David has parsley in his teeth, and I’m not sure how to tell him.
“Anyway, so I took a job teaching social studies to eighth-graders in East L.A., and I thought it would be for a year or two, but I just really like it,” he says. He laughs at himself a bit, and it’s really charming. It is. But he has parsley on his front tooth. And it’s a big piece. It’s not so much that I mind. I mean, parsley is not the measure of a person. It’s just that I know he’s going to go to the bathroom at some point, and he’s going to look in the mirror, and he’s going to see it. And he’s going to come back out and say, “Why didn’t you tell me there was a huge piece of parsley in my teeth?” And I’m going to have to sit here and shrug like an idiot.
“You have a—” I start, but he accidentally speaks over me.
“I mean, in college, I was convinced I would graduate with my political science degree and next stop, the Senate! But, you know, life had other plans,” he says. “What about you?”
“Kind of the same thing,” I say. “I work in the alumni department at Occidental.”
“That sounds like it could be fun.”
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s a good job. Same as what you’re talking about. It’s not what I set out to do. I was a psych major. I just assumed I’d be a psychologist, but I found this, and I don’t know, I really like it. I find myself getting really excited when we are putting together the newsletters, planning reunions, that sort of thing.”
David takes a sip of his white wine, and when he does, the parsley manages to wash away.
“Isn’t it nice,” he says, “once you’ve outgrown the ideas of what life should be and you just enjoy what it is?”
Of all the things people have said to me about my marriage, none has resonated like this does. And he’s not even talking about my marriage.
I lift my glass to toast.
“Here’s to that,” I say. David clinks his wineglass to mine and smiles at me. You know what? Without the parsley there to distract you, it’s quite a smile. It’s bright white and streamlined. His face is handsome in a conventional way, all cheekbones and angles. He’s not so attractive that you’d stop traffic to look at him. But neither am I. He’s just a humbly good-looking guy. Like, if he were the new doctor in a small town in the Midwest, all the local women would schedule an appointment. He’s that kind of attractive. His glasses sit comfortably on his nose, as if they have earned the right to be there.
“So what kind of stuff are you into?” David asks me. “I mean, when you’re not at work, what are you doing?”
“Uh . . .” I say, unsure of how to answer the question. I read books. I watch television. I play with my dog. Is that the stuff he means? It doesn’t seem very interesting. “Well, I just recently started hiking and running. I like taking my dog out in the sun. I always feel good about myself when he gets tired before I do. It’s rare, but it does happen. I guess, other than that, I hang out with my family, and I read a lot.”
“What do you read?” He takes a bite of his salmon as he listens to me.
“Fiction, mostly. I’m getting into thrillers lately. Detective stories,” I say. The truth is, I’ve stopped reading anything with a love story in it. It’s much less depressing to read about murder. “What about you?”
“Oh, nonfiction, mostly,” he says. “I stick to the facts.”
It’s quiet for a moment. Admittedly, it is hard to keep up conversation with a stranger and pretend he is not as much of a stranger as he is. I try to come up with something to say. I talked to him about his job already. What do I ask?
“Sorry,” he says. “This is my first date in a very long time. I’m sorry if it’s awkward.”
“Oh!” I say. “Me, too. First time on a date in a while. I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“I haven’t dated anyone since Ashley,” he says, and then confirms what I already have deduced. “My ex-wife. Christina keeps trying to set me up with people. But I never . . . this is the first time I’ve agreed to it.”
I laugh. “Mila was really pushing it.”
“So I take it you are also a victim of the institution?” he says, smiling. “Divorced?”
“Well,” I say, “I’m separated. My husband and I. We’re separated.”
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that,” David says.
“No, me, too,” I say. “About yours.”
David laughs to himself. “Well, we never separated. I found her sleeping with one of her coworkers. I filed for divorce as fast as I could.”
“That’s awful,” I say, putting my hand to my chest. I’ve known David for, like, an hour. But I can’t believe someone would do that to him.
“You don’t even know the half of it,” he says. “But I won’t get into that. I told myself, ‘Don’t talk about Ashley at dinner.’”
I laugh knowingly. “Oh, trust me. Same here. I’m relearning how to talk to people since Ryan left. Honestly, this is my first date since I was nineteen. I have a whole list of things I’ve told myself not to do.”
“Let me guess. Don’t talk about your ex. Don’t talk about how lost you feel being alone again. Don’t talk about how weird and awkward it is to sit across the table from someone other than your ex.”
I add a few myself. “Don’t eat off his plate, just because you’re used to being able to do that. Don’t admit you haven’t been on a date in eleven years.”
David laughs. “We’re doing better with some than with others.” He tips his wineglass toward me, and I reciprocate. Our glasses clink, and we drink.
We laugh our way through dinner. We order more wine than we should. As buzzed becomes tipsy, the filter of what to say and not say starts to wash away. We tell each other the things we don’t tell other people.
