by Zoe Whittall
I cannot control my body, inhale.
But I can calm myself down, exhale.
The air got very still, and the squirrel stopped vocalizing, as though accepting my presence.
I fell into a light sleep, and when I woke up, Rufus was asleep on my chest.
Because I’d assumed he’d been taken by a coyote or another predator, I briefly wondered if I’d died, and I was encountering him in the afterlife. I petted him gently, trying to puzzle it out.
I felt at peace either way, I realized. No panic. Just a deep purring acceptance.
Then I heard Larry calling my name from the porch, and I grabbed Rufus by the scruff of his neck, cursed into his ear while cradling him like a baby, both of us unambiguously alive.
Chapter 9
missy
andy and I went on three dates before we slept together. On the second one we went for a long dinner I barely tasted, so consumed with sharing our childhood stories. He’d grown up with a lesbian mom who started a cooperative dairy farm in the Midwest, so we had some similar experiences—from embarrassing tempeh sandwiches at school to dealing with groups of adults beyond a nuclear family. By dessert we were deep into relationship histories, and then of course, sex. Talking about it without jumping into bed right away made for some epic tension. In between dates, we exchanged new compositions, favourite poems, revealing photos, and endless quippy texts. There was so much lead-up to our first tryst I felt like I was in junior high for every awkward, sweet moment. He was smart and handsome and funny, and he listened so well. After three dates I felt as if he knew me better than Navid ever had.
It was a weeknight and I had been getting ready for bed, sporting an old Vision Street Wear T-shirt and yoga pants, when my doorbell rang. It was Andy, leaning against the doorframe in another soft flannel shirt and jeans, smirking at me.
“Is it okay that I’m just . . . here?” he asked, pacing in the front entranceway. “I can leave, it’s weird that I’m here, isn’t it? You weren’t expecting anyone else?”
“Ha, no, no, come in. I love it. I’m happy to see you,” I said, trying to catch my reflection in the toaster oven. I made us some tea, while he sweet-talked Penny and walked around looking at the art and photos on my walls. The framed cover of Spin magazine, some group shots from Sunflower, some beautiful gig posters from the early aughts. Then we sat beside each other on my couch and I tried to work up my nerve, quiet the insecurities tumbling around in my head. I finally leaned over and put my face close to his. I thought about what I would have done at twenty-two, and I kissed him, then pulled back. He looked captivated enough by the kiss, so I took off my shirt. “Wow,” he said, and pulled me on top of him.
For the first couple months of our relationship, I walked around in a desperate erotic stupor. I walked out of dinner with an important producer before the meal came because Andy texted me that he’d rented a hotel room and had to fuck me that instant and for the rest of the night. I couldn’t sit and watch TV without my mind wandering to every moment of our last encounter. I missed deadlines because I spent three hours trying to send him a photo of my tits with the right lighting and angle. Every other priority vanished. I was only a body, waiting for a quick tryst when he could stop by between work and going home to the kids. I didn’t even need foreplay, he could just breathe on my neck and reach under my skirt and go. He could look at me from across the room and I’d feel close to coming. He could wrap one hand around both of my wrists and make me feel a type of divine completeness that was filthy, ecstatic, and beautifully obscene, and in those moments I felt more alive, more free, than I ever had.
I’d had so much sex in my life, but this was the first time I felt like I truly understood the power it had to transform you. And that power was frightening, too, because I was so attached to him, right away, because of it. I couldn’t dismiss what was happening. I would nod when friends would laugh that I was having a hot rebound. But it was more than a story to tell a friend later, it was more than an interesting challenge, it was more than something to give me an ego boost, or a way to pass the time. It was transformative.
The first night he dropped by, he had to be home by midnight. He hadn’t told his ex about me yet, though he’d been living on the basement couch. He put his coat and shoes on at eleven forty-five but kept running back into my room to kiss me again.
