Emmaline Waters, This Is Your Life

by Maggie Bloom

  “I should’ve told you,” I say, “so you would’ve known not to parade your fiancée in here.”

  He stands up and whispers, “Can we talk somewhere?”

  “I’m on the clock.”

  “C’mon, Em.” His gaze flies to the restroom. “Just for a minute.”

  “A minute?” I snort. “It’s gonna take a lot longer than that to—”

  “Let’s step outside, okay?” He takes my arm and practically drags me—hey, why should I make it easy for him?!—toward the door. If Chloe notices, she doesn’t bother intervening.

  “Oh my God, it’s freezing out here,” I say, hugging myself as we hit the alley. “Hurry up and say whatever it is you’ve got to say.”

  He sighs. “Don’t be like that, Em.”

  “Me? ME? I’m in the wrong?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Well, you’d better say something.”

  Sounding frustrated, he asks, “What do you want to hear?”

  There’s no way on earth I should cut him a break after what he’s done, but . . . “I thought you cared about me.”

  His hand gropes for mine, and I get a flashback of Jimmy pressing me against the jagged brick wall behind us. “Do I care about you?” he asks incredulously, his fingers tracing gentle circles around my palm. “It’s more than that.”

  Suddenly, I’m sure I love him. “I broke up with Trent.”

  Softly, he says, “Oh.” Then we both go silent.

  “I should get back,” I say. “Chloe’s new and”—I can’t bring myself to say Dominique’s name—“someone will be looking for you.”

  “Can you meet me tomorrow? At the restaurant?”

  Strictly speaking, I can. I mean, it’s physically possible. And my schedule would allow it. If I were smart, though . . . “What time?”

  “Ten o’clock? Nikki’s got a dentist’s appointment.”

  He calls her “Nikki”? Eew. I bet she bleaches her teeth. “I guess,” I say. “But only to talk about Angie. We need to figure out how to tell her the truth.”

  “Agreed.”

  Chapter 25

  I’m a block away from The Olive Branch—and seriously regretting my lack of a backbone—when the most obvious thing in the world hits me: Dominique is the caller/texter who has been (justifiably, as it turns out) warning me away from her betrothed. If I squint, I can almost see her gorgeous, French-manicured fingernails pecking out my phone number.

  How ironic. And twisted. Now I can’t even be mad, because, technically, I’m the other woman. All the more reason to put a period on my affair with Mark.

  The blinds are drawn at the restaurant when I arrive, so I rap on the door and wait. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi . . .

  What is taking him so long to answer? I mean, I’ve arrived fashionably late to give Dominique enough time to vacate the premises.

  I’m about to call it quits, write off the morning, and drown my sorrows in a cup of Turkish coffee—damn you, Sharon Fleming, for hooking me on that deliciously expensive stuff!—when the door glides open and, into the gap, steps Mark, who looks as if he’s been up all night negotiating the release of a plane full of hostages. “What’s going on?” I ask, following along as he scuffs through the dining room and into the kitchen.

  Nice digs, I must say. Fresh and clean, down to the gigantic pot rack suspended from the ceiling. “Want some coffee?” he asks, reading my mind—and already filling a cup.

  I rephrase my question. “What happened to you?”

  He slides the cup across the counter and pours another. “Nikki. I told her everything last night.”

  I can’t help staring at his face—or the side of his neck, actually—which looks like it’s been mauled by a dozen angry squirrels. “Did she scratch you?” I ask, the marks seeming to intensify as I study them. I notice what appear to be human teeth prints behind his ear. “And bite you?” Maybe they just had wild sex, and he doesn’t want to hurt my feelings by telling me they’ve made up.

  “She can be a little . . . passionate sometimes,” he says. “European girls are like that, I guess.”

  Passionate? I’m back to picturing them doing the deed and getting a stomachache (me, not them). “Well, that looks kind of bad,” I say, gesturing at his neck. “You should wash it with antibacterial soap or something.”

  He replies with a shrug, so I take matters into my own hands and rip a paper towel from the dispenser, lather it, and blot away at his neck. He humors me for a few seconds before hitting a nearby light switch, throwing us into semidarkness.

