signals. That’s what I used.”

I lick my lips again. “It’s not quite that easy. She’ll also be studying for the California Bar. I don’t want to leave, Geo. I want to stay here. I want to be a part of this family. But it may not be possible.”

He rubs a knee with one hand. “Listen. You’ll always be a part of this family in a way I can never be. You are a Russo. I’m a Hamilton.”

This admission makes my eyes sting. “Geo, I’m just as much a Hamilton as I am a Russo. You raised me into manhood. No one else did that. My sisters were there for me, and they taught me how to be a good person. But you taught me how to be a man. And I’ll always be grateful to you.”

He says nothing. Then he takes two long sips and sets the beer down again. “Okay, right there? What you just said? I didn’t teach you that. That’s those girls. Kudos to them. So what’s the plan?”

“Well,” I say, “I don’t have any plan beyond asking her to marry me.”