“You shouldn’t give up if it’s your dream,” Gideon says in a kind tone. “I wanted to be the state’s best investment banker, and now I am.” Mom nods, a proud gleam in her eyes. “It’s not very glamorous, but I’ve always enjoyed numbers and I was dreadful at chemistry, so here I am, not an engineer or a doctor, but I still help people.” And got rich doing it. No wonder Mom likes him. He’s way more successful than Dad could ever be. At least at investment banking.
“People always need money,” I say.
“Yes, they do,” says Mom in a warning tone. She can tell when I’m making make fun of someone. She once called me pretentious and I called her self-righteous. We did not speak for three weeks after that incident. “You should be very proud, Gideon.”
“You must think me boring,” he says to me.
I shrug and say, “No, not boring. My math skills are atrocious. Just ask my friends. The only percentages I ever worried about were whether a table gave me twenty percent or not.”
“That makes sense,” he says and laughs. “I used to tend bar in college. My family had practically no money, and scholarships only get you so far.” Finally intrigued by Gideon, I lean forward as he continues. “I couldn’t stand the rich kids who came in and spilled beer all over the place. The bar was my second home.”
“Mom and my dad helped me out as much as they could,” I say, and Mom smiles, happy we found something in common. I can tell that she worried whether I liked Gideon but would be perfectly fine telling me to mind my own business if I said he wasn’t good for her. “But I still have a ton of debt. That’s mainly why I stayed with Weston’s after my internship.”
“Did they pay you?”
“Unusually, yes. I got the coveted paid internship. The company only had one spot they could afford to pay, and the resumes were competitive. Luckily, I edited my high school paper almost single-handed. That impressed Kelly, my boss, so she pushed for me to get the position.”
“Do you think it was a good idea to stay there? Now, I mean. Don’t you want to get back to writing?”
“Of course. Someday. But it’s complicated. I have no time for myself that doesn’t involve running, cooking, or sleeping.”
“The first thing I learned about work is not to be its slave,” he says. “Remember what you really want to do with your life, and don’t let work get in the way.”
That’s easy for you to say, Gideon. You’ve already surpassed your rough years. I feel age thirty pressing on my neck, and no publications under my belt. I had planned on being published by twenty-five, and to have a book deal by thirty. What happened to me? What happened to my plan?
“Don’t get so down, Cassie,” says Mom, and she takes my hand, something she hasn’t done in a long time. “I know you’ll write the great American novel someday.”
I never knew Mom had that much faith in me. Is she just putting on a show for her boyfriend? Or is this what has been missing over the years? Someone’s belief that I could do what I wanted? Be what I wanted? Dad says he’s proud of me no matter what, and Joel reads all my work and gives encouragement. But I always knew their good opinions were a given. They would never criticize my work or me. Maybe what I really needed was my greatest critic to acknowledge me. Are we all slaves to the critics? Or is it just me?
I meet Logan Hilton (no, not that Hilton) at a small café in Minneapolis. The girls made me choose a name out of a hat when we went to the bar last weekend, because they were arguing over what guy should be next. Lindsey mentioned scraping a barrel bottom and Alicia punched her in the arm. I do not have high expectations for this date, not because the girls couldn’t focus on the perfect February man, mainly because I’m still upset over the Justin incident. Alicia’s advice is difficult to take. I used to spend most lunches with Justin and Kevin, but it’s too hard. Justin brings his own lunch or leaves the building without saying his destination, and Kevin tries to cheer me up, but it’s no good. He wants to talk about what went wrong and why Justin and I can’t be together. He believes we’re meant to be or some crap like that, but he backs off when I give him my acerbic stare. Work has been miserable, and I’m behind on the new manuscript. I’ve barely gotten past the title page. It’s about a couple having trouble communicating about their relationship. That’s all I’ve figured out so far about the plot.