He tells me he wakes up sometimes thinking he should just take her back. I tell him Ryan is dating someone else and that when I think about it, I think my heart might implode. I tell him I’m not sure I ever had much of a life outside of Ryan. He nods knowingly and tells me that in his darkest hours, he wishes he never caught her. That he just never found out. That he could live his whole life being the guy who didn’t know that his wife was cheating. He tells me he liked life better then. I tell him I’m starting to wonder who I even am without Ryan. I tell him I’m not sure I ever knew.
It’s the first time I’ve told someone the uglier truths about how much it hurts. It’s the first time someone has been able to tell me they hurt, too. It is comforting when you share your pain with someone, and they say, “I can’t even begin to understand how difficult that must be.” But it is better when they can say, “I understand completely.”
When dinner ends, he walks me to my car. We walk down Larchmont Boulevard past the closed shops and cafés, all decorated with wreaths and lights in preparation for Christmas next week. It would be a romantic moment if we hadn’t spilled our guts to each other, exposing our wounds and washing away all mystery. When we get to my car, David kisses me on the cheek and smiles at me.
“Something tells me we’ve friend-zoned each other,” he says.
I laugh. “I think so,” I say. “But a friend is a good thing to have.”
“It’s too bad we’re so clearly not ready,” he says, laughing. “You’re a beautiful woman.”
I blush, and yet I am relieved. I’m not ready to go on a date that ends with passion. I’m just not ready. I grab David’s hand. “Thank you,” I say, opening my car door and getting into the front seat. “Keep my number, will you? Feel free to call me when no one else gets it.”
He smiles that nice smile. “Ditto,” he says.
Charlie calls me the night before he’s supposed to get into town.
“It’s all set, I guess. Mom knows I’m staying with someone else. That went over like a lead balloon.”
“She’ll be fine, trust me.”
“Yeah, and Natalie is a l
ittle nervous.”
“Oh, yeah, I would be, too. It’s a scary thing.” Am I nervous? To meet her? I think I kind of am.
“I told her, though, everyone loves pregnant ladies. Especially ones carrying my kid.”
My kid. My little brother just said “my kid.” It still doesn’t entirely make sense to me. But it is happening. I need to remember that. Just because it’s been a secret and I haven’t had anyone to talk to about it doesn’t mean that it’s not real. It’s real, and it’s about to become realer.
“OK, so you’ll just meet us at Mom’s, then?”
“Yeah,” he says. “What time is dinner again?”
“Dinner is at five, but I think we are opening presents around one or two.”
“That means two.”
“Huh?”
“Mom told you one or two so that you get there at one and she has more time with you, but really, she’s planning on two.”
“Why are you saying it like it’s some diabolical plan?”
“I’m not.”
“Well, there’s nothing wrong with your family wanting to spend more time with you.”
“I know,” Charlie says. “But we’ll be there at two instead of one. That’s all I’m saying.” He’s being precious with his time because he has someone he wants to spend time with. He wants to be alone with Natalie. He doesn’t want to spend his entire day with his family. Me? I’ll happily spend the entire day with my family. What else would I be doing?
“OK, then, I’ll tell Mom you’ll be there at two.”
“Cool.”
“And Charlie?”
“Yeah?”
“You got Mom a gift, right?”
“We’re still doing that?”
“Yes, Charlie, we’re still doing that. I gotta go. Rachel is calling on the other line.”
“Cool. OK, ’bye. And don’t tell her yet!”
“I won’t. I got it.” I hit the button to change calls, and I drop Rachel. What the hell? How hard is it to navigate two phone calls on the same phone at the same goddamn time? I call her back.
“Learn how to use your phone,” she says.
“Yeah, thanks.”
“So we have a problem.”
“We do?”
“Well, I do. And I’m inclined to make you help me, so it’s sort of your problem, too.”
“OK,” I say. “Let’s hear it.”
“Grandma read an article that says white sugar is linked to cancer.”
“OK,” I say. “So I’m going to guess that Mom is insisting that all of the desserts you make be sugar-free.”
“Have you even heard of such a ridiculous thing?” Rachel is the one being ridiculous here. We live in Los Angeles. It would take me five minutes to go out and find a gluten-free, sugar-free, dairy-free, vegan cupcake if I wanted.
“You can do it,” I say. “Dessert is like breathing to you. You have got this.”
“She doesn’t even have cancer,” Rachel says. “You know that, right? I mean, we never talk about it, but I think it’s clear the woman is cancer-free.”
I start to laugh. “You seem to have forgotten that that’s good news,” I say.
Rachel laughs. “No!” she says. “I love that she’s cancer-free, I’m just not sure why that means I have to make sugar-free pumpkin pie.”
“All right, how about this?” I ask. “You look at recipes now and find some you think will be good. Send me the list of ingredients that you don’t already have. I’ll go to the grocery store tomorrow and get them all. And then I’ll come over and help you cook every last one of them.”
“You would really do that?”
“Are you kidding? Absolutely. Mom didn’t ask me to bring anything this year. I should pull my own weight.”
