by Roxy Reid
I clear my throat. “What are you suggesting? If she was just scared.”
“You’re asking a priest? You are desperate.”
“Peter,” I say warningly.
He can’t go asking people to confide in him and then play dumb when they ask for advice. That’s just not fair. Plus, Peter gets people. He watches everyone around him and listens to what they’re saying. He listens to what they’re not saying.
Peter stands up and makes himself another cup of tea. “You can’t have a conversation until she’s willing to try talking about it. So, I guess it’s about putting yourself out there and showing it’s safe to talk.”
I nod, but he doesn’t say more. That’s it. That’s his entire advice.
I sigh, exasperated, and motion him to continue. “And I do this by …"
Peter shrugs. “I don’t know. How do people normally lead up to telling someone they’re in love?”
“Well, dating,” I say, except we’ve already kind of been doing that.
I think about it some more. Other than the dinner dates on her book tour, everything we’ve done together in the past month has been about trying to convince people we’re in love. Maybe I need to take her on a date for real, somewhere beautiful, where it can be just us. But also somewhere public, so I don’t just have sex with her again. The sex is great—Dear God, the sex is great—but I want more.
Slowly, I nod as a plan begins to form in my mind. I’ve got five more days in Ireland and a mum who knows every beautiful, breathtaking place to sightsee in the area. I can do this. I can get Grace to open up to the idea of falling in love with me.
“You know how you can’t just go up to a cat and pet it?” Peter asks as he reaches for another digestive. “You have to wait patiently for the cat to come to you. I think this is like that.”
“You’re calling my wife a cat,” I say nonplussed.
“I’m saying she has catlike qualities,” Peter says. “Whereas, you basically speak dog. You just want to charge right in assuming people will love you.”
I put my head on the table and groan. I never was any good with cats.
Peter makes me another cup of tea and laughs at my suffering.
19
Sean
Mary, I don’t actually care what the most romantic spot in Galway is. Talk to Joe. He’s the one you’re losing it to.
—Sean Bronson, note passed in class to his friend Mary, their final year of secondary school
I spend the next five days trying to plan nice, quiet, romantic things to do with Grace. I want to romance her. Reassure her. Sweep her off her feet. But the damn woman won’t cooperate.
The first day, I drive us to see the Cliffs of Moher. They’re beautiful, scenic cliffs that plunge into the sea. Sure, it’s a tourist destination, but there’s plenty of room to spread out, especially the farther along you walk. I pack a picnic basket with brown bread, smoked salmon, cheese, berries, and wine.
Except, Grace doesn’t want to wander the cliffs and spread out. No, she wants to strike up a conversation with every tourist we pass. She practically sets up a photography business, taking every group’s picture. Finally, I give up on getting away from everyone else and just try to get her to relax and enjoy the picnic, but she makes friends with a nearby busker playing traditional Irish music for the tourists. When she finds out he forgot his lunch, she invites him to join us, assuring him we have extras.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was trying to avoid being alone with me. But that’s ridiculous. Why would she want to avoid being alone with me?
The next day we take a ferry to the Aran Islands. Inishmore has tourist spots, but also has lovely areas to bike and wander. Grace likes biking. Having learned from my mistake, I don’t pack a picnic. Better to stick to restaurants so that Grace doesn’t start feeding people.
Unfortunately, Grace bonds with a group of grannies on the ferry over. When they hear that we didn’t pack a lunch, they decide to feed us.
I can’t win.
We spend the day with the grannies. By the time we get back to Galway and part ways, we’re both full from eating their—admittedly amazing—homemade scones. Grace had a great day and is grinning from ear to ear, but we haven’t made much progress on the dating front.
I keep trying. I try everything I can think of.
I invite her on a walk after dinner. She invites my mum to join us.
I suggest we take a day trip to Dublin. She tells me she’s already made plans for us to meet Mary and Joe at the pub.
She makes plans for us to meet Peter for dinner. I call Peter and tell him not to show up, on pain of death. Peter shows up because, and I quote, “She’s just really hard to say no to.”
Then, there’s the fact that Galway is not a large city. Everywhere we go, it seems like someone recognizes me. Every time they recognize me, Grace is more than happy to stop for a chat or, if she likes them, invite them to join us.
She has to be doing it on purpose. Grace is an introvert. She doesn’t like people. At least not this much.
Finally, I just suggest we make an early night of it. I wanted to avoid a date in the bedroom since I was worried it would just lead to sex, but desperate times call for desperate measures. While she’s taking a shower, I light candles. I open a bottle of wine. I change into a nice sweater that I know she likes.
Then, Mum knocks on the door to ask for help with her computer. I want to say no, but experience has taught me she’ll try to fix it herself. The last time she did that, she downloaded eighty-two viruses.
Grace is still in the shower. I hurry off to help Mum, or at least make sure her virus blockers are up to date, before Grace gets out of the shower. I work as fast as I can. It takes maybe twenty minutes, tops. By the time I get back to our room, all the candles have been blown out and Grace is sound asleep.
I take the wine outside. I sit down glumly on the doorstep and start drinking. This feels like the time she wouldn’t admit there was sexual tension between us but a million times worse. She has to be doing this on purpose. She has to. I take a swig of wine, trying to remember how I got her to talk to me last time. It’s a bit of a haze, considering how exhausted I was that night. Mostly I remember the sex that followed.
As I stare at the stars, it slowly comes back to me.
She didn’t want to talk to me because she was scared about things changing and she felt too much.
