Turning Thirty-Twelve by Sandy James Page B

my hand toward him and wrapped that big strong hand of his around my fingers, I started to cry.
    I don’t cry in front of people!
    I tried to turn my head away. He took a step to the side to follow and plant himself in my line of vision.
    “I’m so sorry, Jackie. I’ll make it up to you. I don’t want to lose you.” He kissed the back of my hand before I jerked it away and tried to wipe away my tears. I couldn’t even talk because my throat was closed up. “Are you all right?” Mark asked as he cupped my cheek in his palm.
    I sniffled and nodded, but I really wasn’t all right. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be all right. It was way too much high drama for one day. 
    Now, we had four young people staring at us, and I had not a clue as to what I should say to them. It’s impossible to explain something to other people when you don’t really understand it yourself. “Wh–what do we tell the kids?”
    “I’ll handle it. Why don’t we go inside, have something to eat, and we’ll just...talk to them.” His hand fell away from my face. “Come on.” Mark took my hand and led me toward the firing squad.
    “I made an ass out of myself,” I mumbled as we neared the door, my hand still in his.
    “No, I made an ass out of myself. This is all my fault.”
     
    ***
     
    Mark and I sat opposite each other. The guy actually played footsie with me under the table. I figured it was only polite to respond. After all, I didn’t want him to think I was rude. I had to remind myself several times that he had hurt me.
    Funny, I was having trouble remembering that I was mad at him at all every time the toe of his shoe rubbed lightly against my shin.
    Stupid perimenopause .
    It had been obvious to each and every person at our Chuckwagon table that the battle lines had already been drawn.
    I saw Patrick’s gaze settle on Mark several times during the meal, and knowing my oldest as well as I do, he’d already decided Mark wasn’t worthy of me. Those blue eyes of Pat’s regarded Mark with the same smoldering, controlled anger that I saw every time David was around me. My oldest had assigned himself the role of my champion. And now he viewed Mark as a challenger who wasn’t worthy, just like he viewed David as fallen from Grace.
    Carly was easy to read. She had already bonded to me, even sat beside me at lunch trying to “sell” me her father by listing his assets like a salesperson trying to get me to buy a really good used car.
    One owner. Low mileage. Dependable. Nice chassis.
    Nate and Kathy were a little more guarded. Probably because the only thing they seemed focused on was each other. Their hands touched often, with fleeting, loving glances passing between them.
    Nate talked to Mark, but Mark usually just grunted or answered him in one or two words. That was a little unnerving. Mark had always seemed chatty and friendly.
    Then I suddenly understood. Mark thought Nate should quit touching his daughter. The grunts and throaty growls seemed to coincide with Nate’s hand brushing Kathy’s skin.
    Amazing.
    I imagine my father would have looked at Mark the exact same way when I was Kathy’s age. Pop had stared David down a time or two. When I got pregnant with Pat, my father threatened to geld David on the spot. And I think he meant it literally. Mark was Kathy’s father—it was a role he obviously decided included protecting his daughter from male attention.
    Sigmund Freud would have had a field day with all of us.
    Being around teens on a daily basis allowed me to come to an educated conclusion. Recognition hit me like a blow to the gut. The way Kathy and Nate acted, each tender little caress screamed the fact. They were already intimate. And they were definitely in love.
    I thought back to the conversation between David and Nate that day we moved Nate into the dorm, and I hoped in earnest that Nate had heeded his father’s warning and was using protection. It was the only good advice I think David ever dished out.