by Shen, L. J.
Trinity’s lips puckered, and it occurred to me that she hadn’t even asked me how I was doing. Or if something new was going on in my life. Or, you know, if my ex had happened to show up after thirteen years of radio silence and turn my life upside down.
“You know I joined the Ladies who Brunch church committee just to impress her? Catherine, I mean. I thought she’d be there every week. She doesn’t even show up, Nessy. She just throws money at the foundation every month to keep her title,” Trinity accused.
I was about to tell her she didn’t need to make her future mother-in-law her best friend when it was apparent Catherine Costello was colder than a fish in a frozen pond, when the door flung open and Mom rushed in, her gazillion necklaces crashing into one another in a symphony of ill-advised fashion.
“I’m here. I’m here. Sorry I was late. I had to interrogate Mrs. Patel about the macaron recipe to accommodate everyone’s allergies.”
My mother hurried inside, her round face flushed, her graying hair a nest atop her head.
She looked eons less put-together than the glamorous Catherine Costello, who only had a handful of responsibilities, which included keeping up appearances by looking like a gracefully-aging movie star, looking appropriately scandalized when a popular food chain tried to open a branch in Fairhope and ruin what locals referred to as the “town’s authenticity”, and giving sizable donations to church functions in order to avoid participating.
“Nessy! You’re here. Have you started with the kits? We don’t have much time. I need to get your sister to her aesthetician appointment. Apparently, it’s best to get the glow facial a few weeks in advance.”
“I’m on it.” I made a show of waving one of the polishes in my hand.
“Good.” Mom wrinkled her nose when she saw the donut pack. She flipped it closed and picked it up between her fingernails, like it was contaminated. “No one needs these, Nessy. That was completely unnecessary. Your sister’s trying to lose weight—are you trying to sabotage her weight loss?”
“My sister looks like she hasn’t seen a sandwich since 1999.”
“Do you mind finishing up here and adding the macarons to the bags while I take your sister to get her blackheads removed? Oh, and each macaron needs to be individually cellophane-wrapped.”
They were leaving me to do all of this by myself? Alone?
“Of course I don’t mind,” I heard myself say through the strong Cinderella vibes.
I knew my family loved me. But I also knew they were, at this point, completely shuttered to what I was going through.
“You’re a star, Ness. Get dressed, honey.”
Mom patted Trinity’s shoulder on her way to the fridge to grab the iced tea Dad had made for her before he went fishing earlier that morning.
My father, bless his heart, was as involved in family matters as I was invested in the condition of mole rats in Uzbekistan. To sum it up, he showed up to important events when we asked him to.
“How’s Bear, Nessy?” Mom asked, finally showing interest in something in my life.
“He’s good.” I looked up from the kit I was making. “Actually, I—”
“I want to take him to Hanes Mall next week. Get him a new backpack and perhaps a few pairs of jeans. His pants fall down his butt. Did you know that?”
Intentionally so, but give it your best shot changing his style, Mom.
“He’ll love that,” I chirped. “Anyway, you won’t believe what—”
“I think he’ll grow to be as tall as his father. The only good thing that useless man had to offer was his height.”
“Ha! Well, speaking of Rob—” I tried a third time, a little more aggressively.
Trinity breezed back downstairs wearing a summery dress. A new, tight-knit braid was flung across her shoulder, and she was wearing some mascara, blush, and lip gloss.
“Well, see you later, Nessy. Thanks for doing all the gift bags for me!”
“Oh, and honey, make sure to tidy up afterwards,” Mom called. “I’m going to have my hands full when I come back, what with getting the house ready for the party.”
They closed the door with a slam, just as my phone lit up with a new message. It came from an unrecognized number, with an Arizona area code.
Come on, Nessy. Are you going to let me see my son or what?
Not in this life, gasshole.
Two weeks later.
Gabriella Holland was a bad idea.
I knew that the night I’d met her at that bar.
The same night I took her home.
And the morning after it, too, when she casually examined the family pictures that hung on my living room wall, naked as the day she was born, and dropped the bomb that she was actually from Fairhope, too.
That her best friend, Trinity, was working at my clinic, and her mother would be delighted to know we knew each other. Closely.
What was an honorable man to do?
A man who had been crowned Fairhope’s Most Likely to Become President?
Who couldn’t afford to make a mistake, let alone four mistakes in one night, one of them in a pretty adventurous Kama Sutra position, resulting in a thoroughly compromised young woman?
I’d given my relationship with Gabriella Holland a fair shot.
There was, after all, absolutely nothing wrong with her as far as the eye could see. She was objectively stunning, had graduated from Columbia the previous year, and worked as a blogger and influencer, promoting beauty products and street fashion on social media.
She wanted to be a housewife, to pop out cute, chubby babies, and I supposedly wanted a wife who would do just that.
Our goals, plans, and ideologies were theoretically aligned.
Supposedly being the operative word, because I couldn’t, for the life of me, take any more of her photographing every goddamn thing we ate before consumption, or getting a selfie in every public restroom she visited, citing the great lighting.