“I want you to be mine, all mine. Is that ridiculous? I know, you probably have other dates, but I just wanted to say it. I know it’s so soon.”
“It is really soon, but I like it. Do you mean like, be monogamous?”
He looked sheepish at this, but nodded enthusiastically while putting one of my breasts in his mouth.
“Are you sure? This is a big deal. You just got divorced.”
He looked up at me, his grin mirroring mine. “I’m sure. I don’t know why, I just am.”
He didn’t leave until four thirty, and later in the morning, when I was stumbling around the block with Penny, underslept and sore, he sent me a text that read: I love being your boyfriend.
You better, I replied.
I was fucking done for, and only one week in.
Eventually we fell into a ritual where every second night or so Andy would come to my house after the kids were in bed. We’d make snacks and start watching a movie and then have sex almost all night. He would leave at five thirty in the morning so he could sneak home before the kids realized he’d been gone and wonder why.
He and his ex decided to tell the kids about their divorce. Although it would take some time to work out the details, for Andy to move out and find a new place, at least now we could spend time together for real, in the daytime. No more sneaking around, which felt significant somehow.
Our bond felt unquestionable. We started writing songs together, taking weekend trips away. I had more fun with him in the first few months than I’d had in years. Andy was like a bus heading straight for me, and I was standing in the road just waiting for the rush of impact.
Andy and I waited four months before introducing me to his kids. The first time, we took the two youngest ones for a hike north of the city. I came prepared. I had packed Band-Aids, granola bars, mixed nuts, and a flap of My Little Pony stickers. Ayden was a surly seven and Harlon was three, with a blond skater haircut that won me over. That, plus his chubby legs sticking out of mismatched socks. Ayden grabbed the walking stick from Andy and powered ahead of the rest of us, forging ahead so fast that I had to double-step to keep up. Andy picked up Harlon and we took turns carrying him piggyback. Every now and then Ayden would look back at us with a devilish laugh, and I imagined myself growing to love the sparkle of mischief in his bright eyes.
“I’m going to catch up with him,” Andy said.
I had Harlon on my back, and he brought his little face around to look at mine every so often, as if to say, Who are you again?
I held Harlon’s legs firmly against me, as the trail was increasingly steep, but he started to squirm. I put him down but watched him like a hawk, wondering why no one had put a railing on the outer side of this trail, wishing Andy and Harlon would stop and let us catch up. The world with a toddler in your care looked like an elaborate set of ways they could injure themselves.
“Would you like a granola bar? It has almond butter,” I said quickly, trying to get him to slow down.
He paused a moment and stared back at me, then took the bar with a raised eyebrow, unwrapped it happily, and lumbered on.
“Where’s Daddy?” he said, with an edge of worry in his voice. Three and a half was a terrifying age emotionally, as far as I could tell.
“It’s okay, they’re not far. Let’s speed up, okay?”
He let me put him on my back again and I lumbered up the trail as quickly as I could, a half gallop, half run.
“Don’t you worry, we’re close behind,” I said, though perhaps I said it more for me as I hoped we were still on the right path. On our right was a steep, unpredictable landscape of rocks and bramble, an
d a rushing stream about ten feet below. As Harlon gripped my neck with his small, sweaty arms, it occurred to me just how precious and vulnerable this little guy was, and I was filled with a fear I’d never known. I slowed down and stepped carefully, mumbling soothing things.
“Where’s Daddy?” he asked again, and started to cry.
“It’s okay, he’s just up ahead.”
I was beginning to really worry I’d gone off the trail when we turned around a bend and the landscape flattened out. Andy was standing at the bottom of a tree that Ayden was trying to climb. Harlon stopped crying.
“Oh hey,” Andy said, smiling at me. Harlon leaned his arms out for his dad, nearly bringing me down with him.
“Here you go, Harlon,” Andy said, pulling him off my back and lifting him onto a low branch of the tree, so he could “climb” like his sibling, though Andy kept a firm hand on his waist.
