36 Questions That Changed My Mind About You

by Vicki Grant

  HILDY: Quit it.

  PAUL: See? This is what I mean about the essence of you being hysterical. You should see the color of your neck right now.

  HILDY: Would you please shut up.

  HILDY: Thank you. What I was going to say is those obvious things are the outside of you. And I admit that’s what I was attracted to.

  PAUL: Was?

  HILDY: Sigh.

  PAUL: “Be very honest.”

  HILDY: I am. But… well, it’s like what I’m seeing—the outside, I mean—is just the bouncer at the door. You know, the guy with the swagger and the muscles and the wink. The one who keeps everyone away. What I really like about you is that other person. The one the bouncer’s trying to keep me from seeing.

  PAUL: This is confusing.

  HILDY: It’s a metaphor.

  PAUL: Not what I was hoping for.

  HILDY: I’m saying your outward personality is this big brash guy but who I really like is—

  PAUL: The little dweeby sniveling guy inside.

  HILDY: Yeah. He’s more my type. Brad may be out charming the ladies but—

  PAUL: Who’s Brad?

  HILDY: The bouncer.

  PAUL: He has a name?

  HILDY: I just gave him one.

  PAUL: Shouldn’t he be Bob?

  HILDY: Yeah, I guess he should. But that will make the little sniveling guy Paul. You okay with that?

  PAUL: I’m man enough to take it.

  HILDY: Anyway, Paul’s the one I like. The sensitive one. The one who tells the truth, draws the pictures, gives me a second chance.

  PAUL: That’s nice.

  HILDY: There he is again.

  PAUL: Can’t get rid of him. Lord knows I’ve tried.

  HILDY: But here’s the thing. I’m not finished. I think that sniveling guy inside likes me, too.

  PAUL: Oh, yeah?

  HILDY: Yeah. While Bob was out throwing his muscle around and pushing back the crowds, I saw Paul, banging at the window, going, “Hildy, come get me! Save me!”

  PAUL: Paul’s voice is that high?

  HILDY: He was afraid I’d leave.

  PAUL: He needed his damsel in shining armor to rescue him?

  HILDY: Yeah. More or less.

  PAUL: Not very manly.

  HILDY: In the traditional sense, no.

  PAUL: But you still liked him?

  HILDY: Like him. Yes.

  PAUL: That was a good answer. If weird.

  HILDY: Thank you.

  HILDY: Okay. Your turn. You have to start with the obvious stuff, too. And, enough with the hot mess business. Just stick to the flat-out compliments. Girls love those.

  HILDY: What is taking you so long?

  HILDY: And why are you looking at me like that?

  PAUL: Just savoring the moment.

  HILDY: Well, don’t.

  PAUL: I like that about you. You seem insecure at first but you’re actually weirdly confident.

  HILDY: Sorry. Can we just stop there for a moment? None of your so-called compliments should include the word “weirdly” or any variations thereof. Kind of dulls the effect.

  PAUL: See? That’s what I’m talking about. You’re smart, funny, sensitive, yada-yada-yada.

  HILDY: No yada-yada-yada, either.

  PAUL: Didn’t think I’d get away with that. You’re—what’s the word I’m looking for? When you see things? When you understand what’s really happening even though things might not seem that way? Not perspective…

  HILDY: Perceptive.

  PAUL: Yes. And you also have a good vocabulary. And you’re hot. And you’re good to talk to. You listen.

  HILDY: Whoa. Stop. Go back. Hot? Me.

  PAUL: Yeah. You.

  HILDY: What about me’s so hot?

  PAUL: Specifically?

  HILDY: Yeah. I might need this information later.

  PAUL: The hair. The lips. Those skinny little fingers of yours. The general package. Evan Keefe was brain-dead. Or something-dead.

  PAUL: And the way you blush.

  HILDY: No one has ever said anything like that to me before except maybe Max, but he’s my best friend and he’s gay so, like, you know.

  PAUL: Maybe you’re so hot they were afraid to say it.

  HILDY: Now you’re just playing with me.