  Coffees in hand, we shuffle through the swinging door and claim the first table outside the kitchen. He stares at me until I ask, “What did you mean about telling Dominique”—sorry, I can’t bring myself to call her “Nikki”—“everything?”

  “Just what I said.” He drops his head in his hands and sighs. “I told her she could keep the ring, but it’s over.”

  “Oh.” (Hey, it’s more of a consolation prize than I got from Trent, not that I would’ve accepted his Tiffany’s bribe anyway.) “Won’t that be pretty uncomfortable?” I ask. “With her working here and everything?”

  He laughs sardonically. “For me. Nikki can do whatever she wants. Her family holds the mortgage on this place.”

  “I thought you owned the restaurant.”

  “If by ‘owning’ you mean I’m obligated to pay the LaChances thousands of dollars a month or lose this place, then—yeah—it’s all mine.”

  My throat tightens. “Jeez, that’s awful.”

  He squeezes my hand. “I don’t want you worrying about this. Let me handle it, okay?”

  I’m not sure how I could help anyway, since I’m flat broke and Mom and Dad aren’t far behind. If I’d stayed with Trent, I probably could’ve convinced him to invest in the restaurant, but . . . “I hope you didn’t do all of this because of me.”

  “It’s not your fault,” he claims.

  “It sort of is,” I say. “If I hadn’t . . .” I’m at a loss for where to begin enumerating my culpability.

  “This has been coming for a while,” he assures me. “Nikki and I were never right. The move back to Boston was a last-ditch effort to salvage things.”

  Then why did they hook up in the first place, besides the obvious chance to combine two stellar—physically, at least—sets of DNA? “It was like that for me and Trent too,” I say. “We just—I don’t know—were too different, I guess. Plus, he’s a man-whore.” A look of concern comes over Mark’s face, and I realize he’s probably tallying the diseases he thinks he’s contracted from me via my ex-slimeball. “I never slept with him,” I rush to clarify. “Just so you know.”

  This is where, in my silly romantic fantasy, he’d tell me that his relationship with Dominique never went past second base, which, in some guys’ books, would probably still justify a multiyear time investment. “Hey, you know what I was thinking?” he asks instead.

  That we should get hitched, move to Hawaii, and open a luau restaurant on the beach, where Angie could serve as our barefooted, bronze-skinned assistant? “No, what?”

  “Why don’t we have Angie’s birthday party here this weekend?”

  I never told him Angie’s birthday was coming up; he must’ve done the math. “Um, I think my parents are planning something at the Museum of Science,” I say, cringing. “Sorry.”

  “When?”

  “Saturday morning. You’re welcome to come.”

  “We could do it Sunday, then,” he suggests, pressing the offer. (Maybe he’s afraid that, by this time next year, Dominique will be running The Olive Branch.) “Make it a two-day event. What do you think?”

  I think he has wormed his way into my heart and, if his eyes smolder just a tad more, he’ll be worming his way somewhere else very soon (assuming Dominique needs a root canal or some equally time-consuming brand of dental torture, that is). “Sounds great,” I say. “Count me in.”

  * * *

  I lo
ve my parents. I do. But I’m beginning to question their sanity—or at least their communication skills.

  “I thought you said we were having a party,” I complain as I put the finishing touches on Angie’s hair, which I’ve crafted into a lovely fishtail braid thanks to a step-by-step online tutorial, “not just going to the museum.”

  Mom sighs, something she’s been doing almost nonstop since I moved back in. “I hate to say it, Emmaline, but you’re sounding a bit ungrateful. Angie loves the museum. What could be more celebratory than a day of fun and learning?”

  How about cake, for starters? Maybe some balloons? A couple of guests outside of the immediate family? (Even Aunt GiGi would do!) Gimme something to work with here. I mean, I’m going to look like quite the idiot when Mark shows up for this nonexistent birthday party. “You’re right,” I say begrudgingly. “I’m sure it’ll be great.”

  Angie admires her hair in the bathroom mirror and beams, giving me a flush of satisfaction. Even if she won’t be wearing the frilly dress I’ve picked out (too impractical for “hiking from exhibit to exhibit,” Mom informed me), she’ll still feel beautiful on her special day.

