Love, Comment, Subscribe by Cathy Yardley

CHAPTER 41

Tobin had spent the day after the reunion holed up in his room, eating a variety of cheeses and a serving bowl of mashed potatoes—the ultimate in comfort foods—and binge-watching the worst action movies he could find, just as a way to distract himself. He felt bruised, body and soul. Still, once he’d slept, he realized that he needed this trip more than he would have otherwise acknowledged. And there was nothing really holding him back.

He spent Monday posting his “taking a break” video, then comparing airline prices and looking up things to see in Australia and New Zealand. He wasn’t about to take an organized tour like the Lord of the Rings Tour that was offered. As much of a fan as he was, he didn’t feel like waiting until the next tour was offered some months later, and he hated feeling constrained by schedules. He remembered one particularly sucky trip he’d taken with his parents as a kid, a European bus tour of the continent after they’d visited his mother’s parents in England. The bug-eyed tour director had run them like a Swiss train, yelling when there were stragglers, keeping them herded like sheep being penned. When someone had gently suggested that she lighten up, she’d blinked at him in harsh judgment. “This isn’t a holiday,” she’d said sternly. “This is a tour.”

So yeah . . . no tours for him. The fact that he usually had jet lag the first couple of days made that a no-go, anyway. He liked taking things at his own pace, exploring things as he felt like it. He’d just keep it open. He could still handle hostels and little Airbnb places, and if push came to absolute shove, he could reach out to his network online and see if there were some YouTubers who might have a couch he could crash on. He had faith that it’d be a decent experience.

Now it was Tuesday. He was ready to go the next day, for however long it took.

“I can’t believe you’re just up and going to another continent,” Asad said, accepting Tobin’s spare key. “Who does that?”

“I actually know a guy who decided to up and go to a Morrissey concert when he was in high school,” Tobin noted absently. “His parents were out of town, and he took all his savings, flew to London, watched the show, and then flew home to San Diego. That is baller, my friend.”

Asad let out a low whistle. “That is actually pretty cool. But . . .” Asad let his sentence peter off, looking uncomfortable.

Tobin sighed. “What?”

“Is this because things didn’t work out with you and Lily?”

“That obvious, huh?” Tobin shook his head. “Other way around, actually. Things didn’t work out with Lily and me because I’m just jumping into this trip. Guess it didn’t line up with her expectations of what a successful YouTuber is supposed to do, you know?”

Yeah, he still felt bitter. It was forty-eight hours ago. Sue me.

Asad nodded, looking sympathetic. “You know how driven she is. Always has been,” he pointed out. “And you haven’t been dating that long.”

Tobin grimaced. “Had just started, actually, or just agreed to it. Then I sort of dropped this travel bomb on her.” He felt an unwelcome ping of sympathy. “I suppose it’s a lot to take in. And it is kind of impulsive.”

“Kinda,” Asad agreed, his voice neutral.

“But I know that I need a break,” Tobin said. “That’s nonnegotiable.”

“And you absolutely should take one,” Asad said. “There’s too much emphasis on hustle culture as it is, and people being proud that they don’t take breaks and work themselves to death. Freddie was like that before he left LA, and every now and then, I see him turning into the Gordon Ramsay asshole I know he hates being.”

“Really?”

Asad shot him a lopsided smile. “It’s a hard habit to break. Thankfully, I take care of it, and then he relaxes and knocks that shit off.”

“How do you take care of it?”

Asad’s grin was wicked. “Really want to know?”

“Since I’m not going to have sex in the foreseeable future, no,” Tobin said, trying not to sound bitter and failing miserably. “I really love her, you know. Even when she drives me crazy. Even though she can be pushy. She is just . . . funny, and sexy, and smart. And determined. And just good at what she does.”

“You do have that competence-porn thing,” Asad agreed.

“But I don’t know what I was smoking to make me think that we would work out,” Tobin said. “I am the opposite of all of those things. We didn’t get along for years. I should have just understood and embraced that the first time.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Asad said. “Love’s not easy. It takes work, and time, and a shit ton of effort.”

“Yeah, well, ask anybody—that’s not my MO.”

“If you’re going to be self-pity boy, I am leaving,” Asad said, half joking. “And then your lawn is going to die while you’re off stalking platypuses in the Outback.”

“Thanks for keeping an eye on the place while I’m gone,” Tobin said. “I appreciate it.”

“Anytime.”

There was a knock at the door, which startled Tobin. He looked at Asad, who shrugged.

He went to the door, and his jaw dropped. “Mom? Dad?” He stared at them. They were dressed in work clothes, which made sense . . . it was a workday, probably around lunch. “Is everything all right? What’s going on?”

“We wanted to talk to you,” his father said, and his mother nodded.

“You look like you’ve got stuff,” Asad said quickly, grabbing the spare key and fleeing, adding a pantomimed “text me” behind Tobin’s parents’ backs. “See you later!”

Which left Tobin alone with his parents, in his living room. They settled on his couch, and Tobin stayed on his feet, nervous.

“Um . . . can I get you something?” he asked, feeling like an idiot. His parents rarely visited—he always went home to their house for their lunches. “Or, um . . .”

“I only have a little time,” his mother said, “so maybe it’s better if we just hash this out.”

Tobin sighed. “There really isn’t anything to talk about,” he said. “We’ve said enough.”

“Then you can listen,” his mother said, looking at his father. He brooded, then nodded.

“We came to say we’re sorry,” his father growled.

Tobin wouldn’t have been more surprised if someone had clubbed him with a crescent wrench. He gaped at them.

“You have to understand,” his father said slowly, “I—we—just want you to be safe. We want you to make sure that you survive. You know your grandmother’s story, of how she came from Vietnam with your grandfather, and how hard it was. We didn’t have a lot of money when I was growing up. I got good grades, I got my degree, and I worked very, very hard to make sure that you and your mother never lived the way I did.”

Tobin nodded, feeling guilty. “I am not trying to—”

“Just listen this time,” his father said, but he didn’t yell, didn’t grumble. It looked like his eyes were a little teary, and he was just trying to keep it together. “I don’t even know how to talk to you sometimes. You are so different than I ever was. I take after your bà nội, you know.”

Given what he knew about Bà Nộ, his father’s mother, he could see that. She was a strict woman, despite having a soft spot for her grandchild. She’d died when he was young, so his memories were hazy, but he remembered her speaking in rapid-fire Vietnamese, usually telling his father to do something or not do something.

“Your bà nội was not an easy woman to grow up with,” his father added. “That doesn’t mean I didn’t love her or respect her any less. And I never would’ve dreamed of talking to her the way you spoke with us.”

“Dad . . .”

“That said, she never wanted me to be an architect.”

Tobin blinked. “What? Why? It’s not like you wanted to be a punk rocker or something. Architects are a completely respectable profession!”

“I lied and said that I was taking a double major with premed,” his father said with a small, surprising smile. “I thought she would murder me when she found out I was just going for architecture. We had a very, very bad fight.”

“How am I just finding out about this now?”

“My point is,” his father continued, ignoring his outburst, “I was angry with your grandmother, I was frustrated with her. But now I see she was just doing what she thought was best. She thought being a doctor would be something that would make me a lot of money, and I’d be respected, and I’d always have work. ‘People always get sick, don’t they?’ she’d always say.” He laughed after mimicking perfectly what he remembered of the older woman.

Tobin sat down in a nearby chair. He’d never talked with his father like this. It felt intimate, and . . . like they’d turned a corner.

“She meant well,” his father said. “But I love being an architect, and it’s been the best choice for me. I didn’t realize that I was doing to you what she did to me.”

Now Tobin felt his own eyes go glassy with unshed tears. He took a deep breath, getting himself together.

“And I know I’m driven,” his mother said. “I can be a bit fixated on certain solutions. But I believe in your potential, Tobin. I won’t pretend to understand you—I swear, sometimes I thought you were a changeling . . .”

“Um, thanks?” Tobin said dryly.

“But that was just my expectations,” she said. “I was frustrated because I just couldn’t seem to get through to you. You were always funny, even as a child. You didn’t approach things the way I would; you never made the choices I would. But you are making a success of yourself, and you’re living your life your way. My family wasn’t thrilled when I decided to stay in the United States rather than going back to England. But I made the right choice.”

“So you’re both rebels, and you’re just now getting that I am too?”

His parents looked surprised, then looked at each other.

“I don’t know that I have ever considered myself a rebel,” his father admitted.

“I have been called many things, but ‘rebel’ has not been one of them,” his mother added, then smiled. “But . . . yes? I suppose you are. We are.”

Tobin grinned.

“Still planning on traveling, then?” his father said.

Tobin nodded. “As soon as possible. Probably be on a plane to Australia tomorrow. After that, who knows? Europe, maybe. Or Iceland. Hell, maybe even Asia.” It didn’t really matter, as long as he was gone. “I might just play a game of plane roulette and get on the first plane that has an available seat, I don’t know.”

His parents looked aghast, which made him smile. His father tugged nervously at his earlobe.

“Are you sure that’s the . . .”

His mother laughed. “Oh, go on. I took a gap year and wandered around Europe when I was younger than him. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

Tobin gawked at her. “Who are you, and what have you done with my mother?”

“Well, you are twenty-eight. You’re not a child anymore, I suppose,” she said wistfully. “You’re a fully grown man.”

“A full-grown man who appears to have a life-sized cutout of the Mandalorian and that Yoda thing, as well as some sort of castle made of LEGO, right in his front room,” his father muttered, almost under his breath.

“Those are collectibles,” Tobin said loftily. Then he hugged them. “I’ll keep touching base—don’t worry, okay?”

“We love you, Tobin,” his mother said, squeezing tighter. His father clapped him on the shoulder.

“Just be safe,” he said gruffly. “That’s all I ask.”

Tobin swallowed against the lump in his throat and nodded. “I’ll do my best,” Tobin said, then closed the door behind them. He closed his eyes, resting his forehead against the door.

It felt like things had changed. It might not be full-throated support, but it felt like they understood, and right now, that’s all he could ask for. He had people who loved what he did. He just needed his parents to believe in him—and it seemed like, maybe, they were working their way toward it. But most importantly, they loved him enough to worry about him. He didn’t want to be too optimistic, but he desperately hoped that things would only get better from here.