After all their time together, it was amazing how little time it took her to amass her things and put them in a few boxes: her mug, her bathroom stuff, some of her clothes.
“I’ll get the rest of my clothes later, if that’s OK,” she said.
“Fine,” he said, tight-lipped.
How many relationships, in the history of the Universe, have been further sunk by a tight-lipped “fine”?
“Where will you go?” he said.
“To my folks’,” she said. “It’ll only be for a few days anyway. As luck would have it, the sublease on my apartment is out soon. Then I’ll move back there.”
“It runs out in a few days? Were you planning this?”
“No,” she said, stung. “God, no.”
He relented, seeing the harm he’d caused. “You could stay here,” he offered, “for those few days, wait until—”
“No,” she said softly.
“No,” he agreed, “I guess you’re right. When it’s over . . .”
“. . . it’s over,” she finished for him, sounding hopelessly, devastatingly sad.
I’ll tell you when I knew it was over. When I looked over at the bookshelves and noticed the gap between books: her copy of The Great Gatsby was no longer there, no longer lined up perfectly right next to his. When I’d gone for a quick sip from my water bowl—all the fighting had made me anxious, and anxiety makes me thirsty, and then drinking too much makes me have to pee—she must’ve removed it. It must now be there in one of those boxes. The boxes that were leaving us. With her.
She gave one final glance around the room, perhaps taking note of her own future absence, before turning and reaching for the door.
“WAIT!” The Man shouted as the door swung open, causing her to turn back.
Yes! I thought. YES! This was the part where he’d fall to his knees, profess his undying love, pledge to do better, be better. He’d remind her of that one time they went to a Subway Series game together, sitting side-by-side in their respective Mets and Yankees caps, and how romantic it was when the Kiss-Cam zeroed in on them in full lip-lock—I know because I watched it all from home on the TV.
And it wouldn’t all be one-sided, because then she’d fall to her knees too. She’d take his hands in hers and apologize for her role in their mutual problems, and she’d also promise to do better, be better, and then they’d kiss a lot and go do that thing in the bedroom that makes the mattress rock, and we’d all be happy together forever and ever, and—
“You love him too,” The Man said.
“What?” she said.
“Gatz. It’s not fair for me to get to keep Gatz entirely. You love him too.”
That’s right, I barked triumphantly. It’s not fair for any one person to get to keep Gatz entirely. So you two have to stay together!
“But you loved him first,” The Woman said. “It would be even less fair for me to take him from you.”
First, schmirst—just stay together and it won’t matter who loved who first!
“Still,” The Man said. “You were there from the very first day. How about if I kept him Mondays through Fridays because you’re at work all day and sometimes don’t get home until late . . .”
“And I could take him on weekends?” she said, with a grateful relief.
He nodded.
“And holidays too?” she asked, hopeful now.
The Man paused, eventually nodding. “Holidays too.”
“Joint custody?” The Woman said.
“Joint custody,” The Man agreed.
They even broke up with love! See? They were meant for each other!
Chapter Twelve
Six and a half weeks earlier . . .
Is there any time of the year sadder than the holidays?
The menorah was still out. Without her there to remind him, he hadn’t bothered to put it away.
The tree was still up too, although the only presents under it this year had been for me, and those had long since been opened, admired, and put away in my toy basket.
I’d spent Christmas with her per their joint-custody agreement. We spent both Eve and Day with her family. I can’t say it was a bad time. Everyone made a fuss over me, and I appreciated their fussing. Nor did they object when, left to my own devices for a smidge too long, I shredded all the Kleenex in the fancy guest bathroom. They even put some roast beef on a fancy plate next to my water bowl. Who could object to that? But I’d missed The Man. Worse, I’d worried about him. What was he doing back in the apartment all alone? I knew he wouldn’t go anywhere, nor would he have anyone in. I had all these happy people around me, while he’d just be alone.
When The Woman dropped me off, he greeted me like I usually greeted him whenever he walked through the door, no matter how briefly he’d been out: like he’d been gone forever. Then he told me everything he’d done while I’d been gone. It didn’t take long.
“I wrote, Gatz!” he said. Then he waved a sheaf of freshly printed pages in my direction. “Do you have any idea how much writing a person can get in when there are no interruptions?”
Yeah, I did know. He’d just waved that big sheaf of pages at me, hadn’t he?
But who knew if whatever he’d written was any good or if it all just sucked? I certainly didn’t look closely at the pages. For all I knew, he’d simply spent twenty-four hours typing “All work and no play makes The Man a very dull boy” over and over again.
Perhaps worried he might have caused offense, he hastened to add, “Of course, I didn’t mean you, boy. You’re never an interruption. Hey, I hope you had a good time. I really hope they took good care of you over there.”
Then he gave me a healthy scratch under the chin for good measure.
Well, he certainly sounded like he’d managed fine enough on his own. Still, when I saw the single bowl and spoon in the draining rack, and the empty cereal box on the counter—it’d been full when I left—and the quantity of empty beer bottles in the recycle bin, I realized he’d subsisted on cereal and beer in my absence. Then I felt guilty. I knew it wasn’t my fault, but there I’d been living high on the hog with roast beef while he was knocking back the cereal and brewskis? And that lone bowl and spoon, where once there’d been two—somehow, it just struck me as pathetic.
