SENTIMENTAL IN SEATTLE are the words floating across the screen, along with a graphic of a boat and the Space Needle.
“So original,” I say.
The screen dissolves into a message that draws awws from the audience.
To Cynthia, from Richard
We saw this movie for the first time on our first date. You lamented you’d never be as beautiful as Meg Ryan, and I agreed. Because you were wrong: you’re even more beautiful, and it’s as true today as it was then. Happy 20th wedding anniversary!
“Because nothing says ‘I love you’ like the animation effect that makes text bounce.”
But Tarek is rapt, watching the screen with a strange intensity.
And that is when my stomach drops. Because the next message that appears on-screen is this:
Quinn,
I’m sorry we couldn’t figure it out last summer, but I’m glad you gave this a chance.
—Tarek
I must briefly dissociate because it takes a moment for it to register that I am this Quinn, that this is for me. I am speechless in Seattle. And then it doesn’t matter that it’s only a sentence. It doesn’t matter that no one knows this is us, even as they coo all around us at these cheap, cliché messages.
“That was—” I try to swallow, but my tongue has doubled in size. Which, coincidentally, is the same thing the SENTIMENTAL IN SEATTLE text is doing on-screen. “How did you—when did you—”
“I, uh, saw it online. When I went to change before we left for the movie,” Tarek says. He at least has the decency to look sheepish. “I thought… I thought it would be nice.”
It reminds me that for a moment last summer, I wished that boat gesture had been for me. The gesture I now know was for me.
This gesture, it comes with expectations. It says, Quick, figure out how you feel about this and What are you going to do to prove those feelings?
It says, This is going to end one day. Badly.
“It’s okay,” I say quickly, even though it isn’t. “I just… wasn’t expecting it. That’s all.”
He brushes it off with a laugh. “Sorry. I really didn’t think you’d react this way.”
“We talk about this kind of thing constantly, Tarek.” I try to keep my voice down, not wanting anyone to overhear. “You know I’m not a fan.”
“I know. I know. But we’re usually joking around, and last year I never found out how you felt about something like this being for you. I tried, but… well, we both know how that ended.”
I want to laugh this off like he did, but it gets caught in my throat. There’s a warning at the back of my mind. A flashing neon sign. Maybe it’s true he “thought it would be nice,” but I know Tarek. What this gesture really means is that he wants this to work. He wants us to work, when the truth is that there is no us that can last for a significant length of time.
We may have talked about last summer and shed the outermost layer of our insecurities. We may be a year older. But neither of us has changed. If anything, Tarek seems more romantic than ever, and that cannot possibly be a good thing.
“I thought this might be different,” he says feebly.
“And then, what, you could post this on Instagram? And delete it if it didn’t get enough likes?” It’s not the kindest thing I could say, and I immediately regret it.
“Only if I had your permission.” His expression is so rigid, I know he means it.
People are taking their artisan food truck popcorn back to their blankets, settling in for the second half.
If we talk about this much longer, he might see there’s something buried beneath my loathing of these too-public displays of affection. And I can’t dig that up.
The only option is to bury it deeper. To shut this down.
“Let’s just watch the rest of the movie,” I say, and I never thought I’d be so eager to watch two people falling in love.
* * *
“You can’t say it’s not a great ending,” Tarek says as we walk to his car. “It’s iconic. The way the music swells when she puts her hand in his—it gets me every time.”
We’ve just watched Meg Ryan rush to the Empire State Building observation deck only moments before Tom Hanks and his kid get in an elevator going down. Except the kid forgets his backpack, and as Meg Ryan picks it up and pulls a teddy bear out of it, the elevator doors open, and boom, Tom Hanks is back. They gaze at each other, seeming to instantly know who the other is. It’s nice to meet you, Meg Ryan says, the last line of the movie.
“I didn’t. All I’m saying is I don’t buy that she’s in love with him. I don’t buy that it was destiny. She doesn’t even have a conversation with him until the end of the movie!”