  PAUL: I like that about you, too. You get all bent out of shape and all indignant and everything but then you laugh at yourself.

  HILDY: Better than crying. Which I do, too.

  PAUL: Which I don’t like quite as much.

  HILDY: Stick to the good stuff.

  PAUL: You’re pure.

  HILDY: Oh, god.

  PAUL: What?

  HILDY: It’s like I’ve got VIRGIN stamped on my forehead or something.

  PAUL: HOT VIRGIN. In flashing lights.

  HILDY: That’s worse. Sounds like a cable TV show you’d stumble on at three in the morning.

  PAUL: Not what I meant by pure. I meant…

  HILDY: Yes?

  PAUL: I don’t know. Pure. Like it says. Not cut with bad stuff.

  PAUL: It’s a compliment.

  HILDY: I get that. I just don’t quite understand it.

  PAUL: Neither do I exactly. You’re kind of the same as your hair or your skin or your eyelashes without mascara. You’re just the way you’re supposed to be. Despite everything.

  PAUL: Sorry. Scratch the “despite everything” bit. You’re pure.

  HILDY: Thank you.

  PAUL: That’s what I mean right there.

  QUESTION 36

  HILDY: This is the last question.

  PAUL: Then what happens?

  HILDY: I don’t know. Collect our forty bucks, then it’s up to us I guess.

  PAUL: Forty bucks. That’s like a third of the cost of your fish. A lot of work for not much payoff.

  HILDY: No one promised a payoff. As I recall, Jeff said they were just trying to see if they could “facilitate” a relationship.

  PAUL: What?

  HILDY: “Facilitate a relationship.” They didn’t promise we’d fall in love or even in like for that matter.

  PAUL: What are you talking about?

  HILDY: The point of the study.

  PAUL: That’s what this is about? No one told me that.

  HILDY: Why were you doing it then?

  PAUL: For the forty bucks.

  HILDY: Oh my god. What a pair. You didn’t care why and I didn’t care how much… You okay?

  PAUL: I’m just kind of stunned. It’s like mind control or something.

  HILDY: You mean if you saw me on the street you wouldn’t have naturally thought how hot and pure I was.

  PAUL: No, I would but…

  HILDY: So what are you complaining about then?… I’m asking the final question.

  PAUL: This calls for a drumroll.

  HILDY: Thank you. Okay. Here goes: Share a personal problem and ask your partner’s advice on how he or she might handle it. Also, ask your partner to reflect back to you how you seem to be feeling about the problem you have chosen. No idea what that second part means. But I’ve got a personal problem to share.

  PAUL: Go ahead.

  HILDY: And I know it’s probably not as big as your problem.

  PAUL: Not a competition, remember?

  HILDY: Right.

  HILDY: I don’t know how I’m going to face my parents. I mean, like, respect them again. My mother cheated on my father and let him raise someone else’s kid. My father raised the kid and loved him but wasn’t man enough to get beyond the fact Gabe’s not his. I don’t admire them anymore and I don’t know what to do about it.

  PAUL: I’m probably the wrong person to be asking about parent problems.

  HILDY: You’re the only person I’ve got at the moment. Give it a try.

  PAUL: Look. My mother couldn’t keep a job. Couldn’t keep a man, or a friend, either. Didn’t do anything with her talents. She was pretty hopeless. But I loved her—and I respected her, too, at least most of the time. S
he screwed up but she kept trying and failing and trying again. I’m not sure you can expect anything more from people than that. And, shit, I mean, your parents—yeah, they messed up this time, but look at all the other stuff they did. The house, the careers, the family. And Gabe—that person you’d die for? They made him, too, whether it was your dad’s sperm or not.

  HILDY: Please try to avoid saying “your dad’s sperm” from now on.

  PAUL: Sorry. Anyway, what I mean is your dad raised him. He made him who he is. And imagine how pissed off you’d be in his shoes. This kid he’s crazy about isn’t even his. Give the guy a break. He needs some time to get over it.

  HILDY: What about my mother? She started this.

