Bananapants: A Bonkers Romantic Comedy

“At the end of the day, we can endure much more than we think we can.”

— Frida Kahlo, Attributed

I had a good, perfectly logical reason to be happy and wired and anxious.

First, the IRS. That was the answer to the riddle. They were the scissors.

I gave Ava one hell of a hand massage the day Henri Wickford received his notice of IRS audit. Then I gave her one hell of a different kind of hand massage the day Hareem’s lawyer informed me of the quick summary judgment in Hareem’s favor. The judge had unceremoniously canceled the manufacturing contract—or whatever the right legal term was for tearing that shit up like it never happened—due to lack of good faith effort by Henri’s company prior to the audit notice. Some magical legal precedent existed that made everything better.

It was all Poof! and Abracadabra! and Congratulations, you said the magic words.

Really, it was Ava and her brilliance and love of process and procedures. Ava had known the magical words and—just like that—Hareem was now free to change the world. As I’ve said and thought and been proven right about at least one hundred times, all that really matters to society is paperwork.

Second, I was wired because I’d volunteered to go to my parents’ house with Ava for a knit night gathering and—third—my mom said my father would be there. Turns out, he had been the one who’d helped me with my panic attack. Both Ava and my mom had confirmed it last week when I’d finally asked.

Which led me to my anxiousness. Everything was going well. Too well. Something was bound to go wrong. My life was never this good, things were never this easy. Which might’ve been why I’d volunteered to accompany Ava to my mom’s knit night. Rather than waiting for something bad to happen, I reasoned it was better to seek it out and get it over with.

I hadn’t visited my parents when they’d tried living in an actual house instead of an apartment. Only Nat, Mom, and my father lived there. Nor had I visited since they’d moved back into the penthouse where I’d grown up and where Ava and I had spent our childhood, treating the building like a playground.

We’d once ridden the elevators we were presently stood inside up and down until she got motion sick, pretending they were sky elevators to a spaceship. To say it was surreal when the doors opened and we walked hand in hand into the two-story penthouse would be an understatement. The first thing I noticed was the blue paint on the walls. Not the white and yellow of my childhood.

“Are you okay?” Ava tugged on my fingers.

I glanced at her and—because it was her—admitted, “I don’t know.”

“That’s understandable,” she said. We’d talked a lot over the past few weeks while tangled together and cuddling in bed, late into the night, whispering our secrets and fears, trading them like currency.

Those ten dump trucks I considered full of my history were almost empty now. She hadn’t run off yet. But then, I never thought she would. Not Ava.

“Des, you’re looking around like you’ve never been here before.”

The family photo hanging over the entryway table had been taken when I was ten and just barely holding on. The frame it was in looked new. “I haven’t been here in a while.’

“How long?”

“Since I left for Boston.” Frowning, I tore my eyes from the photo. “When I was fifteen.”

“Oh. Wow.” Ava seemed to study me, her features soft with concern. “Do you want me to stay with you? Or, I mean, do you want⁠—”

“Go on ahead.” I lifted my chin toward the sound of our moms and their friends laughing and chatting in the living room. “I’d like to do this slow, and on my own.”

“Okay, well, your dad usually hangs out in the kitchen and prepares snacks. He doesn’t typically hang out with the group.”

“I know. He used to do the same when I was little. And I’m not here to avoid him.”

She nodded, giving me an enigmatic smile.

“What? What’s that smile?”

“Nothing. I’m just curious to see how the evening goes. Consider me an invested spectator.”

“I’ll see you in a bit.” I bent and kissed her temple, sending her off and watching her go. A moment later, the sounds of welcome met my ears. Aunt Sandra made a loud comment, probably something inappropriate.

Some things never change.

Making a right instead of a left, I did find my father in the kitchen. His head was bent over a cutting board as he sliced what looked like apples and I felt my heart climb halfway to my throat. I understood that I was hopeful and scared, not an unusual combination for anyone. Hope and fear often accompanied each other, especially where my father was concerned.

Content for a time to watch him, I leaned against the doorway and studied the careful movements of his hands. He must’ve taken a cooking class or had spent the last several years chopping fruits and vegetables as a professional chef because, even though his hands were huge and his movements careful, he was also extremely fast.

When I was little, he’d cut an apple slowly, like it was his first time each time, slicing it a different way with every attempt, a puzzle he didn’t understand but was determined to master. I’d liked that about him, how determined he was to do everything the right way, to do things well.

Catching me off guard, he abruptly glanced up and did a double take. The knife in his hand paused mid-slice, and my heart shot the rest of the way up my esophagus. His eyes were wide with what looked like surprise. I knew my mom had told him I’d be coming. Maybe he hadn’t believed her.