“Wow,” Rachel says, her voice lighter. “OK, thank you.” Then she adds, “You have to get to the store before five or six, I bet. Just letting you know. The stores are gonna close early for Christmas Eve.”
“I will. I promise.”
“And will you also get some of that fake snow stuff ?”
“What stuff ?”
“They have it at the grocery store sometimes in the Christmas aisle. The stuff that you spray on the windows and it looks like snow?”
I know what she’s talking about. Mom used to spray it on all the windows around the house when we were little. She’d light a candle that smelled like firewood and sing “Let It Snow.” My mother has always put a big emphasis on showing us a proper Christmas. One year, Charlie started crying because he’d never seen snow, so my mom put ice in a blender and then tried to sprinkle it on top of him. I wonder if Charlie remembers that. I wonder if he’s going to put ice in a blender for his own snow-deprived child.
“You got it. You just give me a list, and I’ll get it all,” I say.
I hang up and put the phone down.
I look around the house. I don’t have anything to do.
I decide to text David. I don’t know why. I guess because it is something to do. Someone to talk to.
Ever think that the real problem with living without your spouse is that you’re sometimes just really bored?
I figure he may not answer. Or he may not see it until later. But he texts me back right away: Soooooo bored. I underestimated how much time being married takes up in a day.
I text him back: It’s like I resent the lack of distraction now. And I hated how much he distracted me before.
He responds: The worst is at work! I used to IM with her when the kids were taking tests or watching a movie. Now I just read CNN.
Me: It’s Dullsville.
Him: Ha ha ha. Exactly.
And that’s it. That’s all we say to each other. But . . . I don’t know. I feel better.
Can you hand me that?” Rachel calls to me. She has on a polka-dot apron, her hair in a high bun. She has flour on her face. The pumpkin pie is in the oven.
Now she’s started on sugar-free sugar cookies. I made a joke earlier: “I guess they are just called cookies, then, huh?” She laughed, but I could tell her heart wasn’t in it. We’ve been at this since eight thirty this morning, when I showed up with everything on the list she sent me. I expected that list to include weird chemicals, but it was really just honey and Stevia.
“Hand you what?”
“That.” Rachel isn’t even looking at me. She’s not even pointing. “The . . .” She makes an empty gesture with her hand. “The . . .”
Somehow, with her waving hand and the large lump of dough she has in front of her, I figure out what she needs. “The rolling pin?” I pick it up and hand it to her. Its weight causes it to land with a thump in her hand.
She stops and pauses for a second. “Thank you,” she says. “Sorry, I’m doing too many things at once.”
She puts flour on the rolling pin and starts to roll. “Have you heard this thing about Charlie bringing a date to Christmas?”
“Hm?” I say. God, I’m bad at lying to my sister. We don’t keep secrets from each other. It’s not what this family does. So I don’t really know how to do it. What should I say, exactly? Should I be noncommittal? Like never really say anything either way? Plausible deniability? Or do I just outright lie to her face, say something entirely untrue with such conviction that I almost believe it myself ? This stuff is just not my strong suit.
“Charlie is bringing a date to Christmas,” she says. The dough is flat, and now Rachel is searching around her kitchen for something. Not in there, I guess. Or there. There she goes. She’s got it. “Check these out!” she says proudly. She pulls out cookie molds in the shapes of finely intricate snowflakes.
“Those are so cool!” I say. “But they look really difficult to use.”
Rachel shrugs. “I practiced last week. We’re good.”
I go to her refrigerator
and grab a bottle of seltzer water. The cap won’t turn, I can’t get it to open, and so I hand it to her. She wordlessly cracks the seal and hands it back to me. “You should quit your job,” I say.
“What?” She’s only half paying attention. She’s starting to place the cookie molds on the dough.
“I’m serious. You are so good at this stuff. You make the most decadent desserts and awesome breakfasts. You should open a bakery.”
Rachel looks up at me. “I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“With what money?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “How does anyone start a business? Business loan, right?”
Rachel puts the mold down. “It’s not realistic.”
“So you’ve thought about it?”
“I mean, sure. Everyone thinks about trying to make money doing the things they love.”
“Yeah, but not everyone has such a passion and talent for something you can really make money from,” I say. Rachel works in HR, which always struck me as an odd match. She’s a right-brained person. I always imagined her doing something more traditionally creative.
“There are way more talented bakers than me,” she says.
“I don’t know,” I say. I’m entirely serious. “You are really, really good. And look at you, you practice using snowflake cookie molds in your spare time. How many people can say that?”
“I’m not saying I don’t love it.”
“Think about it,” I say. “Just think about it.”
“It’s just not realistic.”
I put my hands up. “I’m just saying think about it.”
After a few hours, Rachel and I gather up the cookies and the pie. We gently move the gingerbread house she made last night into the back of my car. I grab the two cans of snow and throw them into my purse. As I get into the front, Rachel has the key in the ignition, but she is looking down, almost in a daze. I expect her to start the car, but she doesn’t.
“Yoo-hoo,” I say, as I wave my hand in the air to get her attention.
After I Do Page 16