Too judgy indeed.
I snarl at my screen—and at the prospect of my friends being right.
Me: Ohhhhhh. Gotcha. Well, why don’t we just text then?
Him: That’s essentially what kik is. A way to text without giving out your phone number.
I laugh.
Me: What, are you in the CIA?
Him: Let’s put it this way. There are a lot of crazies out there.
Me: Right. So does this mean you’ve been burned by the online thing? Because I hear you. But I’m not “a-scared.” I daresay we should maybe even—gasp—talk on the phone. My fingers are getting tired anyway.
#thatswhatshesaid
Here.
And I send my phone number before my brain can catch up with the tickle of something unfamiliar his cynicism gives me.
I rub at my chest.
What the balls is that—hope?
But then there’s no answer. For like five minutes.
Billie and I have made it to the top of the hill and she’s panting away and I’m sweating both from out-of-shapedness and from my one second of not being careful. I look at How Freaking Long that message was and choke back some self-loathing.
Five minutes isn’t the end of the world, of course, but there’s a politics to texting, I learned after the divorce. When you’re having this back and forth and then, all of a sudden, Dude goes silent…and you’ve been the last to message…
Bzzzt.
I practically slobber all over the phone.
Him: OK, so I can’t in good conscience text or call without telling you first that I’m locked up. Don’t worry, I’m not a stalker or dangerous in any way. But I won’t lie and have you find out later. I was enjoying our conversation, and if you still wish to talk, I’ll fill you in all the way.
I blink.
Who shot who in the what now?
Home girl and I have made it to the sidewalk outside my place, and I sink to the curb. The concrete is chilly through my yoga pants, and I read the message again.
Once the proper synapses fire, a surge of HOLY SHIT brings me to my cross trainers.
Me: What are you saying to me right now? You’re locked up? How are you—what are you—
I send it, and my head is spinning. There’s no way for me to delete the message with my phone number. Stupid Spark.
Stupid Rae. Stupid, stupid, about-to-be-murdered Rae.
My fingers are electrified with fright. Betrayal.
Me: How are you messaging if you’re in prison? Seeing movies that we were talking about? Etc…
Why am I even engaging this guy? But I can’t help it. I need to know. This is not something I anticipated and my curiosity gets the better of my judgment. I haven’t seen my judgment all fricking day.
Him: Prison has changed. We get cell phones snuck in for exorbitant amounts of money. We just have to be careful. Hence the kik account.
Hence. I’ll give him hence.
And I unmatch. Just like that, Anthony, 36, is out of my life. He may or may not have my phone number, but I can’t worry about that right now.
I heave my stupid, stupid self inside and jump on the ol’ laptop to research everything I can about Spark’s terms and conditions, privacy—and dive into a vat of vino.
* * *
I will never live this down.
Sarah’s had me telling this story all morning, all afternoon. To everyone we know. Everyone we don’t know. The fifth-grade reading specialist. Her mom, over FaceTime.
“At least he was honest…So many guys aren’t these days,” she says, chuckling into her microwave macaroni and cheese like she has any clue what guys are like these days.
I stop my fork midair and just look at her.
“You’re right. He was eventually honest. But, call me crazy, I’m still holding out for—yanno—not prison.”
The regular cafeteria dwellers—who never say anything but just shove their faces full of whatever is in the hot lunch line—offer snickers of condolences. I’m pretty sure they don’t believe half the things they hear me talk about, and I’m pretty sure I don’t care.
When Valerie makes it in, she’s wearing a frown that says she knows not to talk about it. Gives my arm a loving little rub.
We sit in silence, the sound of someone chewing a banana somewhere in the room lighting my insides on fire, and Valerie catches my gaze.
All of a sudden, she’s insta-laughter. Snorting. Nearly choking on her egg salad.
“What?” I demand. I’ve caught the chuckles now too, though. I’m too slaphappy from not sleeping at all last night to even function. “What are you laughing at?”
She gives an exaggerated shrug. “I don’t know…What do you think I’m laughing at?”