I felt an overwhelming sense of relief. Of course, nothing bad had happened, but my heart was pounding and I was covered in sweat. “You good?” Andy asked, curiously. I nodded. I’d only just realized that when kids get upset it’s not always an emergency—often it’s frustrated feelings.
I knew so much about music, about how to keep a band together, how to write a song with someone, how to compose a musical score. How did I learn so much about one thing and know so very little about children? I had once been a child. Surely that had to count for something?
We followed the trail a little further until we arrived at a small beach along a river. I shook out the blanket Andy had brought, while he unpacked Tupperware containers of cheese, apples, carrot sticks, and crackers, a plastic bag of green grapes. As we laid the food out, the kids took off their shoes and waded in the water, shrieking from the icy cold. I sat back and sipped my Thermos of coffee and tried to take it all in, to relax in it, to listen to the birds and feel the soft wind against my face. The stress seemed at odds with the desperation I felt to have my own child. This was what my life would be like, I realized, but with no one to lay out the snacks with me. With Harlon, you couldn’t look away for even half a minute. The kid had no instinct for self-preservation. Yet I watched as Andy, looking calm as ever, picked both kids up and swung them around over the water while they squealed in delight. I pulled one of the Star Wars Band-Aids out of my purse to apply to a fresh blister on my ankle from the hiking boots I’d purchased for this day. Would I feel differently if this were my own kid? Would I be less afraid, or more? The feeling of being responsible for someone so small, someone I loved so much. Poking at the red, ripping skin, I wondered if this was some kind of metaphor, that I wasn’t prepared to care for children, that I wasn’t ready and it was too late. I’d been with Andy and the kids for barely over an hour and I was exhausted. I wanted a nap.
I wondered if my relationship with Andy’s kids would ever feel authentic. They would always be his, so how would I slot in? I was beginning to realize that my own childhood had left me totally insecure about parenting. I was so free-range, my dad off trying to build his commune world and my mom, well, just off. Gone. What did I really know about how parents were supposed to be? What if I made a mistake, wasn’t paying attention, and Harlon stumbled off the trail and down the cliff? You have to be so on it as a parent. Before she left, I guess my mom really had a lot on her plate. Managing the commune, but also making sure I had everything I needed, and Taylor, too, sometimes, when Tegan was off having a solitary walkabout in the woods. It gave me a new perspective on how much stress my mother must have been under. How alone she must have felt. How idealistic the commune had been, and how positively insane it seemed now, with real kids in front of me, awash in wild energy and needs and emotions.
As we drove back to the Bay, both kids fell asleep. Harlon was adorable with his head tucked into his T-shirt, a collage of melted chocolate ice cream and dirt.
Andy looked over at me as he drove, and said, “You were good with them today. I like to watch you guys together.”
I turned toward the passenger window, not wanting him to see the sudden tears in my eyes that I couldn’t account for. I liked being a guest star in his family, but was this what I wanted? Bringing the kids into what was happening between us was a giant step, and I didn’t feel like Andy was taking it quite seriously enough. When he’d suggested the hike, we’d talked about it at length. I was worried whether the timing was right, since the divorce was still so fresh. I’d asked him if it was too early.
“You’re part of my life,” he said. “I want you to be a part of theirs.”
When he pulled up in front of my house, Andy glanced to the back seat to make sure the kids were still passed out, then grabbed my hand and looked at me intensely.
“What?” I said.
“I’m really grateful for you. I really love you.”
I loved him, too. I knew I did. I’d felt it during the last few months, but the words felt strange in my mouth. He put his hands on my face and kissed me.
“I love you, too,” I whispered into his ear.
I was happier than I’d ever been before, possibly in my whole life. Whatever love I’d known before, this felt like a new level.
