Page 78 of The Apparent Trap

“Okay,” I reply, meaning it, finally accepting. “I don’t know what to do, though.”

She nods. “You need to have an honest conversation with your dad.”

“Oh, okay, just the hardest possible answer.”

She glares at me. “He needs to know how you feel, Ez. This isn’t working. It’s holding you back. Whatever is going to happen with Lee—”

“Nothing can happen with Lee.”

“Whatever is going to happen with Lee,” she repeats, ignoring me, “isn’t getting resolved until you sift through whatever’s been stirred up by your dad dating again. The good news is the cycle’s already broken. So now it’s just a question of what you’re going to do about it.”

“Set aside what’s been stirred up in me,” I deflect. “The main issue is still that I’m worried about him. He can’t date someone so much younger—”

“Okay, I know I perpetuated the age gap thing by doing that segment,” she says with a small grimace. “But reflecting on it, maybe we need to focus on the actual problem.”

“What?”

“I mean, you want to date a guy who’s ten years older than you.”

“Okay, again,” I say with a sigh, “I’m not going to go out with Lee—”

“Want is different than doing,” she says, cutting me off with an answer that leaves me no retort. “But that’s not even the point—the issue is that specifics matter. You’re allowed to be grossed out by your dad dating someone younger than you. That’s normal! And you have legitimate other reasons to be worried. But let’s not use age as an excuse.”

“It is, though.”

“Look, when you think about it outside of this being your dad, a twenty-nine-year age gap between consenting adults is not a problem inherently. Yes, there will always be issues. I mean, those studies I mentioned in my segment aren’t made up. But to automatically brush it away . . . It’s not a deal-breaker in and of itself for a lot of people.”

Lee’s voice pops into my head, telling me I deserve someone my own age, and I have to admit that his words have needled me all week—because why should anyone be writing themselves off like that? And while my dad and Carmen obviously have a much larger age difference, it does make me squirm to think I’ve been judging something for reasons that are potentially a little more complicated than I want them to be.

“Think about it,” Georgia continues unabated, unaware of my internal floundering. “Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta-Jones! Giant gap but doing fine. And Harrison Ford! He seems to be quite happy with Calista Flockhart, the lucky bitch. He’s been hot at every age, honestly.”

“We should really watch The Force Awakens again . . .”

“Don’t get distracted by your love for Han Solo,” she says, snapping her fingers to get me back on track (guilty). “Seriously, though, we’ve been simplifying it. And it does you a disservice to simplify it. It’s convenient to just say he’s too old for her and leave it at that, because then you don’t have to dig into all the other reasons it upsets you—all your fears for both him and yourself. Everything you’ve both left unsaid for too long. That’s the problem. That has nothing to do with Carmen.”

“It’s too hard,” I say quietly.

“Right, but you have to say it,” she stresses. “I know you were joking, but you were right before when you said that telling him your concerns is the hardest answer. Because it is complicated. But at this point it’s the only answer. Neither of you can move forward without surfacing the things weighing you both down.”

I sigh, hating how much I know that she’s right. I’ve tiptoed around it for too long. But seeing Lee upset today, knowing we did something underhanded to Carmen . . . I know my dad and I can’t keep avoiding a conversation that we’ve been hurtling toward for months.

Or maybe, if I’m being honest, years.

“I’ll talk to my dad,” I mumble.

“Thank you,” she says, triumphant. She leans back on the couch and picks up the remote, happy to drop the conversation entirely now that she’s made her point. “I’m choosing the movie. Never Been Kissed beats Ever After.”

“Fine,” I concede.

She sifts through the streaming options until she finds it. But before she presses play, she turns to me, a question in her eyes.

“What?” I ask.

“You really masturbated in a sleeping bag next to a guy you have the hots for?”

“Georgia!”

“No, honestly, I’m impressed,” she says with a smug grin on her face. “Who knew you had it in you? Or rather . . . I guess in this instance you didn’t have it in you.” She cackles, and I bury my face in my hands.