“But…but why?” Gabriella sniffed, patting her nose and eyes with a tissue demurely, trembling all over.
I privately disliked all the trembling. She trembled when she ate a chicken salad at Jerry & Sons, when she saw something sad in the news, and when a draft came in through the window.
She was so fragile, so gentle, she belonged in a museum, not a red-blooded man’s bed (although, ironically, it should be said, Gabriella was pretty much game to do anything I wanted to do, just as long as I called the next day).
“Was it something I said? Something I did? I don’t understand. You gave me a necklace the other day!”
She was perched on the edge of my upholstered navy sofa, her big doe eyes shimmering like broken glass.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her the necklace had nothing to do with her and everything to do with me.
I prided myself in being the best lover in both Carolinas. I showered my girlfriends with expensive presents, took them anywhere worth going, never missed an important date, and wouldn’t let them leave for home without a complimentary orgasm.
I had high expectations of myself.
I was, after all, Fairhope’s darling.
The idea of letting people down gave me anxiety, no matter how much I liked to pretend otherwise.
“Wait, was it the non-organic burger incident?” She snapped her fingers, having a light bulb moment. “I guess I could’ve been kinder to Messy Nessy. It’s just that I’ve been under so much pressure recently, with Trinity’s wedding, and the bridesmaid fitting…”
“This has nothing to do with Tennessee Turner.” I handed Gabriella another tissue. I could tell as soon as she left here, she was going to start bawling her eyes out. “And nothing to do with you, either. You’re perfect.”
“Then why are you breaking up with me?”
I don’t have the greenest clue, honey. I just know you bore me half to death.
There was something wrong with me, and I needed to figure out what it was.
I knew I wasn’t asexual because s
ex was the only part I liked about my relationships. It was everything else about them I struggled with.
There had been no pivotal or inciting moment that changed me. No messed-up breakup or sob story to make me disinterested in settling down.
I came from a great home, with two loving parents who adored one another. I’d had girlfriends over the years. Some relationships stuck more than others. Some of the women I cared for deeply, and I definitely respected all of them—but something was missing.
Everything looked normal. Nice. Fine.
It felt fine, too. Not too good. Not too bad. Kind of like your favorite dish at a familiar restaurant. I was never disappointed with the women I was with, but never thrilled by them, either.
And I wanted to be.
Wanted to be driven to do dumb things, to push against my boundaries, to decode that one thing men my age had—a marriage—and I hadn’t.
Ultimately, choosing one woman was pointless when this town was my oyster, and I could have my pick of a wife at any time (save for Tennessee Turner, who frankly, I wouldn’t wish on my greatest enemy if I ever had one).
“I get it.” Gabriella sat up, slapping her thigh.
She was having an entire conversation with herself. Never a good look.
“You do?” I seriously doubted that, but went along with the conversation, anyway.
“You’re just getting cold feet because Wyatt’s getting married and you know you’re expected to be next. I can wait it out, Cruz. There’s no pressure at all.”
None whatsoever, other than the fact she’d already marked engagement rings in bridal magazines and left them where I could find them. Frankly, I thought three months wasn’t long enough to figure out if you wanted to share a Netflix subscription with a person, let alone propose marriage.
“It’s not about that. I need time to straighten my head.”
“Promise me one thing.”
Gabriella was now somehow full-blown sobbing, and I hated myself for ever getting into bed with her. In my defense, I didn’t think I’d have to see her the next day or the three months following.
“Sure.” I let loose a wintry smile, patting her knee. “Anything, honey.”
She squeezed my shoulders, looking me dead in the eye. “You’ll give it some serious thought and let me know when you come back from the cruise. I’ll wait for you.”
“Really, there’s no need.”
I didn’t want her to wait for me.
More importantly, I didn’t want to wait for her.
Cruises could go a few different ways. It was entirely possible I’d find a vacationer to have a brief fling with, and I didn’t want to hold back. Not when I already knew I didn’t want to be with Gabriella for another day.
“You don’t have to wait for me, but I’ll feel better if I wait for you.” She mustered a weak, tired smile.
That sounded like a pretty screwed-up agreement to me, but maybe Gabriella needed a few days to digest this. I’d been trying to break up with her for two hours now, and we kept going back and forth.
If this was what it took to make her leave, I figured I’d take one for the team.
“All right. We’ll talk again when I get back.”
“And try to remember what made us get together in the first place,” she suggested. “Maybe it’ll rekindle something in you.”
I was practically pushing her out of my apartment at this point.
Just when I thought I could close the door behind these hellish few hours and take comfort in the arms of the one love that never failed me—a bottle of beer—a pointy, red heel rammed its way between my door and the frame before I could close it all the way.
I opened it quickly, hoping it wasn’t Tennessee Turner and her Australia-sized attitude.
My mother stood on the other side of my door.
Catherine Costello had the Nancy Pelosi hairdo, an extra-delicate frame, and Jackie Kennedy’s wardrobe. She looked—and I say it with a lot of love—like every rich white woman you’d ever seen in a nineties’ era boss-lady-powersuit wearing television drama.
