Like You Mean It

by Jillian Liota

  Growing up with a mom and sister like mine taught me that it’s foolish to make assumptions that all women are going to respond to things in the same way. I can’t guess that Jess is going to be cranky about something when she’s on her period. I can’t assume she’s going to be mad or happy or sad or frustrated about anything at any time.

  Except… except I know exactly what is going through her mind right now.

  A few months ago, Jessica had a work event on a Sunday afternoon – some big company barbeque, I think – and I told her I couldn’t go because I couldn’t cancel on the guys. Are they more important than me? Don’t you know how important this is to me? Can’t you cancel just one time?

  She was frustrated and laid on the guilt for weeks.

  And now I’ve basically just told her that I cancelled Second Sunday last minute for someone who isn’t her.

  “Yeah.”

  More silence.

  “Oh…kaaaay,” she finally says.

  And then more silence.

  “So you’re willing to cancel Second Sunday for someone you don’t even know, but your girlfriend of two years asks you to come to a very important event with a lot of advance notice, and you can’t even reschedule?”

  I sigh so audibly I’m sure she can hear me through the phone. I hate when Jess gets upset. I can’t stand how tongue-tied it makes me feel. It’s like my brain knows exactly what I want to say, until right before I need to say it. It’s so hard to explain myself sometimes.

  For some reason, when it comes to women, I can talk about surface level bullshit without any problems. How was work? Fine. Here’s a list of everything that happened. But the feeling part? Communicating the shit that happens in everyday life and how I respond to it? I don’t know how to talk about those things with anyone except Callie, and even with her it’s pretty limited.

  So, when Jess gets upset, it feels like someone has plugged up my brain. I don’t know what to do or say to make her feel better, and usually struggle to understand why she’s upset in the first place.

  “Please don’t make this into something it isn’t,” I say, taking a seat on the edge of my bed and resting my arms on my knees. My phone is on speaker in my hand, and I clench it tightly, wishing I was a man who could communicate better. But talking about how I feel is not now, nor has it ever, been my strongest quality. “I didn’t not cancel when you asked me to go to the BBQ because I care about you less. I just…” I sigh. “She’s pregnant, and she’s all alone, and she asked me for food. What was I supposed to do?”

  Because really, what was I supposed to do?

  I can’t imagine any other situation where I would have done what I did… cancelling my plans and heading over to spend time with someone I don’t know. Maybe if the Pope was coming to town or something. I mean, I didn’t even cancel Second Sunday when my dad had box seats at a Lakers game. But, from the moment Annie started talking, I couldn’t stand that she looked so broken. It tugged at something new inside of my chest that I hadn’t ever experienced before.

  “Babe…” There’s a slight edge to her voice, which usually crops up when she feels like I’ve backed her into a corner.

  What I want to say is See? It’s not so easy! What would you have done if someone came over asking for food?

  But what I end up saying is, “Lets not fight about it, okay? If you’re still cranky, we can talk about it when you come out next weekend.”

  My hope is that by next weekend, she’ll have forgotten the whole thing. Or, maybe not forgotten, but at least she won’t be as upset.

  Hopefully.

  And who knows? Maybe I can introduce Jess to Annie and she’ll totally get it. She’ll see Annie, the ball of mess that she is with her hair in disarray and her stained clothes and a kid and guppy in tow, and she’ll understand where I was coming from when I decided to cancel Second Sunday.

  Oh the things we wish for.

  “I wanted to talk to you about maybe coming out here instead,” she says, surprising me.

  “Oh,” I respond, instantly put off by the idea. I don’t have anything against San Diego, I just… don’t want to drive all the way down there after a long work week when Sunday is my only real day off.

