“This is better,” said Mitch.
“Definitely,” said Jude. The boy was as smitten as Mitch. He ran his finger over the stenciled lettering along the side of the hood: RUBICON. “You could drive over things with this, I bet,” he said. “Like mountains and stuff.”
Mitch squeezed Jude’s shoulder.
“He left a note,” said Luke. “It was here when I got home from school. Like, surprise.”
There was a piece of paper the size of a postcard pinned under the windshield wiper. Jeep stationery, which was a nice touch.
Hope you like the color. —Dad
“I wanted one of these things so bad when I was your age,” said Mitch.
“Really?”
“I used to have dreams about them. That’s how obsessed I was. But my parents were convinced that if I got one, I’d roll it immediately and kill myself.”
“Why?” asked Emily. “Do they tip over?”
“The old ones did. Not this one, though. It’s built way sturdier.” Mitch demonstrated this by grabbing the Jeep’s roll bar and giving it a good shake.
“It’s not exactly my style, though,” Luke said. “Right? I mean, look at it. It’s like the vehicular opposite of me.”
Mitch took in the image of skinny Luke, standing there in baggy shorts and a Han Solo T-shirt next to the jacked-up 4×4. He had a point. The car had “prom king/star quarterback” written all over it. Agreeing with him, though, seemed rude. “Nah. This is totally you. In fact, why’re you here talking to us? You should be out cruising down Charles Street, waving at college girls.”
Luke folded his arms. “That sounds nice and all, but here’s the thing. I don’t know how to drive it.”
“What do you mean? It’s just a car.”
“It’s a stick.”
Mitch looked in through the driver’s-side window and saw the gearshift. “Oh. Well, that’s no biggie. You can learn, right? It’s not that complicated.”
Luke kicked a tire with the toe of his sneaker while Emily and Jude made faces at themselves in the big side mirror. “He bought me a dope Jeep that I didn’t ask for and can’t even drive. It’s like a symbol for our entire relationship.”
While Mitch certainly appreciated the kid’s flare for literary analysis, he couldn’t help acknowledging to himself that if ever there was a first-world problem, this was it. “Maybe this is his way of trying,” said Mitch. “Not for nothing, those custom wheels alone must’ve cost him thousands extra.”
Luke seemed to give this some thought. “Well, I still think he’s a jerk,” he said. And then he pointed over at Mitch’s yard, to the garbage stacked beside the mailbox. “What are those stick things, by the way? They look like weapons.”
“Just some old boards,” Mitch said. “Stuff from the house.”
“I don’t think the garbagemen are gonna take them,” said Luke. “They usually refuse big things like furniture and stuff, right?”
Mitch hadn’t thought of this possibility, and now he felt suddenly helpless. “Well,” he said, “I guess we’ll see what happens.”
And then Emily said, “It’s their bed. Mommy and Daddy’s. They broke it.”
“It happened while they were sleeping,” said Jude.
“Yeah,” said Emily. “They weren’t even jumping on it or anything.”
Mitch and Luke looked at each other, and Mitch was pretty sure that Luke was trying not to smile. “She’s right,” said Mitch. “The Butlers have a strict policy against jumping on beds.”
18
“Dad. Hey. Dad. Daddy. Dad. Dad. Dad! Are you awake?”
Mitch woke to a dark figure looming over him—a giant, or a murderer, possibly. But no, it was neither of those things. It was Jude. He looked massive, because their mattress was on the floor.
He considered rolling over and simply ignoring his son. There should be a rule in parenting that you get to do that once every fiscal year. If you skip a year, it carries over—like airline miles or paid time off.
But then he remembered two things: (1) He loved Jude, and (2) Jude was scared. When Mitch was Jude’s age, he’d swiped a copy of Pet Sematary by Stephen King off his parents’ bookshelf, and it basically destroyed his childhood. So he blinked himself awake as best he could and smiled. “Hey, buddy,” he whispered. “What’s up?”
“I’m scared,” said Jude.
“E.T. again?”
The whites of Jude’s eyes glowed bright and wide. “Yeah.”
“The coloring book, though. I thought we were good. We colored him sitting in a basket and making a Huffy fly.”
“What’s a Huffy?”
The center of Mitch’s brain hurt. “A type of bike from the eighties. Every kid had one.”
“Well, I’m still scared. The coloring book didn’t help. I knew it wouldn’t. I told you. Can I sleep with you tonight?”
“No, buddy.”
“Why?”
“It’s a bad precedent to set,” he said, but he was too exhausted to explain what that meant. He imagined a sixteen-year-old Jude standing at the side of his bed, deep-voiced and stubbly. Scootch over, pops.
“But Emily gets to. It’s not fair.”
“We talked about that. She’s little. It’s a process. We’re weaning her off of us.”
“Well, you’re not doing a very good job of weaning.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s right there.”
Jude was right. Emily was right there, pressed against him, in fact, and sound asleep. “Oh,” he said. “Well, she’s sneaky.”
Jude twisted his fingers. “I don’t want to sleep alone, though. He’ll get me if I close my eyes. That’s how it works.”
“That’s not how it works, Judey. I promise. He’s only in your head.”
