by Penny Reid
I surveyed my plate and found I was full. “Yes. What’s next on the agenda?”
“It’s a surprise.” He’d kept the plans for this evening top secret.
“Can I guess?”
He smirked and motioned for the waiter to bring us the bill. “You can try.”
“A movie?”
His lips parted and he looked horrified. “A movie? Certainly not! What do you take me for? A pedestrian?”
The check was delivered to our table. I turned for my purse, but before I could take out my card he’d already settled the bill with cash, telling the waiter to keep the change.
I glowered at him. He answered my obvious displeasure by lifting an eyebrow and taking a drink from the vodka (neat) he’d been nursing all through dinner.
“Greg.”
“Yes, Darling?”
“We didn’t discuss how we would split the check.”
“I wasn’t aware it needed discussing.”
“I would like to split it.”
Greg shrugged, his lips pulling to the side, his tone that of a parent imparting a lesson. “Well you can’t always have what you what.”
A short laugh burst forth, but I was determined to press the point. “Expenses should be split.”
“I don’t like splitting things,” he said as he stood, holding his hand out to me. “The maths are too hard for my brain.”
“I’m being serious.” He helped me with my coat and we strolled arm in arm out of the restaurant. “I may not be the world’s foremost expert on dating, but I do know money can’t be a major point of contention, especially if one person carries the entire financial burden.”
I was thinking of my parents. My father always worked outside the home and my mother was a homemaker. She always felt like she needed to ask permission before spending money on herself, like my father’s check was his money. This was exacerbated by his requirement that she provide receipts for all purchases. I think it was part of what made her so volatile all the time, feeling like she had no control of her own destiny.
He opened the passenger side door to his truck, gazing down at me as though I were a curiosity. “Fe, in a relationship, money is one of many burdens. Are you proposing that people split all burdens, right down the middle?”
“Yes,” I said, and thought about the feasibility of this approach as he shut my door and came around to his side. When he was settled in his seat, I clarified. “Well, insomuch as is feasible. I mean, some burdens aren’t quantifiable. So I suppose, people should do their best to split things fifty-fifty.”
“And, hypothetically, if we were to have children, would we have shifts? You have them for fifty percent of the day, I have them for fifty percent of the day? I worry about fifty percent of the issues? I help them with fifty percent of their homework? I do fifty percent of the grocery shopping?”
I conceded his point. “Like I said, some burdens aren’t quantifiable, but money is.”
“But—don’t you see? Money isn’t. Not really. Because a relationship is made up of many burdens, and the two people within the relationship have different strengths and weaknesses, abilities and talents.”
“And your talent is having more money than I do?” I asked wryly.
He nodded once. “For now. But later, your talent might be having more money than I do. And therein lies the beauty of partnering off with another human.”
“The beauty of human relationships is sharing burdens?”
“More or less. But burdens don’t grow lighter if both people are contributing equally. Life isn’t a fifty-fifty split, that’s just being lazy. Burdens are weightless, worlds change, and love endures when both people are contributing their maximum.”
I mulled this over; I could see his point, but it didn’t strike me as terribly practical. Romantic? Yes. Optimistic? Absolutely.
But could this altruistic strategy actually work in real life? Doubtful.
His eyes flickered to mine as he pulled out of the parking lot. “I see my superior reasoning has not won you over.”
“It’s just that…” I twisted my hands together. “I think what you’re suggesting is the ideal. But it’s not very practical. Humans are fallible and selfish. They are lazy. And they so often take the road of least resistance. The idea of being at the mercy of another person’s decisions, trusting that person with my bank account and the money I earn, feels like dooming a relationship to failure. Wouldn’t it be better to split expenses from the start? So you don’t have to rely on anyone else? Plus, if things don’t work out, then you’d have to separate your finances. I’ve seen plenty of my friends’ parents get divorced and money is always the biggest point of contention.”
“Not the children?”
“No, interestingly. Unless child support is involved—so, again, money—then the kids factor into the equation in a big way. Just to be clear, I understand their perspective. Money puts food on the table and a roof over your head. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to have money and the security it provides, which is why removing money from the relationship equation makes so much sense.”
He shook his head. “I think the opposite is true. I think—unless you have some compelling reason to keep bank accounts separate—the separation of finances just in case dooms a relationship to failure. It’s like each person already has one foot out the door, like those people who get married and think to themselves, Oh, well if this doesn’t work out, I can always get a divorce.”
I smirked at him, amused by how riled up he was getting about this. Usually, when we debated, he was cool, witty, and irritatingly detached. This was fun.
“Well, it’s true, you know. If a marriage doesn’t work out, you can just get a divorce.”
“Thank you for that, Duke of Obvious-shire.”
My shoulders shook with silent laughter. I tried to hide my smile as the truck descended into a contemplative silence. I assumed he was thinking about my perspective as much as I was thinking about his. I loved being in his company, being with him, partially because we frequently debated. We were always discussing and challenging each other to view things from a new perspective.
This debate was just like any of the others we’d had, except I was usually the optimist and he was typically a staunch pessimist. I was having a good time being the devil’s advocate for once.