I swat at her forearm. “Not this again. You know this is a thing!”
“Miso-what?” Sarah crinkles her forehead at Val.
“Sound sensitivity,” I explain. “The hatred of sound.”
“No one was even talking.” Sarah shakes her head and stares back into her gluten-free pasta.
“Doesn’t matter—Rae-Rae goes all Hulk if she hears someone chewing. Breathing. You name it.”
“Isn’t the old-fashioned term for that just being a bitch?” Amusement touches Sarah’s freckled face.
“Look it up! Science!” I protest, but they just keep laughing. “Aw, you people are worthless.” I get up and toss my tray.
“Don’t forget we need to do some planning for Quinn’s bachelorette weekend,” Valerie says. “You wanna come to dinner tonight?”
* * *
Chapter 9
I walk right into Valerie and Mike’s kitchen like I always do. No doorbell, no knock required.
“Honey, I’m home,” I call through the toy monsoon they call their living room, and I’m like Santa Claus and the Publishers Clearing House people rolled into one as I stride in with two armfuls of Chinese food.
Valerie cheers and the kids are beside themselves with glee that silly old Auntie Rae is here.
Click.
Val snaps a photo that I know is going on Instagram before I can even say hello, and then she whisks the take-out bags away.
The twins, Amanda and Mae, attach themselves to my thighs. “Auntie Rae! Come play with us!” they say in unison, like they do a lot of things.
But it’s not like in The Shining. It gives me the warm fuzzies, and I scoop them both up into my arms and cover them with long-overdue smooches.
“Either I’m in way worse shape or you guys are getting too big to be picked up.”
“Noooo.” Amanda giggles, chubby hands to mouth. “We’re only three.” She flicks the fingers up like a pro.
“If you say so.” I shrug, and they’re all smiles and screeches and heart-melting squeezes as I tickle them into oblivion.
“Are you staying over?” Jakey wants to know from the bottom of the stairs, never taking his fourth finger from his mouth.
I give his staticky, sandy hair a pat as the twins are yanking me to their bedroom to show me their Frozen dolls.
“Not this time,” I tell him. “Next time I’ll bring Billie and we’ll plan for it, okay?”
He jumps up and down, already in his Spider-Man pajamas, and he follows us upstairs like we’re a kid caravan.
On the way, I peek into the baby’s room. Blue walls split with a fire-truck paper border. Empty wooden crib glistening in the soft overhead lighting. Rocking chair complete with a teddy bear in the corner.
Such a big, beautiful home. So full of kids and chaos. And quiet moments like these, with a kid attached to each appendage to warm you and love you.
“Where’s Frankie?” I ask.
“Dad’s got him, in the office,” Jakey says, his free hand now wrapped around mine.
I start as I peep inside the dark office and glimpse Mike looking like Schroeder from Peanuts cartoons, all bent over his computer, back slumped like Quasimodo. Frankie’s giggling and blowing spit bubbles in an ExerSaucer thing. Bouncing to th
e nineties rock Mike has pouring from the speakers.
“Hey, you,” I say, and he minimizes whatever window he was looking at on the screen and jerks toward me.
“Oh, hi, Rae.” He does this exaggerated stretch, like he’s ninety-six or ninety-seven, or some ancient tortoise from the Galápagos Islands, and his gaze snaps back to the computer. All business once again.
I’m barely able to sneak Baby Frankie a kiss on his fat cheeks before his siblings are tugging me toward the twins’ lair again, and no matter how much merriment, how many giggles, Mike never cracks a smile or has a second glance for any of us.
I set my jaw but then slather on a smile of my own, since I seem to be the only one who notices or cares. Maybe Valerie is just out of fucks to give or she doesn’t even have time to realize it with all she’s doing to keep the family afloat.
Or maybe she’s too tired from all the energy she expends posting photos of family perfection on Facebook. I don’t know.
We’re three pages into the Curious George book Mae handed me upon entry when Valerie appears at the door, half a grin painted across her porcelain face. “Dinner’s all set up.”