“Nuh-uh,” said Jude.
Mitch tugged the sheets up over himself. No easy feat; Emily had basically vacuum-sealed herself into the center of the bed. “How about you do me a favor and try something?” he said.
“What?”
“I want you to go back to your room and practice being brave.”
“I don’t want to.”
“I know. That’s the brave part—doing something you don’t want to do. Something you’re scared to do.”
“How do I do it?”
“Easy. You lie in your bed, and you leave your night-light on, and the hallway light, too, like normal. And when you feel yourself getting scared, you take a deep breath, and you decide you’re gonna be brave. You make a decision. ‘I will be brave.’ ”
“But—”
“Do it for like ten seconds the first time. Nice and easy. Then ramp it up. Twenty seconds after that. Count it out. The longer you go, the braver you’ll get. A little longer each time.”
Mitch was winging it, of course, but somehow this sounded like pretty good advice.
“Okay,” said Jude. “I’ll try.”
“Awesome, buddy. Love ya.”
On his way out, Jude stopped at the bedroom door. “By the way…where’s Mom?”
“What?”
“She’s not there.”
“Yeah she is. She’s right—”
But she wasn’t. Next to his sleeping daughter was just an empty space. “Oh,” he said. “I guess a lot’s been going on since I fell asleep.”
When Jude was gone, Mitch touched Jessica’s spot in the bed, assessing for warmth, but it just felt like sheets, and he found himself in the difficult nighttime limbo of being too tired to get up and go find her but too awake to immediately go back to sleep. So he grabbed his phone off the nightstand.
The plan was to do a quick run through Instagram—maybe hit Twitter for some political commentary—but he saw that he had a new text message. It was from Alan. It was short and ridiculous.
I’m crazy about this chick.
Mitch rolled his eyes and texted back.
Things are going well then?
The typing bubble appeared. Mitch looked at the clock. It was 11:20 P.M. While the married people of the world were sleeping or dealing with rogue children, Alan was on bachelor time.
Very very well.
The typing bubble persisted, and then some emojis appeared. A water splash, a hand, and an eggplant.
Not sure what that means. Is the eggplant supposed to be your dingle? It’s very phallic.
Yes & I think it’s weird that you call it a dingle.
I have kids. Dingles & woo-woos up in here.
Noted, texted Alan.
The hand & the splash tho? Hand job? Is that what the kids are into now?
Alan replied with a pointing-finger emoji and a peach.
That’s both gross & confusing, texted Mitch.
Alan didn’t miss a beat, his text-timing on point.
Which perfectly describes the night I lost my virginity.
Mitch snort-laughed and then touched Emily’s head, testing how deeply she was sleeping. He tapped Alan’s name on the screen and put the phone to his ear. Alan answered after a single ring.
“Dude, you’re calling me? Come on, nobody actually talks on the phone anymore.”
“Well, let’s try going throwback. We’ll use our voices, like legitimate adults.”
“Why are you whispering?”
“Emily’s asleep. She’s in our bed. So, what are you up to?”
“I’m eating a Hot Pocket and watching SportsCenter.”
“You make divorce sound very glamorous.”
“Says the guy who’s in bed with his kid.”
“Touché,” said Mitch. “You’re not crazy about her, by the way. It’s way too soon for that. Don’t be an idiot.”
“Oh yeah? How do you know?”
“She’s the first girl you’ve dated in fifteen years. You’re just excited. You’re not thinking with your head. You’re thinking with…your eggplant emoji.”
Alan laughed, and Mitch put his hand on Emily’s back. He could feel her heartbeat, a steady little thud, like the faint drumbeat before the guitar intro in all those Smashing Pumpkins songs.
“Well, I’m breaking all the rules, my friend. She’s fucking amazing. Earlier, we worked out together. Went for a run. Then we took a shower together. A motherfucking shower, Mitch. At the same time.”
“Wow,” said Mitch.
“If I’d have died—been stricken dead right there—I would’ve been okay with it.”
Dual showering is on the long list of things that stop the moment you have a child, like going to movies and concerts. Mitch tried to remember the last time he and Jessica had done it. His mind went blank.
“Dude,” said Alan. “Do you have any idea what a twenty-six-year-old girl looks like in the shower? It’s like real-life porn.”
Mitch remembered now. Pre-kids, of course, in the little row house. The shower was so small they could barely fit. He thought of licking water off of Jessica’s neck. The surge of envy that followed was so strong that he had to close his eyes, and then he wondered whom exactly he was jealous of. Was it Alan, or was it the younger version of himself? “I can only imagine,” he said.
“It’s not just that, though,” said Alan. “I mean, she’s hot and cute—but she’s cool as hell, too. Really cool. You wouldn’t believe it. She and her friends—these younger girls. They’re actually fun, man. They’re up for shit. They enjoy things. They get beers at noon on Saturdays, just because. They listen to music. They have…fucking belly-button rings. It’s like life hasn’t beaten them down yet. You know?”
Mitch looked over at the empty space next to Emily, the faint impression of Jessica’s shape. “Maybe you are crazy about her,” he said. “It’s cute. Annoying, but cute, I guess.”