“Hey.” I finally spoke, giving him a little wave and tight smile.

My dad, simply staring at me, didn’t recover right away. He blinked. Hard. Like he thought maybe I was a figment of his imagination.

Ha! Boy oh boy, I knew what that was like.

“Do you need any help? I mean, prepping snacks?” I lifted my chin toward the cutting board. ‘Or anything else?’

My father blinked again, several times in a row, and seemed to shake himself. “I, uh—’ He looked to the right, to the left, and then down like he wasn’t quite sure where he was.

I wanted to laugh because it was so fucking awkward. My instinct was to crack a joke but I bit down on my bottom lip to stop from saying something inappropriate about knives and apples.

“Uh, yeah,’ he finally said, clearing his throat. “Your mom has, uh, cheese and crackers to put out. I haven’t gotten to those yet.”

I nodded once and moved to where the pantry was. Or where it used to be. They’d updated the kitchen, I realized.

“Is the pantry still there?’ I lifted my chin toward the door in the far corner as I crossed to the sink, flipping on the water to wash my hands. ‘You guys changed the kitchen since I’ve been here last.’

“Everything is in the same spot. It’s just new cabinets, counters, and paint. You know how your mom is.”

I did know how my mom was. She’d done a deep dive into efficient kitchen design and theory, ensuring the placement of all items would be ideal for cooking, cleaning, hosting, and setting the table without interfering with the preparation of meals, all while allowing for multiple cooks.

Giving him a single nod, I continued to the door where the pantry apparently was still located and opened it. Unlike the rest of the kitchen, the pantry was exactly the same. Even the paint was still light gray. And she kept the crackers in the same spot. For some reason, this made me happy.

I turned and placed the box on the kitchen island then walked to a wall of appliances. My mom didn’t like covering appliances with cabinet panels. She said it made everything look too homogenous, like a closet.

Like the crackers, the cheese was in exactly the same spot as before. It could’ve been ten or fifteen years ago. Opening the fridge and pantry felt like opening up a time machine to the past.

It was so freaking weird being here. Memories from my childhood came flooding back to me, some bad, but mostly good. My dad and I used to make cookies for my mom when she was pregnant with my sister. Lemon bars. I’d spotted the baking dish we’d used when I pulled out the serving tray for the cheese and crackers.

I found myself smiling at the memory and glanced up. My father’s eyes were on me, wary. He hadn’t resumed cutting the apples and must’ve been watching me the whole time while I’d taken my journey around the kitchen and down memory lane.

As I looked at him now, I wondered if maybe he was afraid to speak.

I’m the trigger. That’s what he’d said before he left my hotel room. Interesting that he knew. Had he been avoiding me for years because he considered himself a trigger for my panic attacks? Or maybe . . .

Breathing in for bravery, I turned my attention to the items I’d assembled on the island and set to work. “How are you?” I asked. It would be easier to talk to him if my hands were busy.

“Not bad.” He said after a pause. “How are you?”

“Oh, you know.” I shrugged, pulling the pre-sliced cheese from the container and arranging it on the platter. “So, thanks for . . . the other day.” I barely got the words out and had to clear my throat from anxiety and emotion after saying them.

Like before, he paused before responding with, “You’re welcome.”

We passed a few moments in ridiculously uncomfortable silence while he finished cutting his apples and I used the cheese to create a patchwork flower on the platter. Movement on his side of the kitchen island drew my attention and I glanced up to find him chopping an onion.

The sight of the onion made me brave. If either of us cried, the onion would be a good scape goat.

Inhaling new courage, I cleared my throat again and said as conversationally as I could manage, “So, you knew what to do. I mean, when I—you know. Was like that.”

“Yes. I read about it and your mom talked me through it on our way over to the hotel the night before.”

“I see.” I nodded, and then I said without meaning to, “I guess you believe I’m not faking anymore.”

My dad’s movements stopped and he stared at the onion he’d almost finished cutting while I berated myself for being a dick. Great job, Raz. GREAT FUCKING JOB.

He’d done me a solid last week. Yeah, his sudden appearance had been the cause of my panic attack, but he’d also been the one to bring me through it. We weren’t yelling at each other. Why couldn’t I be content with just this? Why did I have to push? And when I did, why did I always lead with bitterness?

Fuck a fucking duck.

Eventually, he took a deep breath and lifted his eyes, giving them to me, and I braced myself, ready to leave in order to avoid a shouting match. I wouldn’t do that to my mom, not with all her friends here. Heck, I didn’t want her to hear it either.