Next would be New Year’s—another chance for pathetic.
So imagine my surprise when The Man informed me that The Woman informed him that she thought it would be better for him to have me for New Year’s, or at least fairer. She told him that while she knew they’d agreed I would be with her on the holidays, with Christmas and New Year’s being holidays that fell just a week apart, it didn’t seem fair that she should have me for both.
“What do you think?” The Man asked me. “Will that be OK with you, Gatz?”
I’m ashamed to admit that I did think longingly of that roast beef. But the longing passed quickly. Mostly, I was just relieved he wouldn’t be on his own. Because while she had all those other people, he only had me.
Then New Year’s Eve hit, and as the day of the eve drew on, I felt a . . . mood take me. At first, I couldn’t pinpoint it, but as I listened to The Man pound away on his keyboard, writing excitedly at the table while I sacked out on the floor beside him, I recognized what that mood was: for the first time in my life, I was depressed.
“Isn’t this great, Gatz?” he enthused.
Pound, pound, pound.
Sure. Great.
“Just the two of us?”
Pound, pound, pound.
Whoop-de-do. Color me unimpressed.
“Yup, just the two of us!” Was it just me or did this guy sound a touch manic? And who was he trying to convince—me or himself? “This is . . . great.”
A couple of hours later, there I was in the same position—slumped into the carpet, limbs outstretched, tongue tucked inside m
outh, tail still, ears droopy—having barely moved in the time that had passed. The only difference was that now I had a party hat slapped on my head—The Man’s doing; remnants of the few things The Woman had left behind. I guessed she’d have new party hats wherever she was tonight.
The Man was still working the “Just the two of us—isn’t this great?” angle as he clicked on the TV to watch the countdown as the ball dropped at Times Square. Without her there to guide him, The Man had turned on Ryan Seacrest. Didn’t he know by now that The Woman and I preferred Anderson Cooper and Andy Cohen? Not to mention, watching Don Lemon get progressively drunker is always a hoot. But apparently, The Man hadn’t been paying attention to details like that over the years. I guess there are some guys who just don’t.
As cheers came pouring from the TV—with thousands and thousands of revelers screaming, “Three! Two! One! Happy New Year!”—The Man looked over at me. We were mirror images of depression: him, sunk into the couch; me, sunk into the carpet.
“You’re right, Gatz,” he conceded. “This sucks.”
Indeed.
Chapter Thirteen
Yesterday . . .
And just for the record: No. Yesterday my troubles did not feel so far away.
I was lying on the couch, chewing on my own tail, when The Man walked in the front door.
“Hey, buddy,” he said. “Sorry I took so long.”
He had a bag with him, and after petting me on the head, which I happily let him do, he removed a red heart-shaped box from the bag, setting it down on the round writing table by the window. I’d seen boxes like that before. He always bought them for The Woman. He may not have been big on most holidays, but he did have his romantic side.
For a brief moment, my heart leaped in my chest. Maybe they were getting back together already?
But then, as The Man puttered around the apartment, my attention zeroed in more closely on that box. Somehow the boxes he had got for her were always more impressive: bigger, prettier, just all-around nicer. While this one, this was just . . . utilitarian.
If he thought he was going to woo her back with this . . .
“Yeah, I know,” The Man said, “it’s a little early.”
A little early for what?
This wasn’t too early, not at all. As far as I was concerned, he should’ve been trying to get back together with The Woman the day after she left.
“I don’t even know if I like her!” The Man continued.
Well, of course he liked her—she was The Woman!
“I know I just started seeing her—”
Wait. What?
“But if you’re dating someone when Valentine’s Day rolls around, even if it’s only been a little while, you kind of have to get them a box of chocolates. I mean, unless the person is allergic or just told you they’re on a diet, in either of which cases, it would be cruel. But outside those exceptions, isn’t that what people do?”
He was looking to me for dating advice?
And wait. We were seeing people? We were seeing other people? When did that happen?
And then it hit me. Not long after the most depressing New Year’s Eve ever, he’d brought some woman home one night. I guess despite his always saying he preferred to be alone, he didn’t mean that alone. Some people doth protest too much. But I hadn’t felt before like she was a serious threat to The Man and The Woman getting back together, even after she came home with him a couple of other times. As far as I could tell, all they ever did was shake the mattress together a bit. They hardly talked; there was no happy laughter; even the smells were off. She never even stayed for breakfast. It all struck me as somehow . . . transactional. Still . . .
“I mean,” The Man said, “I wouldn’t even call what we do ‘dating’ necessarily. I just figured . . .”
His words trailed off as he shook his head, heading off toward the bedroom, and I knew the depression had overtaken him again, the depression he’d been experiencing on and off since The Woman left.
I eyed that menacing heart-shaped box, my brain going double-time.