  PAUL: So? Maybe she got drunk one night and did something crazy. People do. Or maybe your dad was an asshole. Or Rich What’s-his-name was her own true love but she decided to stay with your father for the good of the family. You have no idea. She deserves a break, too. She brought those shoes back from Milan for you, don’t forget.

  HILDY: Easier said than done.

  PAUL: Get used to it.

  HILDY: I need ice cream.

  PAUL: In this weather?

  HILDY: It makes depressing news easier to take.

  PAUL: Menu says vanilla or chocolate.

  HILDY: Jerry! A bowl of chocolate ice cream, please.

  PAUL: A woman who knows what she wants. I also like that.

  HILDY: What’s your personal problem you need help with?

  PAUL: It’s small. I mean, at least compared to yours.

  HILDY: Yay! Looks like I’m finally going to win a round.

  PAUL: Small but vicious.

  HILDY: You’re just going to make something up to keep me from scoring.

  PAUL: No. This is real.

  HILDY: Okay. Let’s hear it.

  PAUL: This is harder than I thought it was going to be.

  HILDY: You’re making me nervous.

  PAUL: Here comes Jerry.

  HILDY: Oh, ice cream. And two spoons! Perfect. Thanks very much. Here… Help yourself.

  PAUL: Ice cream is not going to help me.

  HILDY: Then just say it. Get it out.

  PAUL: I need you to help figure me out what my next move should be.

  HILDY: With what?

  PAUL: With you.

  HILDY: Me?

  PAUL: You.

  PAUL: You’ve posed kind of a problem for me.

  HILDY: Which is?

  PAUL: I don’t usually know girls this well before the, um, next step.

  HILDY: What next step?

  PAUL: Well, for starters, I guess, the kiss.

  HILDY: That’s a bad thing?

  PAUL: Yeah.

  HILDY: How come?

  PAUL: It can get messy.

  HILDY: Messy? You’re not a drooler, are you?

  PAUL: Ha. Ha.

  HILDY: Sorry. Stupid joke. I don’t know why I said it.

  PAUL: You’re nervous.

  HILDY: Yeah.

  PAUL: Me too.

  HILDY: What do you mean by messy?

  PAUL: I don’t know. Messy in the head or the heart or whatever. I can usually just walk away. But I can’t this time.

  PAUL: And I don’t like that.

  HILDY: So what are you going to do?

  PAUL: Classic rock-and-a-hard-place situation. I can leave and be miserable or stay and it may be something worse. You tell me.

  PAUL: It’s your fault. You shouldn’t have thrown that fish at me.

  PAUL: You’re not eating your ice cream.

  PAUL: It’s going to melt.

  HILDY: I think you should stay.

  PAUL: And then what?

  HILDY: How am I supposed to know?

  PAUL: That’s all you’re saying?

  HILDY: Yes.

  PAUL: Not like you.

  HILDY: I know. But what else can I say? I thought you were brave. So be brave.

  HILDY: And I’ll try to be, too.

  PAUL: Okay. Well, that’s settled. So are we done then?

  HILDY: No. One more thing. We’re supposed to stare into each other’s eyes for four minutes without speaking.

  PAUL: You’re joking.

  HILDY: That’s what it says here. Participants should… Hey! What happened?

  PAUL: Power’s out. The storm, I guess…

  HILDY: Oh my god. It’s so dark.

  PAUL: Perfect. Won’t be so awkward staring into each other’s eyes.

  JERRY: Well, that’s it, folks. Hotel-motel time! You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here. If you wouldn’t mind leaving a rough tally of your bill on the table, we’ll settle things some other time. Bundle up, people. It’s ugly out there.

  CHAPTER

  23

  Before he’d bought his cab, Lloyd Meisener was an old navy guy. He’d been back and forth across the North Atlantic many times in ships not much better than tin cans. It killed him now the way a little snow had people running scared.

  Oh well. Better for him. He always made a bundle on stormy nights.

  He was busy, so he didn’t notice something had been left in his car until after nine. He was taking a nurse to the hospital for the late shift and she found the fish on the backseat. It took him a while to figure out whose it was and where he’d dropped them off. It was almost ten by the time he made it back to Cousin’s.