  Trips to San Diego are typically avoided by any means necessary. In the few occasions where I’ve needed to go down to stay at Jess’, it has meant leaving work early on Saturday, spending 2-3 hours in the car if I’m lucky to not hit traffic, spending the night in Jess’ double bed and dealing with her cat that I’m allergic to, and then only getting half the day on Sunday with her before I have to get back in the car and drive back to Rosemead so I can get a good night’s sleep, since I go in early on Mondays.

  “Maybe you can take a vacation day and make it a long weekend?” she asks.

  I could. Realistically, if I’m totally honest, I could take a day off. I mean, I own my business. I can take off as much time as I want. Technically.

  It’s just… do I want to take a day off and spend it in San Diego?

  And then I feel like a prick. Because I should want to spend more time with my girlfriend. If for not more upstanding reasons like the fact I like her and enjoy being around her, at least for the shallow reason of getting laid more often.

  “How about this?” I say, my mind scrambling as I try to come up with a plan on the fly that will ease her disposition into something a bit more pleasant. “How about, we pick a weekend in the future and I’ll take off a Saturday and Monday, and we can go on a trip together. Maybe go to Santa Barbara or something.”

  I don’t know where that came from.

  But apparently it was the right thing to say.

  “That sounds amazing!” she cries out, clearly excited about a trip away. We’ve only gone on trips together twice since we started dating, and both of them were to weddings of good friends from Jess’ college days.

  “Good, I’m glad that makes you happy,” I reply. And it’s true. I do want Jess to be happy. Although, sometimes I become hyper aware of the fact that I don’t think about her happiness as much as I should. And it’s a little worrying.

  I haven’t had a ton of experience with the whole relationship thing, but I’m pretty sure thinking about the other person is a somewhat large quantifier of whether or not the relationship is healthy and successful.

  “Lets talk about it next weekend when I come up, then, yeah?”

  “Sounds good,” I say with a smile that she can’t see.

  We exchange a few more words and then say our goodbyes, promising to talk again tomorrow.

  I sigh in relief the minute we get off the phone, thankful to have some silence and solitude. I groan and stretch out my back and arms, then stand to wander around my house and turn out the lights.

  I love this house. I’ve put a lot of time and energy into it over the past 10 years. When I bought it, for a fleeting moment, I thought to myself, this is a house where you can raise a family.

  It had startled me, since I was only 26 at the time. It was pre-Maxine and pre-Jess. I had no plans to get into a relationship. I had no thoughts about getting married or having a family of my own.

  But there was a part of me, even then, that knew I wanted that someday. A caring and supportive wife. Some rugrats rolling around in the dirt. Maybe a dog or something.

  And a small part of me, now, wonders if Jess is going to be the person I have a family with.

  She’s everything I should want in a future wife. She’s smart, and beautiful. She works hard. She has good friends and a close relationship with her mom. We agree on a lot of things politically. Our sex life is good, too.

  I mean, those are supposed to be the things that matter, right?

  CHAPTER THREE

  ANNIE

  If I hear the words we’ll call you one more time, I just might scream.

  I’ve been applying for every job I can find. Waitressing, retail, administrative work. I even applied to work at a construction site, where I was literally laughed out of the off
ice because, lets be real, no one wants to hire a woman who is going to go on maternity leave in a little over two months.

  I know it’s technically illegal for any employer to pay attention to the fact that I’m ready to pop. But, come on. It’s not like I can hide this big mass protruding off of my body.

  I sigh and drop my head in my arms on the table in front of me.

  “What can I get you?”

  I pull back and look at the waitress in her green and yellow uniform.

  “A job,” I blurt out, then rest my head on one hand, sticking the menu out for her to take. “But since no one wants to hire the pregnant lady, I’ll just have your chili and cornbread, thanks.”

  The waitress gives me a sympathetic smile, takes my menu and walks away.

  I’d say I’m tired of all the sympathy, but really, I’m tired of being in a position to need it.

  Leaning back in the booth, I glance out the window at the little strip mall this restaurant is in, letting my mind wander as I wait for my food.