I looked out the window and rubbed my fingers together. Even with the heat on full blast in the truck, my fingers were cold.
The passing cornfields were barren. It was too early to plant. The landscape was open and desolate, visible in shadow only because of the full moon. I saw we were just three exits away from the University. I didn’t know what he had planned for the rest of the evening, but I hoped it included us making out in his truck.
“Here’s the thing…” he started, stopped, then growl-grunted like he was frustrated. I turned to face him and his eyes cut to mine briefly before continuing, “I don’t want that. I don’t want a half-assed relationship with a life-partner who’s looking to leave. I think you’re right for the most part, humans are lazy and selfish. But—and I can’t believe I’m the idealist in this conversation—I also think you’re wrong. Take your grandparents, for example.”
“My grandparents?”
“Yes. Did your grandmother work outside the home?”
“Not really. Just for a few years, after her kids were out of the house.”
“And did your grandfather ever make her feel like his income wasn’t equally hers?”
“No. He didn’t. In fact, she was the bookkeeper in their marriage. She paid all the bills and gave him an allowance.” I grinned because I recalled the conversation I’d had with my grandmother on the subject. She’d said women were better at balancing budgets because they’re better at spending money.
“So, it’s possible? It’s possible to share everything, all burdens, including monetary ones? Be human, but not be selfish or lazy with your wife or husband or partner?”
“Yes. Of course it’s possible,
but-”
“No! No but!” He spoke over me. “Because if it’s possible to have a partner who gives all of themselves without reservation, who looks forward to working and sacrificing for me just as I look forward to doing the same for her, who can’t help but love ferociously, brutally, and unconditionally—and even perhaps without reason or sound judgment—that’s what I want. Because that’s how I plan to love in return.”
I squinted at him, letting this idea of ferocious, brutal, sacrificing love take root. I wasn’t ready to subscribe without more debate. “But that’s what everyone wants, Greg-”
“I’m not talking about other people,” he mumbled under his breath as I continued philosophizing.
“-just like everyone wants to be a millionaire, and have their own island, and be a rock star.”
“And all of those goals are possible, if you work hard enough.”
“Not necessarily. Even with the best of intentions, sacrifice, and hard work, some marriages fail. I’m convinced success—in anything—has four facets: one part hard work, one part talent, one part blind luck, and one part who you know.”
“And I know you, and you know me. And maybe…”
I snapped my mouth shut and frowned, waiting for him to continue. Some element to his voice wasn’t quite right.
My brain was having a hard time disengaging from debate inertia, but as I stared at him, at his profile, I recognized he was more invested in this discussion than was typical. Whereas I’d approached the topic as though it were just another one of our debates—dealing in hypotheticals, gross generalizations, and empirical data—looking at him now, I wondered if he’d been speaking with more specificity. Not hypothetically.
Greg gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles and glared in his rearview mirror. “Never mind.”
“No. Not never mind. What were you going to say?”
I watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. “Nothing interesting.”
“Tell me.”
He shrugged, pulling into the lot for our dorm, parking, and exiting the truck. I stared at his empty seat while he came around to my side and opened my door. I stood and sought his eyes. He gave them to me, but he was withdrawn.
I reached for his hand and threaded our fingers together before he could move away. “Greg, I thought we were debating.”
“We were.”
“Were we?”
“Yes.”
“And not about us, but about society in general?”
His jaw ticked, and he gave me a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He adopted his driest tone as he replied, “Fe, we’ve been together for a while. I am very fond of you—despite your distressing pessimism about marriage—and would like to buy you dinner, from time to time, without you harassing me about splitting the check.”
I thought about replying with, As long as I can buy you dinner from time to time, but thought better of it.
Instead, I stepped away from the car, shut the door, and reached for his hand. “Yes, please. That sounds really nice. Thank you.”
The hard curve of his mouth softened and so did his eyes. We’d walked some distance toward the dorm when he asked, “What if I wanted to buy you dinner every Friday?”
“I guess I’ll be eating well on Fridays, except for all the food you steal from my plate.” I withdrew my student ID from my pocket and used it to open the security doors.
His earlier stoicism was eclipsed by a devilish smile. “I can’t help myself, you make everything enticing.”
I was about to echo his sentiment, that he made everything enticing, but we were interrupted by the sound of someone calling my name from behind us.
We both turned in unison, and my eyes landed on a woman some twenty feet away.
“What the…?” I took a step back.
“Fiona! Wait!” she called, being unnecessarily loud, splitting her attention between me and the cell phone pressed to her ear. She began yelling about tire chains and tow trucks to whoever was on the line.
“Who’s that?” Greg asked, his eyes on my profile.
I gathered a deep breath and braced myself for… whatever came next.
“That’s my mother.”
***
I ran my wrists under the cold water, dried my hands, checked my reflection, reapplied my lipstick, and checked my reflection again. I unlocked the bathroom door and braced myself, conducting a mental walkthrough of the next forty-five minutes.