The kids groan like they rehearsed it, and we laugh.
“Sorry, guys. Knock, knock,” she says to Mike from the doorway.
“I’ll be right down,” he answers, rounded back still to us.
“Want me to bring Frankie?” She makes a silly face at the ten-month-old, and he erupts into wet-sounding giggles.
“Naw, I got him.”
She throws up her hands and does the ol’ wide eyes at me like I don’t know what’s all up his ass and shakes her head. Drapes a lazy arm around my shoulders as we descend the stairs.
“What do I owe you for this feast, my love?”
I toss her a limp wrist. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure I owe you thousands from all the dinners I’ve mooched off you over the years.”
True story.
She gives me a side squeeze and then we split off, each lifting a twin into a booster seat. I retrieve Jakey’s sippy cup of what I’m guessing is milk from the kitchen counter.
Just as I expected, the table’s been set to perfection as well—her plates are part of her set of everyday china from her wedding, and they actually match—with adults’ orders set in our respective places; each take-out container full of fried rice placed on a diagonal to the left, each complete with a fortune cookie and chopsticks laced through the thin wire handles.
“Nice touch, Martha Stewart.” I offer her an eyebrow, and she snorts.
“Martha Stewart wouldn’t have served leftovers to the kids…but thank you. I try.”
Click.
Another Instagram treasure before we dig in and ruin her display.
Mike comes down when I’m about halfway through my mu shu pork and the kids have long since finished picking at their chicken fingers, their eyes now aglow with tablet screens.
“It’s probably cold,” Val says, wiping her hands on her napkin.
He shrugs without looking at her. Plops Frankie into his chair.
I try to continue with our conversation about Quinn, about school, but I just feel stupid in front of Mike. All the fun has been sucked from the room once he’s in it, and I wonder why this is and if it’s my fault. Does he hate me? Or is he always like this? So instead I start to ask him some questions. About his family and about work mostly.
And he does answer. He actually makes eye contact here and there as he pours hot mustard sauce all over his beef and broccoli. I guess computer systems sales really does it for him.
And then he catches me off guard. “Think you’ll go out with Ty again? He seemed to dig you.” He glances up at me and shoves half an egg roll into his mouth.
My own mouth has gone dry because I honestly had forgotten Mike was somewhat involved in that fix-up too.
“Um—” It comes out guttural.
“He sent her a…” Valerie glances at the kids and then seems to think better of finishing that sentence. Shakes her head. Collects herself. “We’re trying a new experiment,” she begins again, catching my eye and bailing me out.
God bless her.
Mike gives an eye roll to his plate. “Yeah? And what’s that?”
Val dishes on Spark, and each new detail she divulges shrinks me more and more until I’m small enough to run around the table and hide behind my fortune cookie.
Or so I wish.
“Auntie Rae’s getting married?” Jakey must be half listening, still sucking away at that finger.
“Ha-ha—no,” I say, shoveling in some rice.
“Are you ever getting married?” he singsongs, like the kids in my class do, and I cough up a bite of pork.
Before I can answer, Mike does it for me.
“She was married, buddy.”
“You were?” The confused little five-year-old rips his gaze from the screen and fixes his big shiny blue eyes on me.
I sit with my mouth hanging open for I’m not sure how long. Still hearing Mike’s She was married and overanalyzing the intonation of the was. That cloying emphasis he put on it.
Just what was that supposed to mean?
“She was, buddy, yes. Go back to your game.” Val’s tone is sharp. Val to the rescue once again. She taps at Jakey’s tablet screen with a perfect fingernail and screws her mouth into a frown.
A moment later: “I don’t think we need to be having that conversation with the five-year-old, do you?” She tsks in Mike’s direction.
We finish the rest of the meal in relative silence until I start asking the twins a bunch of ridiculous questions about their lives, like what their majors will be in college, how many kids they think they’ll have, how much they contribute to their 401(k)s, etcetera, which elicits giddy laughter from them both. A sound that warms the otherwise drafty kitchen.