“I’m sorry, Desmond,” he said.

I stared at him, confused. When he didn’t elaborate, I asked, “You’re sorry?”

“Yes. I’m sorry I hoped—I mean, I’m sorry I thought that back then. I’m sorry I thought you might be faking your illness.” He shrugged, his features stark, and his voice was rough as he added, “I’m sorry for a lot.”

I continued just staring at him, holding perfectly still, maybe not breathing, knowing my eyes had gone glassy and red, but I couldn’t stop staring at him. I’d never expected him to apologize. Not ever. Not in a million years.

What is happening right now?

He wasn’t finished. “When you’re up to a hard conversation, let me know. But in the meantime, I’m okay with easy ones. We don’t have to resolve everything at once. We can talk things over slowly. As long as we’re talking to each other, as long as I get to see you, I’m fine if we only discuss the weather.”

Shit. My vision had blurred and I couldn’t swallow. Is this really happening? Am I imagining this because I want it so bad?

Standing like a statue, in shock, my father continued his series of unexpected behavior and wiped his hands on his apron, took it off, and walked over to me. Then he pulled me into a hug. “I miss you,” he said, his voice hoarse. “And I’m so sorry.”

I couldn’t speak. My throat had closed off completely and my mind couldn’t process what was happening. This was so unexpected. I’d never⁠—

“I’m sorry,” he said again, holding me tighter. “And your mom didn’t tell me to say any of this. Or I guess she did. But not recently.”

That pulled a laugh from me and I felt myself relax into the hug, my arms finally coming up and around him. And I cried. And I think he did too. Because when my mom came in and stopped short at the entrance to the kitchen with a surprised, “Oh!” both my father and I pointed at the onion while we sniffed and wiped our eyes.

“It’s the onion,” my dad said, recovering first. He glanced at me. I nodded, confirming the onion’s guilt.

My mom gave us both a flat look but I could tell she was holding back her own tears. “And so, what?” came her wobbly question. “You’re consoling Desmond because the onion made him cry?”

“That’s right. That’s what happened,” I said, settling a hand on my father’s shoulder. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Anytime, son.” He patted my hand on his shoulder, his voice still roughened and his eyes still rimmed red due to the onion exposure. “Anytime.”

The knitting night attendees moved into the kitchen in search of my mom. Their talking and laughing grew overwhelming after a time. Maybe Ava sensed my agitation. Whatever the reason, she pulled me downstairs and away from the noise. My parents had taken over the floor beneath the original penthouse after I was born in order to add bedrooms for my sister and me as well as a game room and bathrooms for us.

To my surprise, my bedroom had remained untouched. I mean, it was dust free and clean, but otherwise untouched. Another time machine. I hovered at the entrance but wasn’t ready to enter. Ava seemed to sense my reluctance there as well because she used her grip on me to guide us to the game room. On our way, I peeked inside my bathroom and was relieved to discover it had been completely remodeled. It was unrecognizable, even the layout was different, and that was a good thing.

We spent some time in the game room, quietly going through my old games and movies. I used the time to process what had occurred in the kitchen with my dad, deciding I wouldn’t let myself get carried away and hope for too much too soon. I would take my time. I would not rush or push. And, for fuck’s sake, I’d work on the bitterness with my psychologist ASAP. That shit needed to stop. If I didn’t deal with it, it would keep slipping out and getting in the way, and I wanted a relationship with my dad more than I wanted to be right about being wronged.

Ava found a few videos of us from when we were eleven and twelve in the stash of movies. They hadn’t been as difficult to watch as I’d feared, mostly because the two of us had been together, and any time spent with Ava had been a happy time for me, even then. Actually, especially then. I’d relied on her a lot. Too much. It was good I’d left to find my own way.

After an hour or so, we made our way back upstairs to the kitchen. My dad stood at the sink, cleaning dishes. It was quiet and everyone had already left, some returning to their houses across town—like Ava’s parents, or Aunt Marie and Uncle Matt—and some taking the elevator to their respective floors. Elizabeth, Nico, and their kids, as well as Alex, Sandra, and their kids, all still lived in this building. Uncle Dan and Aunt Kat were in Boston mostly and hadn’t attended. Neither had Aunt Ashley, Uncle Drew, or their kids as they were based in Tennessee.

“I’ll go help your mom bring in the dishes.” Ava tossed a thumb over her shoulder and gave me a quick kiss, holding my eyes as she backed out of the kitchen. I watched her go until she disappeared, and then I stood there like the lovesick fool I was, smiling at air.