I used to have a fear of needles, a true phobia. I would pass out whenever I saw a syringe. Having cancer and having a needle phobia is like being a goalie and having a fear of balls.
My doctor suggested systematic desensitization as a way for me to overcome my fear. He sent me home with several syringes, telling me to hold them. That didn’t go over well. I began having nightmares that someone would find the syringes and stab me while I slept.
Not helpful.
His next approach worked much better. Before each visit where blood had to be drawn—so, all visits—he told me to imagine going through the motions of having my blood taken. I imagined in my mind’s eye walking into the hospital, waiting in the waiting room, being called back, sitting in the phlebotomist’s chair, and having my blood taken.
Suddenly, my fear didn’t feel quite so insurmountable.
Since then, I’d applied this technique many times, especially in stressful situations.
And so, I was applying this technique now.
I’ll walk into the suite. I’ll offer her something to drink. I’ll find out what she’s doing here and how long she’s staying. I’ll talk to her for ten additional minutes and then I will go to the bathroom. I will speak to her in ten-minute intervals, taking frequent trips to the bathroom until the tow truck driver arrives. Then I’ll take her downstairs. I’ll call her a cab. She will leave.
I gulped in one more breath for bravery, and walked out of the floor bathroom, down the hall, and into my suite area. I’d opted to escape to the central bathroom in the middle of the dorm floor rather than the suite bathroom. The sound of easy conversation met my ears, pleasant tones engaging in chit chat.
Fern was sitting at her desk painting her toenails, her feet propped up on the counter. Her gaze met mine briefly; it was saturated with sympathy.
Meanwhile, Greg was standing outside my dorm room, leaning against the wall and presumably facing my mother. I couldn’t see her, she was hidden from view, and she couldn’t see me either.
She was talking, “… you can imagine, the whole ordeal was very hard on me. We thought she was going to die, and the family burial plot didn’t have spaces for her and her sister, so we had to try to purchase a different plot close by. Well, once we bought the gravesite, Fiona improved. So now we have this gravesite and it was a complete waste of money.”
Greg issued me an impassive once over, and turned his attention back to my mother, his tone conversational. “You never know, perhaps Fiona will expire sooner than expected. She could get hit by a bus. Or maybe one of her cousins will meet an untimely end. If you think about it, having that extra gravesite is a good idea. Now, if she or her sister, or any of your nieces or nephews die unexpectedly, you’re all set. Just think how easy the funeral arrangements will be.”
I closed my eyes, uncertain if I wanted to laugh or cry. She was complaining about the gravesite again. Everywhere she went, every new person she met, she complained about the gravesite my parents had purchased, but was now of no use. I’d had the audacity to live, leaving them saddled with a superfluous gravesite.
“That’s a good point…” came my mother’s reply, and I knew she actually thought he’d made a good point. “I always say, when life gives you lemons, make lemonade. My sister’s kid is always getting in trouble. I bet I could sell it to her.”
I decided to never play poker with Greg because his expression didn’t waver in the slightest at her words. Instead, he nodded earnestly, like this was an excellent idea, and added, “Is it a nice location? Does it
have a view? If it has a view you should charge more for it. Also add some flowers, landscaping always improves property value.”
I gaped at his profile.
I hadn’t wanted to leave him alone with her. I’d worried she would… not embarrass me, per say. Rather, I was worried she would terrorize Greg.
When I saw her, I’d given him an out. I told him to run, run like the wind, escape her crazy. He’d steadfastly refused to leave, instead suggesting I go visit the bathroom because he was sure the seafood I’d had for dinner wasn’t fresh.
I had no seafood for dinner.
But I still went to the bathroom.
“It does have a view. I hadn’t thought of that.” I heard her stand from my bed and her footsteps approach. “I wonder where Fiona is? I hope she didn’t fall in the toilet.”
Greg straightened from where he’d been leaning against the wall and did a double-take, as though he were just seeing me just now.
“Oh! Here she is, she just walked in.”
Not a second later, my mother stuck her head out of my room and frowned at me. “Tummy problems? Do you have any baking soda? Or is it constipation?”
I’m going to be honest, I kind of wanted to die in that moment.
“No, mother. I’m fine. I just ran into someone in the hall from my chemistry class.” The white lie slipped effortlessly out of my mouth. My childhood had been seasoned with white lies. I’d learned early on how to lie believably. I considered it a survival skill.
She drew herself up, looking offended. “You should have told them that your mother was visiting and you didn’t have time to talk.”
I nodded, giving her my best apologetic smile. “You’re right. I should have. I’m sorry.” Agreeing with her and apologizing were the two most reliable ways to avoid being screamed at.
“Apology not accepted. You know better.”
I didn’t respond right away. Instead, I lowered my eyes to the carpet and counted the paperclips under my desk. I’d spilled a box of paperclips earlier in the day and apparently had missed a few.
“Well, anyway… this whole day has been a disaster. I don’t know why you wanted to go to school here. I think Iowa gets more snow than Maryland, if that’s possible. I’m tired of the snow, I want to go someplace warm. But you and your father insist on these cold climates.”