by C. Spencer
Until I slid in.
Feeling her hips, her thighs so slick against mine.
Because that was a different kind of wind out there. I’ve asked you to marry me, she said. Nothing to break it with.
“Thinking about diving in?” Rae says. I can feel our skin rub.
“Yeah, I don’t know,” I say. “What do you think?”
“What about the kid?”
“She’s a fish,” I say as I tug my shirt overhead.
Chapter Sixteen
By the Book
Madisen
I’m listening to NPR’s On Point along my evening commute, thinking about lawsuits and company documents and complaints, when they segue into What’s happening a little later this hour and there’s my phone.
“That may be over,” Andi’s telling me.
“Are you kidding?” I say. “And why are you again on that treadmill?” But she ignores me, offering little more than the vocal equivalent of a shrug.
“More like, she’s been temporarily ghosted.”
“And why would you do something like that?”
“Because I may go back, who knows? I need a break.”
“A break…after all but one week?” I say. “I read something like this in a book.”
And I’m trying to remember which book it was when she cuts me off with some lecture that ends with “Freud the misogynist?”
And sure, maybe I went a little overboard thinking I could save my marriage sans therapy to the tune of some used psychology textbooks I found on eBay after having an epiphany, which Andi did so kindly put up with for months on end. Because isn’t that what you do when you’re irrationally brokenhearted and desperate for clarity or who knows—you just end up repeating the same tired stories, the same Why me? over and over again to everyone around. Or in my case, to the only one around, which was Andi.
“Look, I’m beyond that,” I say. “And that wasn’t even the point I was trying to make.”
“If you think I need a relationship book after a week, she can’t possibly be the one.”
“It was something about excitement and anxiety or confusing the two. I’m just saying, it was so you right now. Because how do you know someone in seven days?”
“It was seven rather intense days,” she says.
“And if I were her, I’d show up at your next game thinking you were still interested and just too busy to reach out. Isn’t the schedule online?”
“She won’t.”
“How can you be so sure?” I say.
“Look, I’m sure. And relationships aren’t by the book.”
But those books have helped me function in the same biosphere as Mother, which is what I’m trying to explain to her when our conversation segues into, “Why in the world did you tell her?”
“Because I had to,” I say. “She’s my mother. I was there, remember, and it just sort of, I don’t know, came up.”
“You brought it up,” she says.
“I know, I know,” I say. “It’s just that, she knows me.”
“She knows your buttons,” Andi says.
“But what if I have been selfish?”
“You can’t be serious,” she says. “You’re happy, so what? I’m not even going to justify that with an answer.”
“No,” I say. “I mean introducing her to my kid…and so quickly?”
“She’s your girlfriend. She should know your kid. I’ve been saying this for how long? And think about who you’re dealing with. And how long have you been with this girl? I really like her, by the way. Don’t ever listen to your mother. I mean it, my God, she’s doing it again, trying to control you, bring you down. You are living your best life. Everything’s looking up, and again she’s sabotaging your joy. How would she know the first thing about lesbians, let alone how we do parenting? Or relationships for that matter? It’s not the same. And it’s definitely not slow.”
Which makes me laugh. “You might be on to something.”
“I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. This is your life. Not hers. That’s what you’re always telling me, isn’t it?”
What I don’t mention next is the fact that I ordered another book just last week, with two lengthy chapters on infidelity, because I’m still trying to wrap my head around that one. The Why’d she do it? And that’s not to say I’m bargaining. I’m not denying, either. I’m well into acceptance. I just figure, if I could understand why it happened, I won’t fall into the same situation again. And maybe it won’t be about me anymore, my inadequacies. It might be something else that led Aline astray.
Or perhaps it’s none of that and neither of us. Perhaps love simply has an expiry date. That’s all.
“Guess who’s on the other line?” I say.
“Don’t take it,” Andi says.
“I have to,” I say. “It might be the kid.”
“Then call her back,” she says.
“If I call back, Aline will definitely answer,” I say. “Look, I need to take this.”
“Then call me the second you get home,” she says.
So I pick up, gut-wrenched to hear Aline. “No, it’s fine,” I say. “I’m on my way home.” Which she knows. It’s seven.
“So this is bad timing.”
“No,” I say. And in an attempt to sound more natural, somewhat pulled together, I say, “It’s fine. I hear banging. What’s for dinner?”
“Nothing you would like,” she says. “Roasted root vegetables. Sorry it’s so loud. She’s back in an hour.”
“Where is she?” I say.
“At a neighbor’s for PlayStation.”
“You know, I never did like your cooking,” I say.
“Yes, you did.”
“Remember the Daily Dozen?”
And she laughs. “I’m pretty sure I know where this is going. What to Expect When You’re Expecting,” she says. “You turned it into some kind of research project.”
“I forgot how much you love to exaggerate,” I say.
“You were right, though,” she says.
“As if eating at the table would solve any of her emotional problems,” I say.