  “Where’s your mermaid’s tail, Emmawine?” Angie asks.

  I laugh. “Um, good question.” The truth is, I’d love to dress up in cheesy, matching mother-and-daughter outfits with her, but since we’re still posing as sisters, the idea seems ridiculous. “I don’t think I can reach,” I say, groping at the back of my head. “See.”

  “Mom can do it,” Angie suggests, “like you did to me.”

  Out of nowhere, Dad appears in the doorway. “Are you girls about done? The museum’s only open ‘til five, you know.”

  I feel the urge to point out that it’s only ten thirty, and we’re right on track to meet Mark at eleven. Instead, I lift Angie off the counter, where she’s been perched for the last twenty minutes in optimal braiding position. “Sorry, sweetie, but we’ve gotta get going. Maybe next time, okay?”

  She hugs my legs. “Awright.”

  Mom recaps a mascara wand, tosses a crumpled tissue in the trash, and shoos us out of the bathroom.

  Eighteen minutes later, following a tense car ride during which I was grilled like a Fourth of July wiener about Mark (news flash: I don’t know every last nitpicky detail about the guy; also, wasn’t he a wonder boy in my parents’ eyes when he stopped by a few weeks ago?) we arrive at the museum to find Mark leaning against the building and, once again, tapping away at his phone. (God, I hope Dominique isn’t launching a desperate campaign to rekindle their engagement!)

  My parents and Mark swap a few stiff pleasantries, and I get a lightning bolt of understanding: they liked him when he was my adversary, but now that we’ve teamed up, it’s me and Mark versus Mom and Dad in a battle for Angie’s affections.

  So my parents are capable of petty jealousy too, huh? I’m almost happy to hear it, since that means I’m not alone in my pathetic Neanderthalness (though hopefully they’ll keep their aggression in check, so Angie can have the happy birthday she deserves).

  Or not.

  “So, Mark,” Dad says while we wait in line to pay our admission fees, “how is it that you can take a Saturday off from work for Angeline’s birthday?”

  “I’m going in later,” Mark says, playing along. “Not much gets done around the place without me, I’m afraid.”

  I am compelled to come to his rescue. “You’re only open for dinner, though, right?” I ask, as if I don’t already know the answer. “Plus, you must have, like, prep people who come in early to get things ready, don’t you?”

  He fights an eye roll. “That would be correct.”

  Mom picks at Angie’s braid, unraveling a thick tendril of hair. “The restaurant business is tough,” she remarks. “I read somewhere that eighty percent of new restaurants fail within the first five years.”

  Way to be positive, Mom. “Well, The Olive Branch is definitely in the other twenty percent,” I counter, hoping to close the subject of Mark’s livelihood, which may be in danger not from the whims of the eating public but from his vindictive ex and her deep-pocketed family. “You read my review in The Times, didn’t you? The food is amazing.”

  In a clipped tone, Mom says, “I’m sure it is.”

  We reach the front of the line, and Dad digs out his wallet. Before he can organize his cash, though, Mark slaps a platinum credit card down on the counter.

  The testosterone war is under way too, huh? Fabulous.

  I expect Mom to make a snide comment about credit card use, but she just grasps Angie’s hand and guides her toward the ticket-taking line. Once inside, we regroup by the restrooms. “We should use the facilities now,” Mom says, “so we don’t have to leave in the middle of a presentation.”

  Mark and I profess our bladder emptiness and remain stubbornly planted outside the restrooms as Mom, Dad, and Angie enter. “Your parents are kind of intense,” Mark tells me, his forehead dotted (adorably, if you ask me) with stress sweat.

  I smile, lean in, and give him a friendly kiss on the lips. “I missed you.”

  “Mmm,” he responds, his tongue finding mine. “Me too.”

  * * *

  The good news is that my parents are old(ish), and their well of passive-aggressive snarking is easily depleted. By the time we work our way to the dinosaur exhibit, the five of us are getting along as famously as a mob of meerkats.

  “Whew, I’ve gotta take a load off,” Dad announces, wandering toward an unoccupied bench along the wall. (I hate to say it, but his heart—and, consequently, his stamina—ain’t what it used to be.) Mom shadows him, leaving Mark, Angie, and me to explore on our own.