This, I can still do, this kind of bickering that feels playful, innocent, not laced with expectation the way his on-screen message was.
As though reading my mind, Tarek stops on the sidewalk, fiddling with his keys, not meeting my eyes. “I really am sorry. About that message.”
“I like spending time with you,” I say softly, because I don’t want to fight, and I don’t want this to ruin what’s otherwise been such a good day. Whatever we’ve started feels precarious, even if it cannot go where he might ultimately want it to. “I want to keep doing that, okay? But I’m not a balloons and skywriting kind of person.”
He grimaces. “Okay, then I might need to make a few calls.”
I swat at his arm. “You don’t have to do any of that. Not with me.” I mean for this to be a good thing, but he’s not laughing.
Part of it was sweet, that gesture. At least, I think my heart fluttered, or whatever it is a heart is supposed to do in response to that kind of thing, before the dread set in.
Still, I feel compelled to extend some kind of olive branch. Something to make him more of his regular self. Because truthfully, this was fun. Not just the movie, but our conversations at Mansour’s and the zalabya he made, and it’s not something I want to have been a onetime thing. I want another night like this, a realization that rocks the ground beneath me.
“So.” I scuff at the pavement with my sandal. “The woman whose harp studio I’ve been working in, she’s having a show next weekend. I was going to ask Julia, but… maybe you want to go too?”
I deliver the invitation directly to the sidewalk. It’s dangerously datelike, and I might regret it, but when I risk a glance at him, the way Tarek lights up to match the full moon is enough to ease my panic. It’s both lovely and terrifying.
“I’d love to,” he says, stepping closer, grazing my wrist with the fingertips of his free hand. “Thank you.”
Two friends hanging out. Not a date, even when I close the space between us and kiss him, his hands on my waist and mine in his hair. This is easier. The physical always has been—no thinking, just feeling, touching, sighing. An anchor when I’ve felt anchorless.
He pulls back, nodding to his car. “Do you want to, uh…?” A nervous Tarek is not something I’m used to seeing, and the idea that he’s nervous because of me is almost too much to handle.
“Make out in the car?” I ask.
“I was going to say ‘get in the car,’ but yeah, you know what, I like the honesty. Do you want to make out with me in my 2011 Ford Focus, Quinn Berkowitz?”
“Yes. Yes I do.”
When we get in the back seat, I do my best to push away my car-hookup-related nerves. Maybe it’s the dark or the weight of the words we’ve exchanged, but it doesn’t take long for us to turn frantic. I press myself close to him, his mouth hot on my neck as I pull at his hair. The scent of him clouds my senses and quite possibly my good judgment.
I don’t need to do this to turn off my brain, I remind myself. I wasn’t searching for a distraction—he just happens to be one. I am in control.
“I’m sorry about—about my hands,” he says, pulling back when he touches my shoulders. I can barely see the red of the rash in the moonlight. “I hope it’s not gross or anything.”
“Tarek,” I say softly. “It�
�s not. Not at all.”
He lets out a breath, clearly relieved. “I’m not as self-conscious as I used to be, but it still feels like something I need to explain to people. I’ve accepted that it’s going to be bad sometimes, even with the creams and medication, even if I still wish I didn’t have it.”
“You shouldn’t have to explain it. It’s your body.” I want to tell him I’ve always found him beautiful. But it’s not right for this moment and I’d hate for him to read into it, so I don’t.
“Thank you. For saying that.”
He draws me to him again, and in this tight space, it’s so easy to mold my body to his, especially when I’m not in my stiff wedding planner shirt and slacks. My thin dress might as well be lingerie. There’s more skin to explore, and that’s exactly what he does, his hands running up my legs underneath the dress.
“I like this, by the way,” he says, playing with the hem of it. “The dogs with the hats. One of your rest-of-the-time dresses?”
“My what?”
“When you gave me that tour of your room. You had your dull dresses and the more exciting ones you wore the rest of the time.”