“It amazes me how a child so young can be so hormonal,” Aline says.
“She obviously takes after you,” I say.
“And this is how I get her into vegetables—drowning it all in maple syrup. She wants doughnuts. For dinner. Everything’s an argument with her. So of course I have Hostess for dessert, which would explain my gym membership,” she says. “I can’t have that stuff in the house. It’s too easy.”
“Whatever, Aline.”
“Speaking of,” she says, “you wouldn’t happen to have that, would you? You know what I’m talking about. I’ve looked everywhere—”
“I’m pretty sure you left all the books here.”
“I actually took a few,” she says. And afterward, she’s apologizing. But the fact that she sounds genuine, thoughtful, infuriates me.
“Maybe you could get those back to me,” I say.
“It’s not like I have any interest in your textbooks.”
“They’re not textbooks,” I say, “unless you took my textbooks.”
“No,” she says.
“I was thinking the other day about what we could do for her birthday,” I say. “Perhaps our parents might actually get along this year.”
“As if we could be so lucky,” she says.
“If they’ll show up in the first place,” I say.
“It wouldn’t matter to Jordan either way,” Aline says.
“At least we did one thing right. We’ve raised a resilient child.”
“We did a lot right,” Aline says.
“How do you figure?”
“Let’s see,” she says. “What did I do right?”
“What, Aline?”
“I think you know the answer to that.”
“Don’t be this way,” I say.
“So you’re doing this again.”
“Doing what
again?” I say.
“Never mind,” she says. Even still, why did she have to say that? Would she rather I play along? I won’t, and besides, I’m just sad, that’s all. Then I hear, “Can I ask you something?”
“That depends,” I say.
“I was just wondering, you know, how long?”
“How long, what?” I say.
“How long,” she says, “you know.”
“What?” I say.
“How long have you been with this girl?”
“Is that what this is about?” I say. And the worst thing is that Rae has been out of my mind this entire time, and I hadn’t even realized that until this very moment.
“That’s not what this is about,” she says.
“Then why’d you call?” I say.
“I called about the book,” she says. “I couldn’t find it.”
“It was that important,” I say, “that you had to call?”
“Sometimes it’s easier to pick up the phone,” she says. “I had an hour. And besides, you did pick up.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just that you knew it was me,” she says.
“Why are you so full of yourself?” I say, feeling a bit unnerved. So I pull off and find a parking lot.
“If you’re still angry with me,” she says, “well, you know what they say. Maybe there’s something there.”
“Maybe there is,” I say before I can take it back.
“So does that mean you’re ready to hang up?”
“That was your thing,” I say.
“Then talk with me,” Aline says.
“Talk about what?”
“About my glorious life,” she says in her nonglorious way.
“How’s your glorious life?”
“Aside from, well, stuff we dare not discuss—”
“Oh, please, don’t even call to tell me about your relationship.”
“When it’s what you’ve been waiting for?”
“Aline, seriously? Don’t tell me…What, are you getting married?”
“No,” she says, through this unnecessarily long pause. “We’re through. It’s been two weeks now.”
We’re through. Is that what she just said? Because, just don’t.
But next, she’s changing the subject. She needs to go. She needs to get back to the stove or oven or whatever it is. So we hang up. And I’m left inventing the rest of it, filling in blanks, as I merge back onto the road, heading home. As my mind winds back through our conversation, and I try to make sense of it.
And, why not. Aren’t I well into the acceptance phase? Which means I should be able to take the long scenic route without breaking down this time. Past the house with the copper roof—the last one I saw before that turn I never took, because who in their right mind ends their marriage with a phone call, knowing I’m on my way back to our half-empty home? And it still feels as if this road never ends. It didn’t. It won’t, will it? You just end up in the next town, and even then.
It’s easy to get out of yourself if you want to. If you keep going and never stop. But eventually it’ll exhaust you. And you have to turn back and go home and face it.
By the time I pull up to my curb, my mind’s still on that call and my day and whether or not UPS arrived so I can read tonight. And calling Andi since I need to. But I find Rae at my steps instead, unannounced, knees high, giving me that melt-me grin. And it does. It melts me. But then her gaze drifts away once I catch it. And I stay there for a while transfixed, watching her through the car window. Unassuming.
Before gathering my phone, my keys. And at some point before reaching the door, her arms draw me in, and it feels as if she’s holding me too tight, as we make our way up, glancing across at one another.
“I didn’t expect you,” I say.
“I know,” she says with that spark in her gaze. “We finished early.”
I turn the knob, step inside. “I’m sort of a mess.”
But she follows. And it’s not that I don’t want to see her. It’s just really, really bad timing, that’s all. Really bad timing.
Chapter Seventeen
Simon & Schuster Audio
Rae
“Can’t I get you anything, Rachel?” says the receptionist who couldn’t be more than nineteen. “A cup of coffee…water?” She’s partially hidden behind, or I should say beneath, a vintage half-walled cubicle encircling an empty desk.