  He didn’t think he’d find them. The whole North End was pitched into darkness. The radio was saying a plow driver had lost control and taken down a power pole. Lloyd kept going anyway. If he didn’t find the young couple, he’d no doubt manage to pick up another fare.

  He turned onto Hammond Drive. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the lights out at Cousin’s. He wouldn’t even have slowed down had his headlights not caught two people standing in front of the diner. He was pretty sure it was the boy and girl he was looking for. (He prided himself on his memory. He’d had enough ride-’n’-dash patrons that he always kept good mental notes on his passengers.) He was about to pull up to the curb and honk, but something stopped him. They were standing so still. The boy’s arms were slipped into the girl’s sleeves, like he was cupping her elbows in his hands. They were looking into each other’s eyes.

  Lloyd chose to wait it out. He had his in-car rules—number three was no PDA—but that didn’t mean he was a prude. He was all for young love. A big fan. He’d been young once himself. He kept a picture of Donna clipped to his sun visor. It was taken in 1974. A stranger might not recognize her on the street today but, as far as he was concerned, that was still the girl Lloyd climbed into bed with every night.

  He decided he’d let them have their kiss, then wait a respectable amount of time, and toot his horn. The last thing he wanted was to be stuck with some damn fish and he wasn’t the type to flush it down the toilet. He’d heard too many horror stories about what was growing in the harbor.

  He waited.

  Get a move on, son, he thought. In his day, he’d be halfway to second base by this point. But the boy just kept looking at the girl, mesmerized, until finally they both smiled. Laughed really. Then the boy took his arms out of her sleeves and wrapped one around her neck and the other around her waist and pulled her close and they kissed.

  Lloyd smiled and looked away. Love. It did the heart good.

  He sat there averting his eyes and listening to Country 101 FM for half an hour, then he laid on the horn.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The very first thing I should acknowledge goes without saying: I clearly have no background in psychology.

  Zero.

  None.

  Not a single undergraduate-level course, or at least not a single one I managed to stay awake through.

  As a result, I’m missing the mental equipment necessary to process the results of Arthur Aron’s 1997 study, “The Experimental Generation of Interpersonal Closeness.” I do, however, know a good story idea when I see one. So many, many thanks, first, to Dr. Aron and his team for inspi
ring this work of fiction—and just as many apologies for everything I got wrong therein.

  Thanks as well to guinea pig extraordinaire, Jean H. H. Richardson. Her appetite for expensive boots and cheap bière caused her to become a regular probe-for-hire subject at McGill University. Occasionally she’d tell me about the experiments, or at least about the cute guys conducting them—and another idea was born. (That’s not enough to qualify for a cut of royalties, but nice try, anyway.)

  Adrienne Szpyrka is a fabulous editor. So good, in fact, that, as a token of my appreciation, I’d like to propose szpyrka as a verb meaning “to gently and adroitly encourage a person to write a funnier, clearer, and more moving story.” I mean this purely as a homage to Adrienne’s amazing editing skills. It has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that szpyrka would be the best Scrabble word ever.

  Thanks, too, to the magnificent Fiona Kenshole. It’s not an exaggeration to say my life has changed for the better since she became my agent. What a difference having her enthusiasm, experience, and doggedness on my side. She’s made writing fun again, sold my book around the world, and given me some handy haircare tips, too. What more could I want in an agent?

  My posse of girlfriends cannot go unmentioned, either. Neighborhood pals, high school friends, bridge partners, book-club buddies, workmates: year in, year out, they turn up for bad wine, limp appetizers, and yet another book. They laugh at my jokes, cheer me on, and deluge their kids, relatives, and acquaintances with “the latest Vicki Grant.” I owe them, big-time. Grease babies all around this Christmas, girls!

  And last but not least my funny, smart, beautiful, kind, irreplaceable family. They know my answer to Question 9 without even asking—and they know, too, that merely thinking about it has caused my face to be covered in, not just “spillage,” but an absolute torrent of real tears.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR