Cold Feet

by Amy FitzHenry

  “It’s pretty good. I’m finishing something up right now, which I’m really hoping the studio likes, considering they’ve tossed the last few versions of my blood, sweat, and tears to the side.” Sam said this good-naturedly, but I could see the crack in his facade. His first movie, On the Royal Road, had been a surprise indie hit, but ever since then, Left Brain Productions, which had produced it and had options on the next three, had passed on his projects. There were some potentials here and there, some stuck in various stages of editing, but Hollywood is a fickle beast and the cash infusion from his first movie, which felt like winning the lottery at the time, wasn’t going to last forever. He was already running through his savings, which had once felt so hefty.

  I started to fall down the rabbit hole of money worries that I had traveled countless times since childhood. What if Sam never sold another movie? What if, as a result, I had to support us forever? Worst of all, what if he felt guilty about this and in turn got a job he hated and ended up resenting me?

  I abruptly flashed back to an image of my mother and me at the bank when I was nine or so, before there were ATMs on every block. My mom was wearing a blue-and-white-striped sailor shirt and her blond hair was shining down her back. I remember thinking she looked pretty, like she should be hosting a party on a boat, and feeling extremely proud that she was my mother. After a short discussion, the teller politely informed her that she couldn’t make the withdrawal with the form she had carefully filled out because her account had “insufficient funds.”

  Caro waved the dreadful words away, declaring it a silly mistake, and said she would come back the next day to straighten it out. After she herded me out of the bank, she took me to lunch at TGI Fridays. I was surprised: Eating dinner at a restaurant was a big deal in our household back then, and I didn’t remember ever before eating out for lunch. My mom insisted I order the chicken fingers, my favorite, but I could barely choke down a bite. The breaded chicken stuck to my throat as I watched her stir her iced tea anxiously, with a big smile pasted on her face. I was a savvy nine-year-old, plus I knew what insufficient meant, having read it in one of my schoolbooks the week before. I’d asked my mom for the definition, and she’d answered “it means there’s not enough.” I swallowed hard, a garlicky fry adding to the painful brick of fear in my stomach.

  “Anyway, it’s all done,” Sam continued.

  For a second, I was lost, dizzy from my mental tailspin.

  “Although we should shop for some new skis before we leave.”

  Oh, right. The honeymoon. He was joking. Not only did he know how much I hated the cold, he was also aware that my klutziness would translate to certain death on the slopes.

  “Emma skiing? That’s a scary image,” Liv said. “Em, come to the bathroom with me. I can never figure out where the flusher is in these chichi places.” She wasn’t far off. Here it was a pulley system a couple feet behind the toilet, suspended from the top of the stall. I was never sure what look they were going for: Wild West Saloon or ceiling fan chain.

  “Okay, what’s up with you, girl?” Liv said as we walked away. She flipped her hair to the side to curtain our discussion as we edged past the tables. ”You’re acting weird.”

  I sighed. “It’s complicated. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Sam is amazing. I love him. I’m probably just being silly.”

  “Yeah, Sam’s great, but you’re not crazy,” she reassured me like a true best friend. “Getting married is a big deal. You have some good reasons for feeling nervous about it. Plus, it’s hard for you to trust people. This may be the first stable guy you’ve ever dated.”

  She was right. Before Sam, I’d always felt much more comfortable dating damaged guys. I found stable guys intimidating. They were mature and communicative and made me look much worse when I went batshit. Dating a damaged guy is like settling into an already unmade bed. You don’t have to worry about pulling out the carefully tucked-in bottom sheet or rumpling the pillows, because everything is already all over the place. Your only job is to snuggle under the duvet and try not to worry about the last time the sheets were washed. However, whether it was an accident or a thankful intervention from the sensible part of my psyche, I fell for Sam. Sam, for whom contentment is a baseline, and self-doubt and anxiety are rare. When Sam said everything was good, he meant it.

  Ever since we’d met, I’d observed this odd state of being—Sam’s inherent happiness—carefully. One morning several years prior, when he was lost in deep thought, forehead crinkled in concentration over morning coffee, I thought: Here’s my chance! He’s stressed! Maybe even, God willing, depressed! It’s time to make my move.

  I gently turned to him and asked what was on his mind, ready to discuss his relationship with his father or examine an existential crisis.

  He answered thoughtfully, “I was thinking about bacon.”

  “You were thinking about bacon?” Maybe he was contemplating the unethical treatment of pigs in our country. “Um, what about it?”

  “How good it is.” Sam turned to me and smiled. The best part was, he probably thought he was sharing an emotional moment with me.

  “Welcome back to the table, ladies,” Dante said, sounding a bit tipsy, when Liv and I returned from the ladies’ room. “You missed the arrival of the sunchokes.”

  “What are sunchokes?” Liv asked.

  “I have no idea. Just go with it,” Dante answered, refilling each of our wineglasses. “Emma, I know something you don’t know.” I looked at him questioningly. “The honeymoon location. Sam told me while you two were off powdering your noses.”

  “What about the mystery?” I complained. “I thought no one was supposed to know.”

  “Sorry, babe, I couldn’t keep it to myself anymore. It’s still a secret from you, though.” Sam shrugged and pulled me closer to him. “If it makes you feel any better, maybe while you and Liv are in Napa, I’ll go get us some mystery luggage, but I won’t show it to Dante.”

  “We don’t need new luggage,” I said, instantly tense, hating the way I sounded, aware that I was changing the vibe of the table with my tone. “We can’t afford it.”

  “My fifteen-year-old duffel bag isn’t gonna cut it, Em. Not in the amazing location I’ve picked out for us . . . which I will in no way reveal.”

  “Sam, I don’t know how to tell you this, but we can’t get new luggage, and we can’t build a room onto the house. Plus, aren’t you going to be too busy writing all week to be shopping?” I tried to stop the nagging words as they were coming out of my mouth. I was certainly self-aware enough to recognize how bitchy and condescending I sounded. Part of me hated myself, but part of me was mad at Sam for putting me in this position. He knew I had money fears, and I was the only one making an income right now. How could his recent purchasing suggestions not freak me out?

  Sam let his arm drop unnoticeably from my side. “Wow. Okay, Emma. Actually, scratch that idea, I’ll get some burlap bags on Amazon. Would that be better? But do we still have Amazon Prime? I know we can’t afford to pay for shipping.” Sam doesn’t get angry very often, but there are a couple things that set him off, and feeling criticized about his work was number one on the list. I saw Liv and Dante glancing at each other. They’d both known us too long to be truly uncomfortable in this kind of situation, but I knew they wanted to defuse it. They were probably also thinking, like I was, that maybe two people who were about to get married shouldn’t be having the money fight right now.

  “I have Amazon Prime,” Liv piped in. “You can use my log-in, if you promise not to judge my order history.” We all laughed gratefully. The tension was alleviated although it didn’t quite disappear.

  We got through the dinner. Dante ignored the whole thing, got drunk, and sent a bottle of wine to the two girls at the table next to us. Liv kept the conversation going with stories about the Super Tall Banker, but it definitely wasn’t as much fun as our usual fo
ursome. At the end of the night, Sam pulled me aside before Liv and I walked home.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you,” he said, standing close and opening his arms to pull me in for an embrace. I hugged him back.

  “I’m sorry, too. I know how hard you’re working.”

  “I know, Em. But what’s this all about? You’ve been so distracted recently. Can we go somewhere alone for a little bit and talk?”

  “And leave Liv and Dante alone? Too dangerous. Seriously, it wasn’t about anything; everything is fine. I just don’t think we need new luggage.”

  Sam gave me a close look. “Okay, no luggage it is.” But he knew that wasn’t it. Something was off, and he didn’t know what it was. Unfortunately, neither did I.

  CHAPTER 5

  “Have you ever tried one of those neck pillows?” Liv asked. We were in line at the airport newsstand. She was loaded down with magazines, gum, and peanut M&M’s, which she said we needed in case there was an emergency and we were stuck on the plane for eighteen hours with no escape. “Then it’ll be every man for himself, like on that JetBlue flight where everyone was stuck on the runway with no food. Then you’re gonna be glad we have these little suckers.” I reminded her that our flight was forty-five minutes long, but she insisted we be prepared.

  “Yeah, I got one for an overnight flight once. It didn’t really work. I felt like I was wearing a neck brace the whole time.”

  “Ah, gotcha.” We dumped everything on the counter and Liv turned to me. “Should we get some Reese’s?”

  “What about the ‘every man for himself’ M&M’s?”

  “Those are for emergencies, so we can’t eat them unless there is one. What if we just need a snack?”

  I grabbed a king-sized package of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and handed the cashier a ridiculous amount of money to cover the cost of our pointless purchases. That morning, over croissants and lattes, Liv and I had analyzed my mini fight with Sam. In the light of day, I felt much better about everything. Still jittery, but less so. A normal amount, even. I had decided that, when it came down to it, sometimes luggage is just luggage.

  I reminded myself of all the good things about getting married. For one, it meant that in seven short days I would be a Powell, which was a very good thing, far healthier than being a Moon. I was being invited into a clan where people not only liked, but also loved each other.

  The problem was, I was slightly terrified.

  Entering Sam’s family would be like entering a real-world Pleasantville. You’re really glad you jumped through the TV and you definitely don’t want to leave anytime soon, but you’re also pretty sure that any minute now you’re going to turn into Technicolor and give yourself away. For example, last year I went on a two-week vacation with Sam and his family to Belize over Christmas. And for that entire two weeks, no one in his family had one single fight. Not one. During the day we participated in our chosen adventure—cave diving, kayaking on the Penchuc River, or, if you were in my activity group (population one), lying by the pool and reading. Every night, we met for cocktails and fresh seafood, drinking tropical concoctions with names like Panty Droppers (which became Panty Rippers as the more suggestive bartenders came on duty) until the entire group retired to bed in reverse age order.

  Day after day, Sam’s clan woke up fresh-faced and psychologically sound, ready to tackle the great outdoors and make new memories. Whereas I woke up ready to avoid the rain forest hike sign-up sheet and lie prostrate with a novel until it was an acceptable hour to drink a piña colada.

  It wasn’t that I was not having fun. On the contrary, it was one of the best times of my life, and I participated in everything I wasn’t too uncoordinated to do without threatening major legal liability. But it was strange never to witness a negative moment, a hurt feeling, or a buried resentment brought to the surface. I think maybe there was one overly competitive game of Scrabble. Other than that, the days were filled with happiness, sweat, and general goodwill. We get it, people, you like each other. Now stop, ’cause it’s starting to creep me out.

  My own “family trips”, which started during my teen years, when we were first able to afford a summer vacation at all, consisted of long stretches of time in the car, driving to the Delmarva Peninsula or the Outer Banks while my mom looked bored and I, in turn, plotted a not-too-bad car accident that would leave us both temporarily injured and the trip canceled. I usually got part of my wish, as we inevitably went home early.

  In addition to gaining the name Powell, there was the somewhat frightening idea of losing the Moon. Sure, I’d never met Hunter Moon, but he had given me half my name, half my genes. And by getting married, I was giving that away. Ending the Moon lineage, if you will. To join a family that was already formed, already together, already complete. It was starting to feel like the rashest of decisions, to dismiss an entire half of my identity and start afresh with a group of strangers. A healthy, well-adjusted group of people who would never leave their baby, would never skip their daughter’s rehearsal dinner. How could I possibly become one of them?

  “Reservation for Moon,” I said, walking up to the tanned, lithe receptionist at the Calistoga Ranch in Napa. She was draped in a white silk romper, an ensemble that only the absurdly skinny can pull off. Her name tag read SIRI. I wanted to ask what it was like being named after an app, but I didn’t think she’d appreciate the reference.

  “Moon?” Siri stretched out the one syllable of my last name luxuriously as she scrolled down the screen of her sleek white MacBook Air. Idly, I wondered who was thinner relatively, her or the computer. “Here it is. We have you in a deluxe lodge, with a private deck and an outdoor Jacuzzi.”

  “Actually, I think we’re in a regular suite,” I said nervously, still feeling like a kid watching my mom balance her checkbook at the kitchen table.

  “Your fiancé called and upgraded you as a surprise.” That was really sweet, I thought with a flush, texting Sam a thank-you to show that I appreciated his generosity despite last night’s freak out.

  Siri picked up a paper-thin card—why was everything here so skinny?—passing itself off as a room key, and led the way outside. “I’ll show you to your lodge.”

  On the way there, we passed a huge open space with a stone fireplace standing alone in the center of the room, surrounded by soft moss green couches.

  “That fireplace looks amazing,” Liv offered.

  “You have a similar one in your lodge,” Siri responded without missing a beat, leading us outside to a path running along a creek lined with huge, leafy pines.

  The small cedar-paneled building was gorgeous yet cozy, with polished wood floors and deep-cushioned furniture, topped with floor-to-ceiling windows that held sweeping vistas of Napa Valley and filled the room with natural light. The French doors opened to a plunge pool, Jacuzzi and outdoor shower, surrounded by a tiny forest to ensure maximum privacy. On the other side of the patio was a private deck, with Adirondack chairs facing a peacefully lapping body of water, which Siri identified as Lake Lommel.

  After Siri asked us what time we wanted our spa appointments the next day and explained how to request a car from the resort to take us wine tasting, she excused herself.

  “This is amazing. Nice work, Sam,” Liv said, starting to unpack. “Speaking of, are we ever going to talk about the marriage thing?”

  “We talked about it this morning.”

  “We talked about the argument, which I know is nothing. But what about the general doubts you mentioned before the whole duffel bag nonsense.”

  “Oh, Liv, I don’t know. Let’s talk about it later.”

  “When? While you’re cutting the cake? Were you planning on doing that whole ‘are there any objections’ thing? That could come in handy now.”

  I paused, unsure of how much to reveal. Liv knew my feelings about the silliness of weddings, and my natural bent for skepticism t
oward marriage in general. But there was something else on my mind, something I hadn’t told anyone, not even Sam.

  I sat down on the bed, thinking of the best way to phrase it.

  “How do I put this? There’s been something else on my mind.”

  “Well?” she pressed.

  I took a deep breath. “Lately I’ve been thinking about my dad. About Hunter Moon. You know, the guy who skipped out on me before I learned to crawl, headed to California, and didn’t look back.”

  “The idiot, you mean,” Liv supplied supportively.

  “Whatever he is, I’ve been thinking about him more and more, in relation to this marriage thing. Whether I have his gene for failure at relationships, his tendency to leave. Whether I’m too screwed up to make this work. And whether the fact that I’ve never met my dad and he’s been this strange absent ghost in my life could hurt my relationship with Sam down the line or, I don’t know, as cheesy as this sounds, keep me from knowing myself. I even thought about—” I paused here. This was something I definitely hadn’t imagined verbalizing. “I thought about looking for him.”

  “Looking for him?” Liv’s eyes widened. “Seriously?”

  “It’s not that I miss him or that I feel the need for a father figure exactly. I don’t want to ask him to walk me down the aisle or anything. It’s more like I have this unknown part of my past and I thought it might be good for me to try to find it. To figure it out.”

  “That makes sense.” Liv paused. “Have you ever looked for him before?”

  “No. Not really. I mean, I’ve Googled him and stuff. But his name is so weird that it’s nearly impossible to sift through the Internet rubble. It’s not like it’s an actual possibility or anything. I just wanted to tell you why I’ve been acting so strange. There’s nothing else really to say about it.”

  I slid down onto the absurdly comfortable yellow cushions, finally letting myself sink back, emotionally spent. “Should we find a bottle of wine or check out the Jacuzzi?”