In April, Ryan asked if we could have dinner.
Just the two of us.
He said he understood if I said no.
I said yes.
We went to a restaurant that was neither romantic nor clinical — a neighborhood Italian place we had been to a dozen times before, with paper on the tables and candles in wine bottles.
We ordered the same things we always ordered.
We talked about Toby’s reading level and the leak under the kitchen sink and a movie we had both seen separately and had different opinions about.
Halfway through the meal, Ryan put his fork down.
“I’ve been seeing a therapist,” he said.
“Since February.
Twice a week.”
“I know,” I said.
“Toby mentioned it.”
He looked slightly surprised.
“What did he say?”
“He said Daddy talks to a lady about his feelings and she has a fish tank.” I picked up my wine glass.
“He seemed to think the fish tank was the most important part.”
Ryan almost smiled.
“It is a good fish tank.”
We were quiet for a moment.
“I’m not asking you to forgive me tonight,” he said.
“I’m not asking you for anything tonight.
I just wanted to sit across from you and be honest and see if that was still possible.”