I’m stunned he remembered something like that. I’m also not used to talking this much while hooking up with someone. Sometimes I’m so wrapped up in sensation that the person I’m with almost becomes faceless, but Tarek seems intent on reminding me that it’s him I’m here with.
“Yes. One of my rest-of-the-time dresses.”
What he must mean is that he likes the way it bunches up around my hips, the way his fingers meet my bare thighs just above my knees. I tug him down on top of me, one leg on either side of him, kissing him deeper. He could easily pull the dress over my head, but instead, one by one, he flicks open the buttons.
When he gets the last one and I’m in my bra and underwear, he buries his face in my neck. “Give me a minute.” He lets out a rough laugh, pressing his mouth into the spot where my neck meets my shoulder, dropping kisses lower and lower and lower, until he reaches my navel and I can’t help giggling.
I rub my hand over the front of his jeans, and he sucks in a breath. Maybe my memory is failing me, but hooking up has never been this fun. I knew this would erase any lingering weirdness from earlier this evening.
“Our clothing ratio seems radically unfair.” I reach for his shirt, and he helps me tug it over his head. It’s cruel, really, that it’s too dark for me to take in every detail of his chest, but I can use my hands to map him out.
Without my dress in his way, his hand travels from thigh to hip, free of obstructions. “Is this okay?”
“Yes,” I breathe out, but as soon as his fingers skim along the outside of my underwear, I feel my body tighten up. “Wait. Stop.” He immediately pulls back. The nerves take over. “I’m sorry, it’s just—me and cars…”
“Ah. I’m not going to lie and say I don’t remember what happened during Never Have I Ever,” he says, and there’s enough moonlight for me to catch him blushing.
We rearrange so we’re sitting side by side in the back seat. There’s no way I’m forgetting he’s the one I’m here with right now, but he shouldn’t be doing this. He shouldn’t be patiently waiting for me to explain, and I shouldn’t want to.
And yet the words start tumbling out. “I’m not even sure it was the car, actually,” I say. “I’ve only… had sex… that one time. In the car. At least, sex in the way society usually defines sex, which is outdated and heteronormative, but, um. Yeah.”
He’s just watching me, listening.
“It didn’t last very long,” I continue. “And I didn’t—well, it was done when he was done.” I could have said something, I’m sure. But he also could have offered. Could have asked.
Tarek looks like I just told him I let Jonathan punt Edith over a fence. “That’s… wow. I’m sorry.”
You don’t have to be sorry, I want to say. This conversation is veering too close to relationship territory. I wanted to get in the car specifically so I wouldn’t be having those kinds of thoughts. I don’t know why we can’t just get one of us off—realistically, him—and then go home.
Because the last time we got close to a relationship—and now that I know we were even closer than I used to think—it only hurt us both.
“We don’t have to keep talking about it,” I say. “If you don’t want to do that, it’s fine. I’m used to it. You don’t have to go through the motions just because you think you’re supposed to. Like, it’s still fun for me, even if I don’t… you know.”
“Are you saying you’ve never had an org—”
I’m not sure why, but I can’t bear to hear him utter the word. “With someone else?” I shake my head.
“But you’ve had one before, in general? On your own?”
I nod, hiding my burning face against the seat.
“Hey.” He rubs circles on my back. “You do it. I do it. Why is that embarrassing?”
“I don’t know,” I admit.
Maybe it isn’t. Maybe it isn’t embarrassing, especially when he’s treating it all as this very normal thing. Because as much as I want to fast-forward to the part where we’re sighing against each other again, the more I talk, the more the dread turns to relief. Maybe I’ve needed to talk about it and I haven’t found the right words.
“I’ve only had sex with one person too,” he says. “In case you were wondering.”
