by Melissa Ford
“Well, I’m tired of talking about my problem. The Girls want to talk about my problem. The doctors want to talk about my problem. I expect my daughter and my reading material to provide me with a five-minute distraction from the problem.”
“Is that what we’re calling the cancer? The problem?”
“I told you, I don’t like that pink, pink word. Besides, polite women don’t talk about their breasts.”
My mother lowers her voice every time she says the word “breasts,” even though we’re alone in the living room and alone in the house for all intents and purposes.
“I have to talk about breasts all the time,” I tell her. “I have to talk about how the bodice fits over the breasts. I have to double tape breasts to dresses.” I half expected my mother to stuff a pair of white kid gloves in my mouth to get me to stop talking. “Anyway, I didn’t even say breast cancer. I just called it cancer.”
“That’s an ugly word, too. You’re not doing a very good job distracting me, you know. In a moment, I’m going to turn the job over to this magazine.”
My thoughts are glossy, slippery, like the pages of the magazine. I don’t know where to begin; do I tell her about Ethan and his marriage proposals, or do I start with Noah and how I sort of fell for him? I hug my knees to my chest, a position that makes my mother look up from a tutorial on rolling towels into fat, terry-cloth sausages and wince in discomfort as she regards my bent knees.
“I’ve messed up. With Ethan. And I don’t know how to un-mess it up. How to fix it. Maybe it isn’t fixable.”
“Everything is fixable,” my mother tells me, wincing again as she shifts positions. “We mess up. We move on. At least, that’s what we do with the people who are important to us.”
I look down at the floor so I don’t have to see my mother’s face. “What if we don’t fit together well? What if we don’t want the same things? What if he ends up realizing that down the road and leaves me?”
My mother continues to study my highlights even after I’ve lifted my head to face her. “Do you remember your turtle, Sherlock? That dirty thing you brought home from the lake that summer?”
“I loved him. And you wouldn’t let me bring him inside. You said that he probably had a disease.”
“He probably did have a disease,” my mother says. She gives a fake shudder, as if the mere thought of Sherlock is enough to infect her with salmonella. “I was standing in the kitchen and you came in through the door with Jilly Hendricks, carrying that turtle like he was your baby. His head had pulled into his shell because he was probably terrified. You wanted to keep him in our bathtub, but I told you that you had to keep him in the backyard in a gift box from your latest Barbie set.”
My mother smiles as if she actually misses Sherlock. “You sat out there all night, trying to coax the head out of the shell. You left him banana chunks and lettuce leaves. And when you woke up in the morning, you ran back outside to check that he was still there. And he was, but all the food was gone.”
“For a week, you took him out the moment you got home from school and played with him in the backyard. He didn’t do much. I don’t even know if you ever saw his head come out of his shell. But you gave him food and sang him songs and told him that when you were older, you’d get a house together. And then one morning, you woke up and you went outside to check on Sherlock, and he was gone. The box had tipped over, and he had crawled right out. Disappeared into a drainage ditch or found his way back to the lake. And you were heartbroken. Do you remember how heartbroken you were? You knelt on the grass, beside the box, and your entire body shook because you were crying so hard. It was terrible to watch you because I knew it was my fault he was gone since I refused to let him into the house. You told me you would never get over it, that you would be heartbroken forever.”
My mother lowers her gaze to meet mine, and I feel my breath catch in my throat. “You lived through it, Ari. Because that’s what we do. We live through things. And you’ll keep going on whether Ethan crawls away like Sherlock or stays forever. You’ll keep going on whether I am here or not. Because we live. And if you choose to, you can also use this time to love. But regardless of whether you do that, you will live. So decide how you want your life to look.”
Chapter Seventeen
I WATCH THE earth come back into view from underneath the clouds, the roads and tiny cars and the people pulsing on their way to work or school. Beckett sits on my lap and bounces around as he eats the Cheerios my mother gave us in a plastic bag for the plane. “Deeeees,” he announces, breaking the quiet of the early morning landing.
The collective hush over the plane, these last few minutes of quiet, make the space feel cozy. We’re suspended above New Jersey, racing through the air at hundreds of miles per hour, and it doesn’t even feel as if we’re moving. I tilt my head back against the seat and close my eyes for a few seconds as the buildings grow larger as we make our way toward the ground.
Maybe loving someone creates an island that cocoons you, like being suspended in the air through the laws of physics. This shouldn’t be possible—human beings flying across the sky—and yet it happens hundreds of times each day. And I don’t mean the negative connotations for an island in the Donne-sense of the word, the one Ethan invoked during that fight. But a warm separation from the rest of the world. I feel wrapped up with Ethan and Beckett, surrounded by my parents and friends, everyone I love in a tight circle that hugs me.
I mentally toss around the blog post Rachel put up this morning that I read in the airport on my phone before we boarded the plane.
I don’t believe in happily ever after anymore. I don’t think anyone should wait for it or even strive for it. I believe in reality ever after, which is sometimes happy and sometimes sad, but it always is interesting.
It reminds me of the unfinished thought in the final line of Noah’s book. It is almost as if Rachel has handed me our ending.