  It’s a dangerous thing for me to do, recently. Used to be that I could sit and daydream and plan and imagine for hours. Now, my thoughts just flit in and out of negatives that have been taking over my life, and I use all of my energy trying to ward off feelings of inadequacy and fear.

  I’m never going to find a second job.

  You’re going to find one. It isn’t going to fall into your lap. You were lucky that you never had to work before. Work was something you did for fun. Now it’s time to suck it up and bust your ass.

  I’m a horrible mother.

  It’s scary to be a single parent, but millions of women and men do it every day, and their kids don’t turn into serial killers.

  Andrew is gone, and Jones and I are alone.

  Yes, Andrew is gone, but you and Jones are not alone. You have mom, and her little community of friends. You might be able to reconnect with Lindsey. And maybe Cole.

  I jerk out of my internal dialogue at that.

  And maybe Cole? Since when?

  Cole is a nice man who lives next door that was nice when I needed niceness. That’s all. We’re not friends. I’m not gonna call and gab with him when I’m having a shit day and need to spill. That’s what moms are for. That’s what girlfriends are for.

  A tear trails down my cheek, completely by surprise, and I bat it away.

  A mom, I have. Girlfriends? Yeah. Not so much.

  All of my so-called girlfriends are back in Illinois, in the life I left behind. A life of lies.

  When we lived in a small town called Winnetka, which was about 40 minutes outside Chicago, I worked from home doing graphic design. I was only able to get in two years of college because I ended up getting pregnant with Jones. But I completed a certificate online, then spent 3 years building up my client list and portfolio. I can still do that same work from here since, for the most part, graphic design isn’t a location-bound type of job.

  But unfortunately, that graphic design work is now my sole income. And it is definitely not enough. Hence, the need for a second job.

  Or, I guess, I need a new full-time job that I can supplement with graphic design work?

  I roll my eyes at myself. I don’t even care. Full-time, part-time. I just need more money.

  You could always move in with mom if you can’t afford…

  Not. Gonna. Happen.

  The waitress brings my chili and cornbread to the table and sets it in front of me with a smile, then leaves.

  I pull apart the bread, slather it with butter, and pop it into my mouth, barely holding in a groan at how delicious it is. I know I don’t really have the money to keep eating out, but I’m a horrible cook and with each day getting shittier and shittier, medicating with delicious food seems like a good choice. The guppy sure is happy about all of the shit I’ve been eating.

  My scale, however, is not.

  I sigh and dip a piece of bread into my chili.

  I just have to push through, and Jones and I will be fine.

  I pushed through when I found out about Corinne. And Samantha. And Miriam.

  I pushed through when I had to bury Andrew and pack up our home.

  I pushed through when I moved my son and I across the country to start over.

  And even though I’ve had a rough time since we moved to California a little less than two weeks ago, I’ve finally gotten a few important things done. I found an OB/GYN and scheduled an appointment. I found an auto shop to take a look at my rust bucket. The cable and internet will be set up next week. I got all of the shit in the kitchen finally unpacked and put away. All by myself. And I even went grocery shopping.

  No more begging my neighbor for food.

  I cringe when I think about how much of a mess I was on Sunday. It’s been four days since I had a meltdown and turned up on Cole’s doorstep like a fat mess, and I’m mortified every time I think about it.

  I don’t know what Cole’s schedule is like, but I haven’t seen him around at all. I feel like I should take over thank you cookies or something. I can’t cook to save my life, but baking is a bit of a specialty.

  But then I also feel like I’ll be thankful if I never have to see him again because I can’t deal with how embarrassed I am.

  Jones won’t stop talking about him, though. Even though he was asleep when I carried him home the other night, he managed to hear Cole say we can use his pool whenever we want. Interesting how he can hear Cole when he’s asleep, but not my voice asking him to get up and walk to his bedroom when he falls asleep in front of the TV.