“When did you two start dating?”

Shaking myself I looked at my mom who had suddenly appeared near my elbow, a giant, expectant grin on her face.

“Oh.” My eyes flicked over to my dad—who was very pointedly not looking at us—and then back to my mom’s upturned face.

“Well?”

“A little over a month ago. Actually, a bit longer than that.” Why was it so hard to talk about this? We were dating. So what? People dated! It was normal.

Maybe that’s why it’s hard to talk about.

“Good. Good.” My mom nodded, handing me a washcloth, presumably to wipe down the counters. “And how did it happen? I mean, tell me all about it. Who asked who out? And when?”

I looked to my dad for help. He stared at the pot he currently dried like it might hold the answers to the afterlife.

Grimacing, I sighed. “Well, the truth is, I tricked her into it.”

For some reason I glanced at my father again. Maybe I expected him to look disappointed. He wasn’t looking at me. His eyes were still on the pot but, surprisingly, he wore a small smile.

“Desmond,” my mom reprimanded, using just my name, a special skill she had. “What do you mean? You tricked her into it?”

Wanting to be in motion, I wiped down the kitchen island. “It’s a long story. Basically, we made a deal that involved us dating. She probably thought it was fake-dating, but it wasn’t. Not for me.”

“Why? Why would you do that?” She sounded equal parts frustrated and confused.

“Because I wanted to give her a chance to try it out without feeling pressured to make it work,” I said, because it was the truth. “Whatever. It’s done. I tricked her into it and now we’re dating for real. The end.”

My mom made a strangled noise, then smacked me lightly on the shoulder. “You shouldn’t trick people!”

I shrugged. Once more, as though compelled, I looked at my dad, still expecting his disapproval. His smile had grown bigger, like he could hardly contain it.

Huh.

“Desmond Eli Sullivan.” My mother stepped into my line of sight. Dissatisfaction made her mouth a straight line and she set her hands on her hips. “A relationship based on trickery won’t last. Mark my words.”

My dad mumbled something that had my mom sending him ninja stars with her eyes. “You. Be quiet.”

“What? What’d he say?” I glanced between them.

“We did,” my father answered, his gaze steady and on me and—if I wasn’t hallucinating—his look was almost fond. “We lasted. I tricked your mom into dating me too.”

“You did?” I straightened away from the counter and ignored my mom’s sound of indignation.

“I did.” He nodded, not looking even a little repentant. “And we’ve been married almost twenty-seven years.”

“So far,” my mom added, her gaze softening the longer she and my dad looked at each other. “We’ve been married almost twenty-seven years so far.”

“What did you and your dad talk about?”

We’d made it all the way back to Ava’s building and had just climbed the last flight of stairs leading to her apartment before she asked the question. I was impressed with her self-control.

“Nothing much.” I shrugged. “You know, how much the Cubs suck this season, that kind of thing.”

Her expression flattened. “You did not.”

I decided to neither confirm nor deny. We hadn’t talked about the Cubs, but I expected we would the next time we saw each other. Little things before the big things, that’s what he’d said. It was wise and I was grateful.

“That’s actually kind of awesome,” she said. “Can I be happy for you? About this?” Ava pulled out her keys. If one of her guards had been with her, he (or she) would’ve unlocked the door for her. But since I was with Ava, no guard had followed her up. Curtis had just dropped us off at the front door and bid us good night.

“We’ll see,” I said. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“Okay. Okay.” Her keys jangled as she unbolted the first lock. “But we should decide who we’re spending Thanksgiving with.”

“What are you talking about? Our parents spend Thanksgiving together.”

“Yes. And are we going? Or are we doing our own thing?” She paused, picking through her keychain for the next dead bolt lock. “That’s what I mean.”

I scratched my neck. “Don’t you always go?”

“But now we’re together,” she said, like this explained everything.

“You don’t want to go?”

“I didn’t say that. I think we should decide together.” Ava unlocked the last dead bolt and opened the door. We both entered and she continued talking while we walked into the entryway. “It can’t be about what I’ve always done. You have to be comfortable with whatever. I’m just saying, it’s a discussion. I’m not taking for granted that I’ll⁠—”

“Hello, Ava.”

A chill spread from the base of my skull down my spine. We weren’t alone. Quickly, I took in the scene that greeted us, too late for me to actually do anything about it. Three guards. Big guys. One extremely pissed off Grace Archer tied to a chair. And one man in an exquisitely tailored suit sitting in the big chair where Ava and I had shared many happy memories.

Now we’d have to burn the chair.