I was, and I’m glad he’s telling me. “With other guys, when we were fooling around, there was always one clear end goal for them.” I make a gesture with my hands that probably looks like that old Shake Weight commercial or opening a can of soda. The latter is possibly too on the nose. “It would take too long for me, so they’d get tired or bored or whatever, and they’d either stop, or I’d ask them to stop. Their end goal didn’t always include…”
“You having an orgasm.” He finishes the word this time, and okay. It’s not the worst word in the world. Not at all. “I can assure you,” he continues, a fingertip brushing my ankle, “I am not going to get bored.”
When he talks about it like this is something he wants as much as I do, I’m convinced I might be made of only desire.
“Okay,” I say in the smallest voice. “Then… that sounds like it might be enjoyable.”
He grins this ridiculous grin, one that turns me inside out, and when he kisses me, I am just… gone.
I’m not sure how long it takes. Frankly, I’m not thinking about that. All I know is the way his breath catches when he touches me, that he’s gentle and focused, that he talks to me. And then I grip his shoulders as his fingers move faster, faster, until everything else dissolves and it’s just him and me and a brilliant warm intensity.
Maybe this was the difference: the fact that he cared, which is so unlike my past experiences that I’m not sure how to process it.
Once I recover, I return the favor, touching him until he shudders and lets out this low moan, like he’s trying not to be too loud, even though we’re alone in the dark out here. I want to bottle up that sound. Make it my ringtone. Learn it on the harp.
This was supposed to turn off my thoughts. It wasn’t supposed to be him telling me how not-boring this was as he plants soft kisses along my ear, my jaw. And I wasn’t supposed to like any of that.
I don’t trust my brain and I don’t have the right words, so I just hold him tighter.
19
Work brunch happens the last Sunday of every month. Until the laptops come out, it’s the only time I have with my whole family that isn’t dominated by B+B. Dad plays the local public radio jazz station, despite all of us telling him that he can stream any musician he wants, but he always insists he likes the excitement of never knowing what song is coming next. Dads gonna dad.
I take my medication and rush downstairs, worrying about poisoning Edith for only a brief moment while I refill her water dish. A good OCD day.
We each have a specialty, a dish we’ve honed over the years, and Asher comes over early t
o start cooking. I heap Dad’s triple-berry pancakes, Mom’s black-pepper bacon, Asher’s frittata, and my chocolate-chip banana bread onto my plate and pour a glass of farmers market orange-ginger juice. It’s also mandatory that we wear pajamas the whole time. I’m wearing my llamas-or-alpacas shorts and matching shirt with a long striped robe, my hair just long enough for a messy bun. Though he only ever saw them over the phone, the pajamas remind me of Tarek.
Then again, a lot of things remind me of Tarek lately. It’s the end of July, four weeks until Victoria and Lincoln’s wedding, six weeks until Asher and Gabe’s. Seven weeks for Tarek and me to keep doing… whatever it is we’re doing.
“I probably shouldn’t say this,” Dad says once we dig in, “but damn, this is good bacon.”
“We’re all terrible Jews,” I agree, swiping another slice.
Mom’s eyes light up behind her cat-eye glasses. “We just won’t tell any of the rabbis we work with.”
This is the part of my family I love so much. The part that isn’t connected to B+B.
For the first time ever, Asher declines it. “I’m actually—well, with Gabe, at home… we keep kosher. Both of us.”
There’s an odd silence as we all take this in.
“Sure, of course,” Dad says. He stares down at his 00 DAYS WITHOUT A DAD JOKE mug. “That’s admirable of you.”
“How long?” I ask, flipping through a mental catalog of the meals I’ve consumed with Asher this summer.
Asher shrugs, parting her serving of frittata like the Red Sea. “A few months, I guess?”
This feels like something I should know about my own sister. Except… I haven’t spent enough time with her this summer to have learned about it. And even though I respect it, it feels like yet another thing she’s doing with her soon-to-be-married life that’s so separate from the life she used to have.
My family isn’t my family if we’re not all perky and smiling, so Dad seizes an opportunity to smooth things over. “Should we go around and share highlights?” he asks, ushering us into the work part of work brunch.
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