It’s freezing outside, so I’m wearing my usual winter attire. I get to the coffee shop early so I can see what the new guy looks like. I don’t need any surprises today. The shop is decked out in red and pink hearts, and lacy doilies adorn each small table. Next to the register sits a glass Cupid figurine with a bow and arrow. This month makes me feel like barfing. It’s so fake, like we’re all looking into a diorama of a relationship. The man is bullied into buying overpriced cards and flowers when he could get them half off the next day, and the woman is expected to fawn over these gifts and made to believe that if her boyfriend does not comply with her wishes he should be shunned for a least a month. I may sound like your everyday cynic, but I’ve had a long time to build up this snarky attitude, and believe me, there are a lot of people out in the world who do not celebrate February fourteenth. They survive, even those in relationships. If a couple can’t get past that day unscathed, I think they’re in danger.
I order a cappuccino and survey the passersby, which are not many. A group of businessman rush past, hands thrust in coat pockets, breath steaming from overactive mouths. A teenage girl in pink earmuffs glides by the window, impervious to windblown hair.
My date is right on time, which is awesome. He looks exactly how Kevin described him: middle height, slim, and good-looking in a bookish way. He has two deep dimples in his cheeks and they’re a bit distracting, like twin dark caves. His hands are enormous, clad in black leather gloves, not proportionate to the rest of him. I wonder if he plays the piano. I get the impression that he has been on a lot of dates. He seems at ease and comfortable in this first date setting, and he obviously knows the staff. The barista brings him a huge coffee covered in whipped cream.
“My one vice,” he says when I eye the mound of white frosting, and thanks his friend. “I can’t fight the craving, so I might as well give in.”
“If whipped cream is your one vice, I think you’re too good for this world.”
“Well, I might have other idiosyncrasies, but I hide those pretty well.” We laugh, and he sips his drink, careful not to receive a white mustache from the cream. “For instance, I’ll bet you had no idea that I like Keanu Reeves movies.”
“I would never have guessed.”
“His fans are usually covered with acne and talk about Kung Fu.”
“And overuse surfer lingo like ‘rad’ and ‘gnarly.’”
Feeling slightly like a dork, I can’t help but enjoy Logan’s company. He reminds me a little of Dan. He’s older than me, but that doesn’t bother him. He’s interested in books, many movies that don’t include Keanu Reeves, and snowboarding.
“I’m terrible with winter sports,” I say, recalling my date with Dan. “Give me beach volleyball over ice skating any day.”
“It’s pretty hard to play beach volleyball right now.”
“I don’t enjoy sports throughout the seasons. It’s not like food.”
“How so?”
“Well, I like squash and Honey Crisp apples in the fall, because that’s when they’re in season, and I wouldn’t touch a tomato until summer or late spring. The winter ones taste like cardboard. Sports are like that too; they come in seasons. Would you like skiing in the summer?”
“You’re a foodie?”
“Not so much. I’m a mediocre cook, some say ‘bad.’ I like foods that don’t take much coaxing to become meals.”
“TV dinner fan myself, at least all through college. I lived on instant macaroni and cheese.”
“Who didn’t?”
We don’t mention that V-Day is approaching but make plans for a second date. Tomorrow marks the fourth year I’ve been alone on that day. We cynic
s may hate stupid St. whatever day, but it’s still hard to admit that you feel lonely and terrible when you have no one to buy you a flower or send you a crappy card. We’re a sorry lot, aren’t we?
The fourteenth comes and goes like always, and I try not to remember what Pete and I used to do. Even though I hated the day, Pete made reservations at some restaurant, and we had a good time. He made a big show of giving me presents, and I wonder now why he didn’t give me gifts on random days of the year. That would have been more special. Pete never listened to me about Valentine’s Day. He wanted to “celebrate our love.” I was happy to celebrate it alone in our apartment, but Pete was a showman. If he couldn’t be the ringmaster in the V-Day circus then he didn’t have any fun.
He also made a show and proposed in front of a billion people. He didn’t put the ring in dessert or anything lame like that. He didn’t have a violin-toting amateur musician serenade us. He didn’t tie it to a champagne flute and toast our love. He simply got down on one knee and asked me if I would make him the happiest man on earth. Corny, but how could I refuse? We were surrounded! And I desperately wanted to make him happy. What a fool.