“Oh, Cruzy. I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
I opened the door all the way, knowing there was little point in telling her she was. “Not at all, Mom. Come in.”
“I noticed Gabriella was in a bit of a sour mood.” Mom began unloading the brown bag she’d brought with her. A home-cooked meal, no doubt.
She was, for all intents and purposes, a wonderful, overbearing mother that I thoroughly enjoyed spending time with, and at the same time couldn’t wait to say goodbye to.
Confused? So was I.
“Yeah. We broke up.” I opened the fridge, taking out a beer for me and diet lemonade I kept especially for her.
“That’s extremely disappointing to hear.”
She began popping open the containers. Smelled like her string bean casserole and steak.
“My apologies.”
I sounded sincere, because I was sincere.
I wanted to make my parents happy. I just didn’t want to get stuck with a woman who found more pleasure in taking pictures of desserts than eating them, and considered Vogue the authority on highbrow literature.
“At the same time, I could tell your heart was not in it. Come, sit and eat.”
I did, because hell, there wasn’t anything better than your mother’s best cooking and a beer at the end of a long day, no matter how old you were.
She rounded my kitchen table and came to sit opposite me, propping her chin over her laced fingers.
“I’m not here to talk about Gabriella, though.”
“Figured as much—that was breaking news.” I speared a piece of steak and popped it into my mouth. “How can I help, Mama?”
“Rob Gussman’s back in town.”
I managed not to splutter my beer and steak out.
Barely.
“Really, now?”
She nodded. “I went to play bridge at Mrs. Underwood’s place. She was gushing about you saving that boy at Jerry’s when the subject arose. Mrs. Gussman, who dropped in to give us some of her famous apple pie, said he’s back and a little worse for wear. Had a few difficult years. He is twice divorced, you know?”
“I heard.” Rob was never really good at relationships, so I was hardly surprised. “Is he here to stay?”
“Seems that way. He rented a house and everything. Down on Norton Creek, not very far from the other Turner girl and their kid.”
“Weird that no one has seen him yet.”
“I think he is keeping a low profile for now. Anyway, why don’t you give him a call? I’m sure he’d appreciate it. I bet he feels isolated and more than a bit embarrassed after the whole debacle with the other Turner girl.”
Yup.
Tennessee Turner didn’t have any fans in this town. In fact, my mother was just coming to terms with having her sister Trinity as a daughter-in-law, she was so uncomfortable with the affiliation.
Me, I had my own views about the world, about the small-town cancel-culture mentality. I wasn’t a fan of Miss Turner, but I had to say, a lot of the crap spewed about her reeked of jealousy and pettiness.
“Sure thing.” I shoveled more casserole into my mouth. “As soon as I get back from the cruise. I have a lot on my work plate right now.”
“Oh! And then there’s Mrs. Vella’s son, Anthony. He is considering going to med school and asked if he could email you a few questions. I said yes, of course.”
“Of course,” I echoed, grounding my molars as I ate.
Saying no was not an option. I was the perfect son, the perfect neighbor, the perfect acquaintance. Always ready to help.
“One more thing before I go. Your father wants to know if you could help him go over his investment portfolio before we go on the cruise. You know how dreadful he is about these things.”
“Consider it done. I’ll drop in tomorrow.”
Yup.
Being perfect was exhausting.
Especially when,
on the inside, I felt anything but.
Just when I thought the fifty-hour day couldn’t possibly get any longer, I got a call to return to the clinic because Mrs. Borowski’s kid, Jensen, had decided it was a good idea for his scrotum to get up close and personal with a Thomas the Train toy’s wheel.
It was Borowski’s second strike this month, as her daughter landed on my patient’s table not even two weeks ago with a rainbow-colored poop sample and a Joker-like smeared grin.
Apparently, little Elin had thought it was a great idea to feast on her crayons.
I arrived at the clinic, removed the train of joy from Jensen’s nut sack, good-naturedly explaining to him that it was not the last time this region of his body would land him into trouble, then peeled my elastic gloves off with a pop when Trinity, my soon to be sister-in-law and nurse, glided into my office.
“Dr. Costello.”
“Please, Trinity, call me Cruz when no patients are around. We’re about to become family.”
“Cruz.” Trinity tasted my name in her mouth, smiling shyly. “Got called in for an urgent procedure?”
She opened one of my file cabinets and dropped patients’ folders into it.
Trinity was a cute blonde with braided hair, a reserved wardrobe, and a few too many freckles. She was well-mannered, well-meaning, and well…boring. You couldn’t confuse her with her bombshell older sister, who gave some of Hollywood’s best a run for their money.
Trinity was almost homely in comparison. More than anything, Trinity looked like a cherub and Tennessee looked like something the devil had created to lure you into sin.
Unlike her sister, though, Nurse Turner didn’t possess the bedside manners of a wild boar, so I didn’t mind her working under me, even if she did take five hundred vacation days a year.
“Don’t ask.” A raspy chuckle escaped me.
“Okay. Let me ask you something else, then.” She turned to face me. Her hands parked over her waist, clad by the pale-blue nurse uniform. “Can you do me a favor?”