I won’t stop yapping.
But it’s in the name of changing the subject and taking the heat off me and my failed marriage as fast as possible. In the name of trying to keep my mind off the tension I feel. The stiffness.
“What’s your fortune say?” I ask, tearing into my cookie.
“‘The greatest risk is not taking one,’” Val reads. “What’s yours?”
“‘If winter comes, can spring be far behind?’”
“Ooh—I like that.” She beams. “Save that one.”
“It’s not even a fortune,” Mike chimes in.
“He’s right. Neither of those is. How about you, Mikey boy? What does the universe have in store for you?” I lean on the table, sarcastic enthusiasm dripping from my fingertips.
“‘Your fortune is as sweet as a cookie.’” He snorts. “Um, yeah. This is crap.”
Val smacks his forearm.
“Oh, the kids aren’t even listening.”
I crack a smile—Like father, like children—and start clearing the plates.
* * *
I offered to help put the kids to bed, but Valerie wanted to do it.
“Stay down here. Relax,” she said with a smile and handed me a giant glass of malbec like the excellent friend she is.
And so I sit, with my legs up under me on their Restoration Hardware leather couch, and thumb through Facebook. “Like” the two pictures Val somehow had time to tag me in when I wasn’t looking. And sip the lovely wine. The sounds of Mike rinsing dishes, the clinks of cups and plates, the clonks of plastic on plastic echoing in the space between us.
As I do so, all these questions run like computer code in The Matrix in front of my eyes while our dinner exchange claws at my insides.
What had Mike meant by telling Jakey I was married? Was that a judgment? Or was he simply telling his kid the truth when he had asked?
Was I being defensive?
And, furthermore, was Valerie’s swoop-in meant to rescue me…or was that a judgment as well?
I don’t think we need to be having that conversation with the five-year-old.
What did that mean?
When
I can’t take it anymore, I rise from the couch and join Mike in the kitchen. “Can I help?”
“Nah, it’s okay” is his response.
“You sure?”
He doesn’t answer. But he’s generally like that, so I try not to read into it. Just lean my back against the counter, pop a knee—socked foot against a cabinet door—and take another swig of wine.
“Listen, I’m sorry about Ty. I don’t know if you’re close to him or whatever. He was a nice enough guy. I just…”
He shakes his head, a grimace forming at his mouth, but his focus is still on the Captain America cup in his hand. “I told Val it was a bad idea. Ty’s not right for you, I don’t think.”
I quirk my head his way. “No?”
“No. But I think you could do a lot worse.” He suddenly faces me. “I don’t know what it is you need—let’s be real. But I just didn’t see it. So don’t worry. I’m not mad if you’re not seeing him again. Okay?”
“Okay.” All I can do is blink at all of this articulation coming from the Mikester.
“He wants to settle down, have a family. You don’t.” He shrugs.
I listen to the rush of the faucet as I take that in.
What does this guy think he knows about me? Sums me up with one shrug.
And then: “I don’t?”
“Aw, I don’t know.” He makes a face like he’s sorry he said words. “Seems like you don’t. You kinda had that before and didn’t want it. And now you don’t really seem to go out with the same guy more than a few times. Don’t ask me for dating advice. I don’t know what I’m talking about.”
I’m clutching the wineglass like it’s Mike’s neck and praying it doesn’t break in my hands.
“Is that what Val says about me?”
“Is what what Val says about you?” asks Val as she enters, wiping her brow with a languid hand.
He laughs. “Nothing. Just making an observation.” And then he dries his hands on the fall-themed towels and vanishes back upstairs.
For the next hour, Valerie and I pore over details of Quinn’s bachelorette weekend. All the while, my interaction with Mike plays on a loop in my head.
But I can’t say anything to her because he’s her husband. You can’t say anything about someone’s husband. You can’t even really say anything about someone’s boyfriend ever, if you still expect that person to be your friend. That’s just how it works.
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