A bit of silence—some cellular hum on the line between them. Serious moments between the Husbands were rare, but he supposed this was one of them. “I’m actually happy,” said Alan. “For the first time in…shit…years. I’m fucking happy, man. I’ve finally got something to be excited about.”
“Well, I’m happy that you’re happy,” said Mitch. This was mostly true, but he couldn’t help thinking of Luke’s comment in class. Could he really root for his friend? Could he care about the outcome, even though he knew, rationally, that the entire operation was doomed to fail? “But just, you know, be careful.”
“You keep telling me to be careful,” said Alan. “To pace myself. I get it. But maybe it’s time for me to not be careful. Careful kept me married to a woman I didn’t love for almost a third of my life.”
“I just don’t want you to get hurt,” said Mitch. “At your age, you could slip in the shower and break your hip, and that’d be terrible.”
Mitch and Alan’s serious moment was over.
“I’ll be fine,” said Alan. “Go back to sleep. It’s late. You’re a motherfucking adult, for Chrissake.”
19
Jessica had never sexted before.
It sounded downright quaint in this particular day and age, like a lady in a bonnet, clutching her horse as a Model T buzzes by. But frankly, the timing had never quite worked out.
By the time texting was even a thing, she and Mitch had been together a while. And by the time the technology got hijacked for widespread deviance, they were married, and as a married person, sexting never struck her as a terribly necessary thing to do.
Mitch tried once.
He was on a rare overnight trip for work—some conference in D.C. at the PEN/Faulkner Foundation. He texted her just before midnight. She was in bed watching TV, wearing a light-green moisturizing mask and eating a popsicle.
Send me a pic of your legs.
She laughed and texted back. How many drinks have you had, Mr. Butler?
Two appletinis. Heavy on the tini. Lemme see em, woman!
She considered it. She looked down at her loose flannel pajama pants and her gray socks. How easy would it be to kick all that off and find a flattering angle? But she hadn’t shaved her legs, and she felt about as sexy as a Microsoft Excel spreadsheet. And, worse, she was just neurotic enough to imagine some enormous folder in the cloud storing a low-res photo of her bare legs, forever and ever. So instead she sent him a picture of her pajamas pants. Enjoy, sucker!
Mitch texted back a moment later, defeated. I should’ve been more specific.
So now, in the living room, texting with Ryan as her husband and kids slept upstairs, she didn’t quite know what she was supposed to do.
Your O face is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen BTW, he wrote.
My what?
Your O face. The face you make when you have an…Oooooh!
Thanks? I assume that’s a compliment?
A few seconds passed. The timer on the coffee machine in the kitchen ticked.
I’m getting hard just thinking about it.
Her face turned hot, and she thought of the cloud again. Did people really text these things to each other? Weren’t they worried? But then she read his text again and thought about holding him in her hand. How he’d reacted to her touch. How totally in control of him she’d been.
He didn’t wait for her to reply. When can I see you again?
She heard something upstairs. Footsteps. It sounded like Jude. She slid her phone under her leg and waited, but he didn’t come down. She waited a little longer, just in case. Never, she wrote. I told you that.
I’ve decided not to remember that.
Jessica did tell him, in no uncertain terms, in fact—as clearly as she could. She explained exactly what this was. Or, more specifically, what it wasn’t. She was naked at the time, tangled in Ryan’s scratchy, low-thread-count guy sheets. She was feeling a little nauseous. This ha
ppened sometimes when she had orgasms, and she’d just had two, the second of which had been among the most intense of her life.
Ryan had been up, walking around the room in his underwear. He had a small fridge beneath his desk, like something leftover from a dorm room. He gave her a Diet Coke, because she wanted something with bubbles.
“This isn’t an affair,” she said.
“What?”
“I can’t have an affair with you.”
He smiled, and she wondered how many times in the whole of his young life a female had told him anything that even resembled no. “Is that not what we just had?” he asked. “An affair?”
“No.” She skimmed through the Rules in her head. “An affair is ongoing. That, just now, was a onetime thing.”
“Really?”
She nodded.
He pushed his hair back off his forehead. “You’re one hundred percent sure?” he said. “Never ever?”
“Never,” she said.
“Well, in that case.” He eased himself down onto the bed and moved some sheets aside. He bit the arch of her foot and then kissed her ankle. He kissed her calf muscle next, and then the inside of her left thigh. Her hip.
She watched his mouth on her skin. Kisses turned to licks, and she bit down on her lower lip. “What exactly do you think you’re doing?” she said.
“I was inside of you so fast before that I didn’t get the chance to do this.”
Now, aside from the white noise of the humming Butler house, all was quiet. She went into the dark kitchen and got two Golden Oreos from the cupboard. As she chewed, she looked at the wall that separated the kitchen from the breakfast nook. She and Mitch had talked about knocking it down for years, but there it was, still. Her phone buzzed in her hand.
You there?
She ate another cookie.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. She and Mitch were supposed to have sex with other people. It’d be fun. It’d be liberating. And then those people were supposed to simply vanish. Gone in a puff of smoke, never to be seen or heard from again. Erased from the record. From cellular contact. From existence. It was all perfectly reasonable.
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