Note to all you men out there: do not propose to your girlfriend on any significant date. Not on Christmas, Easter, your first date anniversary, your parent’s birthday, her birthday especially, nor any other bank holiday. You want that day to be special on its own, not to be overshadowed every year by something else like the birth of Christ. You can’t compete with Jesus.
The day after that horrible atrocity of a holiday, my mother calls and invites me over for tea. Since she hates tea but enjoys pretension, I accept. I immediately wonder if Gideon will be there and hope he’s not. I liked him in general, but once was enough. Although I have a feeling he’ll be hanging around for some time.
When I get to my mom’s place it’s a bit past two in the afternoon, and soft music sails out her door when I knock.
“Gideon suggested this CD. He says it will calm my nerves,” says Mom when she ushers me inside.
“It’s nice.” It sounds like beach noises, whales and whatnot. Very soothing. Not very suitable for tea, however. Mom’s not one to break protocol on social visits. Interesting. Maybe Gideon is loosening her up.
“It reminds me of that trip we took to the coast when you and Joel were very young.”
“I don’t remember,” I lie. Who can forget playing in saltwater for the first time or almost flaying their foot on a sharp shell? Joel stepped on a jellyfish, and Dad peed on his foot behind a clump of tall beach grass. It was hilarious.
“I do. It was a lovely time. July at Redondo Beach. The water was so warm and beautiful.”
“Um hum.”
“Come in and get comfortable. Tea’s almost ready.”
I walk into the dining room and am surprised to find the table bare. She usually brings out a mismatched collection of tea wares; tiny spoons twinkling in the lamplight, and china cups with chipped rims and saucers that are too small or too large. Today, there’s only the usual placemats and a large bowl in the center containing pinecones. They smell like cinnamon.
She comes in with the teapot and two coffee mugs clutched in her hands, a small smile dances across her face. She looks frightened, like I might yell at her. I’ve rarely seen my mother look fragile. She’s about as dainty as a garden gnome, no matter how many cashmere cardigans she has. I’m used to her forbidding posture and powerful voice. This new mother scares me about as much as my dad with confidence.
“Are you feeling okay, Mom? Did you get the flu that’s been going around?”
“No, I’m fine. I get headaches in the morning but nothing to worry about.” She sets down the cups and pours hot water into each. Two teabags sit in the cups, ready to steep. A light woodsy perfume floats out of the cups and engulfs us. I’ll never know why Mom insists on drinking tea when she doesn’t like it. Maybe it’s the scent she craves. Tea always smells better than it tastes. Unless it’s chai tea.
“So,” I begin, unsure what to say. “Gideon was nice.”
“Yes. He’s helped me a lot.”
“I see.” I have absolutely no desire to hear what he’s helped her with. No new renovations, so it’s got to be in the bedroom department or something equally appalling. We both sip and I know she wants to say something but can’t seem to spit it out. “He was kind to mention my writing,” I say, too bitterly. She looks up and her eyes flash. There’s the old Mom.
“He only talked about it because he was nervous. You have no idea how you make people feel.”
“Like what?”
“You make them feel stupid. Like everything they say is utter rubbish.”
“I was perfectly cordial at brunch.”
“You were snobby and aloof. Gideon had to pry words out of you. I felt a little embarrassed. I talk about you all the time, and he was excited to meet you. Now he feels like he made an ass of himself.”
“I didn’t know I was making him uncomfortable,” I mumble. I did know. That’s another talent, distressing perfectly normal people with my words.
“You never mean to make people feel inferior. Usually.”
“Do I make you feel inferior?”
“Sometimes.” Now there’s a revelation. I have no comeback. My mom is the strongest, most opinionated person that I know. I didn’t think anyone could make her feel inadequate. “I try to ignore it, but it makes me feel bad. I don’t read masterpieces. I don’t know as many big words—”
“For God’s sake.”
“Let me finish! Don’t roll your eyes at me either. I hate that.” I try to control my eyes, but they have minds of their own. I think I first rolled my eyes at my mother when I was two.
