"I missed you in class this morning," Martha said after they had ordered their meal. "Carol was out too, nursing that stomach bug of hers. Dullest class I ever sat through."
A cloud came over Jonathan's face. "My dad needed some extra help on the farm this morning."
Martha realized she'd touched a sore spot. "Did you have another argument?" she asked quietly.
"Well, at least I managed not to blow up at him this time," Jonathan said ruefully. She could tell he was recalling the times he'd told her about when he had blown up at his father. "That's something, I guess. But it wasn't very pleasant."
"I'm so sorry, Jonathan." Martha slipped her fingers into his.
"He's a good man, Martha." Jonathan was gazing at something she couldn't see, a troubled look on his face. "He really is. I wish I were more like him in some ways." He looked at her again with a wry little smile. "Of course, my mom always says the problem is that I'm too much like him."
Maybe you are, Martha thought. If he's as good a man as you say.
"He just—he isn't always very understanding. You know, he was almost forty when I was born. Sometimes I think maybe he doesn't remember what it was like to be my age."
"Maybe that has something to do with it." Martha sighed. "I wish I knew what to tell you, Jonathan. But I'm not exactly an expert in the father department either."
"I know." He squeezed her hand lightly. "It's just nice of you to listen."
Martha looked at him, exasperation starting to rise in her. It's not nice of me at all, she wanted to say. When you care about someone, you want to listen to him. Are you telling me you still have no clue how I feel about you?
Just then the waiter brought their salads, and the conversation shifted to other matters.