And a total of two seats make up their waiting area, which is where she directs me, scarcely ten feet from her desk. Each chair is plastic, and both fail in their attempt to pass as retro. To the contrary, they come off as cheap, orange, and breakable. Uncomfortable, as well. I take one near the window, resting my portfolio against its leg as I admire this spider plant stretched to the light—astounded by the fact that it’s not plastic like the rest.
Once I do, the switchboard rings, and she’s reciting the same greeting I heard when I called. How may I direct your call?
Which reminds me, I should mute my own, slipping it back into its pocket. “I’ll transfer you,” she says, and silence again to the tune of Top of the Pops circa before my time. Music that I half tuned out until I hear Robert John announced and then “Sad Eyes” and, I mean, have you ever actually listened to the words to this song?
I am. And how this guy makes such a coldhearted song seem almost heartfelt is beyond me.
Still I’m waiting, waiting for that falsetto to come, when someone in the next room decides it’s time for karaoke—leading to one of those cute bonding moments between me and the receptionist, the kind of grin that takes a bit of this edge off.
Which is fine.
Since I keep repeating You’ve got this over and over in my mind, all too eager to get in and out and to put this technicality behind me even though I’ve pretty much perfected this whole dog and pony show. Even though I keep landing jobs I’m scarcely qualified to do. My saving grace being the fact that I work largely with creatives who are, by and large, a low-key bunch—especially those who claim the title of Creative Director at fledging start-ups like this one.
And I’m still repeating that mantra when I catch sight of her gaze as she’s making her way around another half wall to greet me, sporting a cotton oxford button-down and a nineties middle part, polished off by well-fitting men’s trousers—making my gaydar spin off the charts. I extend a hand, shake on it, offer my Ogilvy smile paired with a glad we’re on the same team nod.
And trailing her lead, I’m marveling at this vast and otherwise shapeless warehouse of a space they’ve somehow molded into the latest open-office concept, complete with stools and laptops and low-shadow lighting. It’s rather cool if you’re fond of factories, which I am. But how anyone concentrates with no walls, no doors? Write code or whatever it is they’re doing, playing solitaire. Not a soul peeks up.
Then our journey ends at a conference room where she shuts the door and begins flipping pages of my portfolio. I take a seat.
“Can you work in this space?” she says without even so much as a passing glance, leaning against a stretching walnut surface of a table. And I get it. Her silence, this lack of anything remotely close to rapport. She’s clearly of the defensive lesbian slant to assume that my tad bit of camaraderie a second ago was, I don’t know, inappropriate. Unprofessional. Presumptuous.
“This conference room? I could, sure,” I say, cautious. Hoping to clarify with “Anywhere you’d like.” Only to recoil afterward, thinking she’s going to take that wrong. “If that’s what you had in mind?”
“What we had in mind is someone on-site for the duration, I’m thinking six, maybe seven days. Could run longer. It all depends. And that’s something you could manage?”
“Of course,” I say. “How soon would you be looking to start?”
“A week after Labor Day,” she tells me, and I have to wonder what in my portfolio has captured her eye. “At this point, we’re bumping into October,” she says, and I like her voice, command
ing but unquestionably feminine. “This being our first year in attendance. It’s the industry’s biggest show. We need everything just so, you know what I mean? We need to stand out, make a splash,” she says glancing over at me momentarily. “We’re what you would call a newcomer, if you haven’t noticed.” But she doesn’t laugh. “I’m hoping to get everything to the design team in a few weeks, so we meet our print schedule.”
“In that case, I would need to lock this in,” I say, “rather quickly,” hoping to mask my irritation since, really, couldn’t she have set this up months ago without throwing off my entire schedule?
“I love your work,” she says, closing the book then handing it over. And could I be catching the start of a smile? “You really do have an incredible eye, and it fits our brand. I’m sure you hear that often.” Yes, that’s definitely a smile. “I’d like to hire you.”
So I’m thinking, contain yourself long enough to get out the door, which takes forever with contracts and introductions and so on and so forth. Until I’m toting too many bags too many miles in business casual—translation: not my trusty Diesels—up an incline in the middle of one o’clock heat in August in the city, which always feels hotter than it does back home. My only reprieve being my phone, which at least has most of its battery left. So I give Madisen a call at work and she answers, “Madisen Mitchell.”
“Oh, how I love your office voice,” I say, hoping to pull off smooth, urbane, not an easy feat given this hike and that backbeat pounding from a car accompanied by the constant roar of diesel.
Which only underscores the gentleness in her voice. “I thought you were in that meeting?”
“I’m off to my next job,” I say, “which could be all day…make that will be. That ridiculous pottery shop,” I say.
“How’d your first go?”
“A deal was made,” I say. “And yours?”
“They signed, which means I’m set for, I don’t know, five years,” she says, laughing. “All right, that would be a tad exaggerated. But this, I’d say, is a pretty major client. I’ll tell you about it later.”