Even if The Man was dismissive about the intended recipient of the heart-shaped box, this was getting too close for comfort. It didn’t sound like this woman he was dating, but not dating, meant anything to him. And I doubted he meant anything to her either. But it was still too close for comfort. The Man and The Woman were no nearer to reuniting than they had been two months ago.
These were drastic times. They called for drastic measures.
I needed to do something about this!
Chapter Fourteen
And back to Valentine’s Day . . .
There I was, still feeling like I was at death’s door, as The Man and The Woman faced off over my supine body.
“Valentine’s Day chocolates?” The Woman said, stung. “Who are those for?”
“Nobody,” The Man said, shooting the word out of his mouth just about as quickly as it was possible to shoot a word.
If my physical condition weren’t so dire, I would’ve barked vociferously to underscore his “nobody.” I would’ve tried to indicate just how nobody this other woman was: They don’t talk! They don’t laugh! She doesn’t stay for breakfast! It’s just some mattress shaking! But as it was, all I could manage was a pathetic whimper.
“Nobody?” she echoed. “Seriously? I’ll bet she doesn’t think so.” She paused. “Maybe it’s time I started seeing ‘nobody’ too.”
Despite my weakened state, my eyes went wide at this.
Nope. This was not what I’d been hoping to achieve.
Not. At. All.
Chapter Fifteen
Five weeks later . . .
There are some things I know, because when women talk, I always listen. I always pay attention.
We were in The Woman’s high-rise apartment, which is exactly as orderly as everything else in her life, but not without its touches of personality; I particularly appreciate her colorful collection of soft throw pillows, which, out of respect, I never throw.
It was the weekend, I’d long since fully recovered from my Valentine’s Day ordeal, The Woman had picked me up the day before, and now we were hosting that wine-soaked monthly event otherwise known as Book Club.
Assembled were me, The Woman, and three of her coworker friends: The Redhead, The Blonde, and The Brunette. Since it was the weekend, everyone was super cazh, with not a pencil skirt or blazer in sight. The four women were all arranged on the couches and chairs, industrial-sized goblets of wine in hand. Me, I was respectfully lounging on the carpeting near their feet, waiting for the stimulating intellectual conversation to begin. And maybe I was waiting for some of the nacho dip to fall. When they get enough wine in them, there are always drips.
You’d think that, working on and talking about and living and breathing books all week long, they’d want to do something— anything—else with their time. Like, I’m pretty sure cabdrivers don’t spend their days off gleefully going for joyrides. But such was not the case here. These ladies couldn’t get enough of books. Or wine.
“So,” said The Blonde, an editor on equal footing with The Woman at their publishing company but without, I’d been told by The Man, her discerning eye, “who read the book?”
Here’s where I need to point out that, traditionally speaking, not a whole lot of talking-about-the-specific-book goes on at Book Club. I know, a cliché, but still. This particular group does talk about books a lot—but those are ones they’re editing and publishing. They also talk about families, romantic relationships, food, parties, movies, and TV, not necessarily in that order. Still, for show, even though no one but me can see them, they usually attempt more than one specific- book-related question before diving into other subjects. But on that night . . .
“I think I might’ve . . . met someone last weekend,” The Woman said. “A new man.”
At this, my ears perked up.
New Man? Met someone last weekend? What did we do last weekend? Oh right. I hadn’t been with her. I’d stayed behind with The Man, while she went off to that stupid book fair . . .
* * *
* * *
Picture a grand building, packed with business professionals.
Picture a stage, upon which is a long table, behind which is a super large sign reading london book fair and below that, in only slightly smaller lettering, author/editor panel.
A large audience is there for the panel, which is composed of four author/editor pairings plus a moderator. The center two author/editor pairings are comprised of The Woman and her author—Hispanic female, flannel shirt open over a tank top and jeans, baseball cap on backward—and someone we might as well start calling New Man and his editor. Really, no one in the room but these four people matters very much. Come to think of it, only two of them do. It is further worth noting that New Man is in his early thirties, suave, Asian, debonair, beautiful—honestly, if he’s not actually Henry Golding, he might as well be. The only thing marring his features is the faintest of scars beneath one eye, but even that can’t be called a flaw, because, like the slight gap in The Woman’s own front teeth, that one tiny imperfection only serves to add to the overall impression of beautiful perfection.
And . . . scene.
“OK, last question,” the moderator said. “This one is for the editors: What do you see as being your single most important responsibility within the author/editor relationship?”
Immediately, The Woman leaned into her mic, and when she spoke, it was just to say one word: “Invisibility.”
“I’m a bit puzzled,” the moderator said, “and I suspect the audience is too. Could you elaborate on that a bit, please?”
“Of course,” The Woman said. “My job is to help my authors make whatever book is in question the best it can possibly be. To do that, I need to clearly identify where I think changes should be made and, further, prescriptions for how those improving changes might be achieved. Then it’s up to the author—because, in the end, the book is always the author’s book; not the editor’s, not the publisher’s—to decide which ideas to adopt and which to reject. And all of this must be done seamlessly so that once the book is published, no one should be able to tell, nor should the author even remember, where one of us left off and the other began. Like I said: invisible.”
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