“My eyes just do that sometimes.”
“Alarmingly often. They should have fallen out of your head years ago. I never realized how someone so pigheaded could have ended up with someone so manipulative.”
“If you’re talking about Pete…”
“Who else?”
“You adored him! You said I should have tried harder to save our relationship!”
“That was when you were engaged. You made a commitment, and I didn’t want to see you break it and be disappointed in yourself. You hate to fail.”
“Why are you bringing this up now?” My mom and I are not known for our heart-to-heart confessionals. She saves her ears for my little brother.
“Gideon’s afraid that you hate me.” Her face falls, and I notice her age. She usually wears a smidge too much eye makeup, and her lipstick is too bright. My mom fights aging like Muhammad Ali, standing over it like a triumphant Olympian. Today her face is unadorned. Every wrinkle comes out in the light and shadow, and I think of Grandma. My mom is becoming Grandma. Does that mean I’m becoming more like my mother?
“I don’t hate you, Mom,” I sigh and put my cup aside. Tears begin to form in her eyes, and I know she doubts me. Why wouldn’t she? We were never as close as she and Joel or my father and me. I stormed out of Thanksgiving dinner, and she thinks I acted awful with her boyfriend. Parents are so complicated.
“Do you know what it’s like to feel left out?” she asks. Of course, I do. I sucked at sports in school and was always chosen near last. I was an A-student surrounded by others whose scores never matched mine, and in college I missed out on a lot of dates and nights out because I was too busy studying and writing.
“Yes.”
“To be left out of a family?” I’m not sure where she’s going with this. Left out of what family?
“What are you talking about?”
“You and your father, always doing things without me. Having your secret grown-ups-only club. You never included me in anything.”
“But you hated baseball games and the State Fair.”
“That doesn’t mean I didn’t want to spend time with you! I would have gone to anything if it made you happy.”
“You came fishing with us one year and made us go home early! You despised it! You said you never
wanted to go again!”
“That’s because it was ninety degrees, you and Joel were burnt to a crisp, and your father had too many beers. It was dangerous to stay out on the lake. I actually love fishing. I just didn’t want another outing like that.” I don’t remember it that way, but I was young. Dad hid his drinking well. There’s almost no way to tell if he’s drunk. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t drink as often now.
“And what about my school plays? Dad was the one who went to those.”
“I didn’t go to the first one because Joel was sick with the stomach flu, and in junior high you told me not to come.”
“I did not!”
“You did, though not to my face. I overheard you on the phone with some friend, and you said your parents were lame and that you’d be mortified if we showed up. I think the show was The Wizard of Oz, and you played the Tin Man.” Her memory exceeds mine. I was the Tin Man, and I did tell my friend that I didn’t want anyone to see my performance, but that’s because I was nervous. I only called them lame to seem cool. I totally wanted their support, but what teenager admits that?
“What about you and Joel? He’s obviously your favorite.” She scoffs and throws her hands in the air.
“Your brother is dear to me, but he doesn’t give as well as he receives.”
“He’s male.”
“I don’t expect as much of him as I do of you. It’s different with boys.”
“Is that why you don’t care whom he dates?”
“I care! He’s my son! I don’t want him to end up with some bimbo. And don’t say a word about Gisele. She’s a nice girl, just a bit dim.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything.” Yes, I was.
“Your brother knows what’s good for him. That’s why he moved to California. He knew this place would hold him back. Maybe he’ll become famous and be able to buy me a new house,” she jokes. Mom loved our old house, even though it was nothing special. It was a two-story brown building built in the 1980s with a little park right behind it and a huge shade tree in the backyard. We had barbeques on the deck in the summer, and it never got warm enough in the winter. Joel and I buried three goldfish, one lizard, and two parakeets in Mom’s flowerbeds by the garage. She swore we were crazy when we held funeral services for our pets. Some roof shingles fell off in the end, blown away by wind, and one of the kitchen windows wouldn’t open after my idiot uncle painted it shut, but it was home. She cried when she put the “FOR SALE” sign up by our mailbox.
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