The plane slides into a bumpy landing, and we bounce a few times before we smoothly taxi to our gate. I gather up our things, intending to let the rest of the airplane disembark so we can take our time getting out. But I’m suddenly seized with this idea that I can’t wait another minute to see Ethan. When the “fasten seat belt” sign dings off, I scoop up Beckett and slide my legs into the aisle to mark my place.
We edge our way off the plane, fumbling with the car seat and diaper bag, and lug ourselves down the long hallways until I can see the security gate ahead. Just beyond the guard’s desk is Ethan’s face, bobbing in the crowd. He’s anxiously scanning the people walking by, trying to find us so we don’t walk past him.
When our eyes connect, he smiles awkwardly and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Hey, you guys have baggage downstairs?”
I nod and hold out Beckett. “Do you want to take him, and I’ll carry the car seat?”
“I can grab the car seat,” Ethan tells me, reaching down to pick it up. “I know you like to carry Becks.”
“But he’s missed you,” I insist. “I’ve missed you.”
Ethan doesn’t answer, but he untangles Beckett from me and draws him close while I drag the car seat, banging it against my legs with each step. He’s quiet down in baggage claim, identifying and grabbing my bag before I can point it out, and then carrying it with Beckett while we make our way to the parking lot.
“Let’s switch,” Ethan suggests when we get to the Zipcar, and he takes the car seat from me so he can install it while I sit silently with Beckett on my lap in the front seat. When the suitcase is in the trunk and Beckett is strapped into his seat, Ethan slips behind the steering wheel and turns on the car. The electronic clock flashes the hour at us, and we both notice at the same time.
“In a few minutes, it’s going to be 11-11-11,” Ethan comments. “On November 11th, 2011. This is the only time this date will happen in our lifetime. It feels like we should b
e doing something momentous to mark the occasion.”
He doesn’t put the car into reverse, but instead turns it back off as if the running motor is draining whatever he has to say. “Ba ba da da da,” Beckett tells us.
“Listen to him,” I say to Ethan.
“Can you translate? I don’t speak fluent Beckettese.”
“He’s telling you that I’m an idiot who’s really scared that I just messed up my relationship with the one person in this world . . . who is not in diapers . . . who feels like home to me. And I’m so scared that I’ve driven you away. I know it’s easier to walk out of all of this . . .”
“I don’t believe that Beckett would call you an idiot,” Ethan interrupts. “And Ari, I’m not leaving. I’m not leaving you, and I’m not leaving Beckett.”
“But I messed up everything,” I tell him. “You’ve been sleeping on the sofa.”
“I’ve been sleeping on the sofa to give you some space. Because I know you, Ari. I tried to tell you this before, that night, when we had that fight after dinner with Gael and Gwen. I don’t want you to be anyone else except Ari, and being Ari means that you sometimes need a little space. You sometimes need to work out things on your own before you can come back. Maybe you’re more my little cat than you are an island; when you want a cuddle, you crawl in my lap. But then there are times when you need to be left alone to do your Arianna-thing. And I’m not very good at leaving you alone. Maybe I’m a little dog, slobbering all over you, wanting more than a cat can give. But I know you. I get you.”
“No, you were right about me being an island, but the thing is that I see you over here with us. You, me, and Beckett. We’re the island.”
“So I’m on the island with you. But what does all of it mean? I mean, you’re a cat and I’m a dog. You’re an Ari who wants to never get married, and I’m an Ethan who needs a bigger commitment. I mean, Ari, you’re all scared that I could leave you, but what do you think I am? I’m scared that you could leave me. That you could pick up and move to Minnesota with Beckett and leave me behind. It’s scary, Arianna, loving someone is scary, trusting someone is scary. But I still do it. I trust you.”
“But I let you down,” I tell him. “I let you down with all the stuff with Noah.”
“Noah?” Ethan shrugs. “Noah was never our problem, Ari. I don’t think it was ever really about Noah.”
“Maybe not,” I agree. We’re quiet for a minute, and Beckett fills the space with his babbling from the backseat. I lean on the headrest. “I realized something after the Emmys. I like being on the cusp of something more than I like actually accomplishing something. And I think you do, too. That’s where we’re the same.”
“Maybe,” Ethan agrees, looking out the windshield at the car parked across from us.
“It’s like . . . the night before the Emmys was more exciting than seeing those dresses on television and knowing the rest of the world was seeing them, too.”
“Okay,” Ethan says.
I sit up straight and turn my body so I’m facing him. “And I think you like being unsettled. You like being on the cusp, those moments right before something big happens. Like moving in together, or starting a new job. You’re just not great with dropping into the happily ever after.”
“Did you read Rachel’s blog this morning? Reality ever after?”
“Yeah, exactly. Reality ever after. You’ve been chasing that crest. But the world doesn’t really allow you to remain at that crest.”
“No, life sort of has to keep going on.”
“We can create more cusps,” I tell him. “That’s what I’ve been trying to do with getting this business off the ground. Start something new.”
Ethan rubs his hands over his face, as if he’s trying to erase his features. “Ari, what you’ve been trying to create is a monster. It’s like a vampire that’s going to suck us dry. Celebrity endorsements? Outfits made on deadlines to wear to television show parties?”