  Jones is too young to understand that Cole was just being nice. To him, Cole’s neighborliness means we should be putting on bathing suits every day and barging through his front door screaming Cannonball! at the top of our lungs. If he asks me one more time about swimming, I’m going to light his bathing suit on fire.

  I look at my phone and see I have about twenty minutes before my appointment at the auto shop. I shovel the rest of the chili and bread into my mouth as fast as I can, completely indifferent to the glance I get from a man at a neighboring table.

  I’m pregnant, dude. You try eating for two and see if you can control yourself.

  I pay for my check and walk out to where my car is parked. I sold Andrew’s 2014 Jeep Grand Cherokee when I left Illinois because my mom said she still had my old car, Wanda, in her garage. We only needed one car in a city like Winnetka. I could walk to the grocery store or the little shops in town during the good weather, and I didn’t go out often, so it didn’t matter so much in the shit weather.

  I could kick myself at how stupid I was to think that a twenty-year-old car would meet my needs in a sprawling concrete mess like Los Angeles. But I was so focused on how scary it would be to drive across the country by myself with my son, it just seemed easier to sell the car there, ship the big stuff and fly with the essentials, and just use my sweet girl Wanda once I got here.

  Like I said. Stupid.

  But hopefully, it will get worked on and fixed and I won’t have to stress about any more problems.

  «««« »»»»

  “So we’ve got a bunch of problems.”

  Two hours later, I’m standing at the main desk at The Garage. It feels like I’ve been here for a really long time, just sitting in the lobby, zoning out and trying not to let my mind wander too far into the dark.

  The mechanic in blue coveralls with the name Alex sewn into the front stares at a clipboard and clicks his pen a few times.

  “Okay,” I say, taking a deep breath in, letting it out slowly, and trying to stay positive. Too bad I already feel the swelling panic at what he might be about to tell me. “What’s wrong with Wanda?”

  He gives me a small smile, presumably at my rust bucket’s name, and gives me the lay of the land.

  “Well, Wanda’s power steering is leaking, her O2 sensor is broken, the tranny is leaking, your brake pads need to be replaced, the alignment is off, and there is the beginning of corrosion on the starter, whi
ch is likely why it has trouble… well, starting.”

  I blink.

  “So everything is broken on my car,” I say, letting out a disbelieving laugh and allowing my head to fall backwards, my eyes closing in frustration and a desire to restrain my anger. “Of course.”

  He gives me a smile, then makes a note of something on the clipboard.

  “That’s why cars need to get taken care of regularly.” His eyes come back to mine. “Otherwise they rust and fall apart and have even bigger issues.”

  I nod and take the clipboard from him when he passes it to me. “I know, I just… she’s been sitting in my mom’s garage under a tarp for like, six years, and before that I was too young to know how to take care of her since no one ever taught me.” I shake my head and sign where he points. “And she was a gross old rusty mess when I first got her, so. It is what it is.”

  He nods, then lifts off the top copy for me to take.

  “The payment you made is for the oil change, tire rotation, and full check to see what’s wrong. The quote at the bottom is what it would cost to repair each component of the car that I mentioned.”

  I let my eyes skim to the bottom of the page and feel my stomach collapse in on itself at the price.

  “Is…” I take a breath and try to steady my voice. “Is my car even worth this much?”

  Alex gives me a shrug. “I doubt it. But I can say that Toyotas are incredibly reliable, and you don’t have a ridiculous amount of miles on her. So if you put in the finances to get it all fixed the right way, I wouldn’t be surprised if you could get another fifty to sixty thousand miles out of her.” He shrugs again. “It might be a better investment than getting a cheap, used car that could have other issues and be it’s own money pit.”

  I take a deep breath through my mouth and push the air slowly out of my nose.

  It’s okay. Shit happens. It’s not the end of the world.

  But even in trying to stay calm, I can feel the tears prickle at the back of my eyes. It might not be the end of the world, but it feels like I just can’t catch a break.