  As usual, the dinosaurs are awesome, especially the nearly intact and—holy cow!—real triceratops skeleton named Cliff, which, despite its relatively small size, puts even the T. rex model to shame. “What’s that for?” Angie asks, cocking her head and nibbling on her pinkie, her wide eyes tracing Cliff’s gargantuan belly.

  Mark leans over and, softly in her ear, says, “See those rods?” He points out the steel undercarriage mimicking the dinosaur’s anatomy. “Those are helping him stand up. He’s really old, you know.”

  With a grin, Angie says, “Oh.”

  We marvel at the dinosaurs for a good ten minutes, pausing to read the plaques and fantasize about what life would’ve been like if the amazing—and terrifying!—beasts had roamed among us, before rejoining Mom and Dad, who’ve caught their second wind.

  At Dad’s suggestion, we proceed to the Audiokinetic Sculpture—a giant, encased conglomeration of rolling balls and spinning wheels and undulating pendulums overlooking The Charles River. The array is dizzying (seriously, I should’ve packed some Dramamine) but—thank God!—Mom soon checks her watch and informs us that the lightning show is about to begin.

  As fast as Angie’s legs will go, we speed past the Apollo Command Module—why is that exhibit always so mobbed, anyway?—and enter the Theater of Electricity, where, surprisingly, we find enough vacant seats for all of us.

  “Are you sure she can handle this?” I ask Mom about Angie. Last I knew, we were keeping her out of this particular show on the grounds that it was too loud and frightening.

  “She’ll be fine,” Dad interjects. “Isn’t that right, Angeline?”

  “I’m four years old now,” Angie declares.

  “Okay,” I relent. “But if you get scared, just say so and we’ll leave. We don’t want the thunder hurting your ears.”

  The theater continues to fill up, and the lights dim. A peppy, clear-voiced woman not much older than me begins the presentation with an easy-to-digest lesson on the Van de Graaff generator—the enormous, double-globed structure rising before us like the Great Pyramid of Giza—and, after donning a chunky pair of headphones (and warning us to plug our ears), treats us to a few appetite-whetting zaps of lightning.

  The display is enthralling, and despite the slight grimace on Angie’s face, she seems to be enjoying it. I reach behind
her and grab for Mark’s fingers, which are conveniently dangling in wait. We swap conspiratorial smiles as we tickle each other’s palms, the presentation getting away from us. Eventually, we tune back in, catching the lightning-safety demonstrations (spoiler alert: rubber is not as good an insulator as you’d expect) and, a little while later, the electrical-storm grand finale.

  On our way to lunch at the aptly named Riverview Café, I stop and admire a gorgeous installation of food-themed photographs. “Maybe your work will be up here someday,” I tell Mark (meaning his art on a plate).

  He shrugs. “You never know, I guess.”

  Mom and Dad stay mum on the subject, opting to take the high road instead of trampling (any more than they already have, anyway) a young man’s dreams.

  Blame it on the food critic in me, but lunch is mostly forgettable, except for the hunk of devil’s food cake we delight in watching Angie devour. “All right, what next?” I ask as we drift out of the café.

  Angie tugs at my shirt. “I wanna do that,” she says, pointing at an area where a number of children are rushing a wide staircase, a cacophony of music erupting around them.

  My brain draws a blank—I mean, what are those kids doing?—but then it dawns on me: the Soundstairs. Before I can answer, though . . . “Oh, that’s fun,” Dad says, grabbing Angie’s hand and marching off with her.

  The rest of us follow along, arriving in time to watch Dad and Angie soft-shoe a composition sounding strikingly similar to a mallet skipping over a xylophone. (In fact, I bet there’s an actual xylophone under the stairs that’s triggered by each footstep.)

  With Mom’s encouragement, Angie, Mark, and I stomp out a rousing rendition of what is supposed to be “Row, Row, Row Your Boat,” but ends up sounding more like a tone-deaf monkey bludgeoning a piano.

  Once the humiliation is over, Mark pulls a folded map out of his pocket. “Wanna check out the Hall of Human Life next?” he asks. “Upstairs?”

  “On the escalator?” Angie squeaks, her eyes twinkling. “In the sky?”