“No,” I say, touching his arm so he’ll pull his fingers away from rubbing his eyes. “I mean, yes, I was trying to jump-start it rather than grow it organically. But I don’t need it to be huge. I don’t want my own design house because I think we need to make millions of dollars and be featured on the cover of Vogue. I want to design just because I want to create. Not a monster that’s beyond my control that eats up our lives, but something small, with my name on it.”
“Can I tell you something?” Ethan asks. “I got you something a few nights ago.”
He pulls a crumpled piece of paper out of his back pocket and hands it to me. I scrunch up my face, trying to figure out what it means. “AriannaQDesigns.com. What is that?”
“The website I’m designing for you. For your design studio. Arianna Quinn Designs.”
“I have a website?” I question.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen your eyes get that wide,” Ethan laughs. He looks down at the steering wheel. “Before you accuse me of running away from my job and searching for the next big thing, I’ll have you know that I’m studying web design and learning how to build sites in my spare time. And Ethan Katz Designs, my web service, will be run during the evening hours, from our apartment. I figured that if you were going to be sewing, I could sit next to you and do something productive.”
“How did you learn how to do this?”
“Don’t get too excited. I’m just starting out. I don’t know—the computer guy at work suggested it as a project for the photography students: to build a site to showcase their work. It really wasn’t that difficult to learn the basics, and there’s a class through BMCC this winter. But it sort of goes hand-in-hand with photography. They’re both visual. Every site is different, so . . . maybe I can spend more time on the cusp.”
We’re quiet, staring at each other. He takes my hand and rubs the palm with his thumb. “But if you need me to, Ari, I can get a nine-to-five job. Whatever it takes to show you that I get it. I hear you. I want to work together to build this relationship. With 100 percent more text messages.”
“And like 200 percent more talking at night.”
“No, more like . . . 50 percent talking and 150 percent more s-e-x.”
“There’s more to living than creating,” I tell him. “I mean, we have to enjoy what we create, too. Take time off to just . . . be.”
I let out a deep breath and point at the ignition key. “I actually need to get to the loft so I can give your sister her wedding gown.”
“I would hate for Rachel to be dressless on her wedding day. There’s just this one last thing. I know I need to let you be yourself. You’re Arianna Quinn, and I don’t want you to be anyone else. But I also need to be myself, and I can’t deny that I need certain things in order to be comfortable.”
“Marriage,” I say.
“Something like marriage. It’s been hard to find that middle ground. You can’t be just a little bit married. You’re either married, or you’re not.”
My heart is pounding, and I hear myself say it before I know that I’m going to say it. “Then let’s get married.”
He squints his eyes and looks at Beckett, as if expecting some confirmation. “No way. You don’t mean that.”
“I do. Because it’s important to you. I want to get married if it’s important to you.”
“Ari, we don’t need to get married. If you haven’t noticed, we’ve already been living those vows. Sickness and health. For better for worse.”
“But you want to get married,” I insist.
“Are you going to ruin my proposal? Would you stop talking for a moment?” He takes out a necklace with three charms on it: a sewing needle, a camera, and a baseball bat. “It’s the three of us. I sort of predict that Beckett is going to grow up to be a massive Yankees fan.”
He takes a deep breath and twists his body so one knee is on t
he car floor, wedged underneath the steering wheel. I lean forward, so he can hook the necklace around my neck, and then I touch it with one hand while he holds the other.
“I think I was supposed to wait to put that on until after I asked you, but Arianna Quinn, do you promise to be my lawfully unwedded partner, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part? Will you live with me unmarried, reality ever after?”
“I do.”
“I may kiss the non-bride,” he says, and leans forward, softly touching his lips to mine. And it feels deeper than forelsket, something so much better than koi no yakan. It feels like a knob turning, a door opening. It feels like coming home to a perfect peace. He slides back onto his seat and turns on the car, fastening his belt.
The display lights up, announcing the date and also the time. We’ve timed it perfectly. It’s 11:11 AM on November 11, 2011.
“That’s a lot of elevens, Ari. 11:11; make a wish.”
So I do.
The End
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Acknowledgments
This book has had many incarnations, and the version you hold in your hands is thanks to the hard work of the BelleBooks team. Thank you Deb Smith, Deb Dixon, Brittany Shirley, Danielle Childers, and Brittany Dowdle at Word Cat for once again breathing life into Rachel Goldman and her crew.
An enormous thank you to my agent, Katherine Fausset, for always bringing the calm. You are a problem-solver extraordinaire, and I feel safe knowing you have my back.
An enormous thank you to Brenda Mikel at Narciso Rodriguez for all of your help in constructing the fictional fashion house of Davis & Howe. (Plus Rachel Rothstein for connecting us. Social media for the win!) If not for you, Arianna would have been sewing on her beads at the wrong time. Another enormous thank you to Jill Katz at the Daily Show as well as all the cast and crew who let me peek behind the scenes to create the Nightly and explained the ins and outs of running a comedy news show. Without you, Noah Reiser wouldn’t have had a job. And thank you to Dan Ariely for debating the finer points of why we lie over voice emails.