Later that night, I was still swooning when I took Penny for a walk. I texted Andy to say thank you for the day, that it had been so meaningful. He didn’t text back, but I figured he was putting the kids to bed, cleaning up from dinner. Or maybe he was already asleep. After all, now I understood how exhausting kids could be.
But the next day he didn’t text either. We hadn’t made plans, so I didn’t have an excuse to check in. Still no text that night. We’d established a pattern of good-night and good-morning texts, even when we were busy with work or family. I had a feeling in my gut not to text him until he contacted me, but I wasn’t sure why.
I had lots of work to do, some catch-up plans with friends I’d been ignoring to spend time with Andy, but for three days my phone was always in my bag, heavy and weighing me down. Finally, on Wednesday morning, the longest we’d ever gone without contact, I texted to ask if he wanted to join me at a friend’s art opening. He didn’t answer. I broke and checked social media, and saw he was updating his Facebook. He’d posted a new photo of his cat.
I went over and over the day of the hike—I’ve not historically been the most self-aware person—wondering if maybe I’d said or done something wrong. But then what was that in the car when he said he loved me?
I texted Are we good? No big deal if you’re busy! Then immediately felt like digging a hole in the backyard and lying in it until I died of humiliation or starved to death.
On Thursday, I turned my phone off entirely and made myself very busy. I went to a spin class, walked Penny by the ocean, finished a score I’d been too absent from myself to finish, practised my cello, cleaned out the fridge, answered every email owed in my inbox. I called the fertility clinic. I might as well get this show on the road!
And then I brought in Agatha. Over tacos in the Mission, I spilled it all. The hike, the declaration of love, the sudden silence.
“You can’t lose yourself in this,” she said. “Don’t forget your own priorities. You need to be careful. Andy just got divorced and so did you, quite frankly. You guys have been super hot and heavy, so just take it easy for a bit. Maybe this was just a rebound for him.”
My stomach dropped at that.
“It’s true we should slow down,” I said. I actually really liked my independence. My life had started to feel mine again. “I know I should just chill,” I said, chewing on my straw and staring out the window.
“You really should. But also, be a bit careful with him.”
“Is he fragile in some way?”
“No, no. I mean you. Be careful of your own heart.”
“Why, is he a cheater? Did you hear something bad?”
“No, he’s just unpredictable. We were in a band together, remember? That’s kind of like dating. He had to call the shots all the time. He would promise things and then just ghost. I went alon
g with it until it got to be a bum deal. But he’s older now.”
“Yeah, well, we all are. We all have our things. I’m no picnic.”
“No, you’re not, girl.”
“Hey!”
She gave me a big hug before we parted ways, and I turned my phone on again walking back up the hill to Noe Valley, listening to the new Neko Case record and feeling fine for the first time in days. If he’d changed his mind about us, then I couldn’t do anything about it. Maybe it was just a short-lived love affair.
Suddenly my phone buzzed to life with texts, mostly from friends and work stuff. But then one from Andy: several heart emojis. That was it.
“We are nearly forty,” I yelled at my phone. But there were bubbles underneath the text, and soon: I HAVE A PLAN.
Andy’s plan was a mini-vacation. He wanted us to go away that weekend to a spa north of the city, near where Tom lived. I tried to play it cool. He wrote, Are you free this weekend? Could Navid take Penny? I replied, Yeah, probably. What’s your plan? He answered by sending me links to mineral baths, hiking trails, cute cottages.
Looks beautiful.
I just booked us a cabin.
That seemed presumptuous, but it was a quiet thought that I couldn’t hear over the pounding of my thrilled, in-love heart. I wanted to ask him, Where have you been? But I didn’t.
Instead, I drove Penny to Navid’s and stopped at a lingerie store on the way home and bought something flimsy and memorable. I asked the band to push our weekend rehearsal ahead a week. I baked us some cookies for the ride. I put an auto-responder on my work email. I knew as I was doing these things that I was dropping my life to accommodate his whims, but I felt okay with it. This kind of connection doesn’t come along very often, right?