Maybe Ireland is the problem, I think. I’m comfortable here, but to her, it’s a foreign country. If she’s already scared about things changing, then trying to talk to her now is probably making it worse. Grace doesn’t need romance, I realize. She needs a calm, low-stakes conversation in a place that feels safe. Well. As low stakes as a conversation can be when I’m trying to show her that I love her, and she’s desperately trying not to hear it.
I sip the wine, determined now. I know what I’ll do. I’ll wait until we get home, give her a couple days to readjust, go back to work, and get back in a comfortable rhythm. Then, when I’m sure she’s feeling calm and secure in her normal routine, I’ll make us a lovely, romantic dinner. Hell, I’ll even make sure Bradley’s there in case she needs to hold him for emotional support.
I’d rather she was holding me for emotional support, but It’s about keeping my eyes on the prize.
I nod to myself. It’s a good plan. All I have to do now is wait. I look up at the stars and sigh. “I hate waiting.”
We’ve been back in the states for about a week before I decide to make my move.
I’ve spent the last week following Peter’s advice to let her come to me, and I think it’s working. I make sure that when she comes home from work, I’m on the couch, the TV’s on, and there’s delicious smelling takeout sitting on the coffee table. The first night, she’s hesitant, like she’s waiting for me to jump up and start singing her a ballad. I keep my eyes on the TV, and she slowly slides forward. When she slips her shoes off and tucks herself onto the couch next to me, my whole
body relaxes. I can do this, I think. I can get us back to normal.
Ironically, the whole wait-for-them-to-come-to-you tactic is also working with Bradley. I spend my days doing prep work for my new app idea while Bradley goes about his business. Come six o’clock in the afternoon, he and I move to the couch to wait for Grace to come home, but we pretend we’re not actually waiting for her because we’re cool like that.
Tonight is different. Tonight there’s no takeout. Instead, there’s roast chicken and potatoes in the oven. I found it on an online list—Ten Dinners to Impress Your Girlfriend. I watched a Youtube video on how to do it and everything. Obviously, it would have been just easier to hire a caterer, but according to every woman I know, a man who cooks is sexy. I need all the help I can get tonight.
I set the table and light the candles. I worry the candles are too much.
“What do you think, Bradley?”
Bradley meows.
“You’re right, they’re too much. She blew them out last time.”
I blow out the candles and clear them hastily out of the way. I move a bouquet of flowers that Grace brought home the other day to the center of the table.
“There,” I say. “She can’t overreact to those. She was the one who brought them home.”
Bradley meows.
“You’re right, best to avoid words like overreact.”
I realize my palms are sweating. I wipe them on my trousers. I haven’t been this nervous since I was nineteen and pitching American investors.
Actually, I don’t know if I’ve ever been this nervous.
I hear her car pull into the driveway. Bradley races to the door to greet her.
“You’ve got no chill,” I call after Bradley as I follow him to the door. “You’ve got to treat her like a …"
Bradley gives me a look.
“Right, nevermind.” I close my eyes. “Dear lord, I’m talking to a cat.”
At the last minute, I realize I’m wearing an apron. I yank it over my head and toss it to the side just as Grace opens the door. I lean across the wall casually.
“Hey,” I say, going for casual.
“Meow,” Bradley says. I don’t know what he’s going for.
Grace looks back and forth between Bradley and me, and then she sniffs and looks toward the kitchen.
“Did you cook?” she asks, incredulous. She kicks off her shoes and wanders to the kitchen.
“I’m blocked on the app, so I figured doing something with my hands might help,” I lie. I follow her into the kitchen and take her things. Then, before she can wander off, I press a glass of her favorite chardonnay into her hand.
“Sean …" she begins, wary.
“Can you stir in the nuts and add the salad dressing?” I ask.
I put a bowl of salad on the table next to a bowl of pine nuts and some salad dressing. Because Grace is incapable of being unhelpful, she sits down at the table and finishes making the salad.
I got her to sit down at the table.
I’m a motherfucking genius.
Now I just need to ease her in. Get her to relax. Get her in a mental space to listen to me.
I open the oven to take the chicken out. Then I pull out the potatoes.
“How was work?” I ask.
“Good. Really good, actually. I know I’m lucky to have the book and the possibility of a TV special, but I missed this. Just working with people, one on one.” Grace stretches out her neck and takes a sip of her wine. “I love it when it’s just one couple. I don’t have the perfect answer for all couples everywhere. I just have to say something that will genuinely help this couple. And then next week, you get to find out if it worked or not.”
“People who read your book told you it worked,” I say as I carve the chicken.
“Yeah,” she agrees, but the way she says it implies that it’s not the same.
Grace takes another sip of her wine. “Book sales are through the roof, by the way. Apparently, the TV people are impressed. I’ve got another interview to promote the book in New York in a few weeks. It’s only five minutes, but it’s national news. Nora’s inviting the TV special people to come to see how I perform on camera under pressure and with a big audience.”
I look up from the chicken. My face splits in a grin. “That’s brilliant, Grace. Fucking brilliant.”
She nods, happy. “At the rate this is going, we might not even have to stay married for six months. We could probably get divorced in four.”
I freeze.
“Oh! That reminds me. I have to check my email. Do you mind if I use your laptop? Nora said she was going to send me something, and my phone’s being wonky.”
“Be my guest,” I say. I stab the chicken with unnecessary force. We could probably get divorced in four months.
I plate the chicken and the baked potatoes while Grace grabs my laptop from the counter. I hear her sit back down and open it, and then she stills.
I turn around with the plates. “I hope you’re not feeling healthy because I put loads of butter on the potatoes …" My words trail off as I see her face.
She’s staring at the screen.
“Grace?” I ask.
Slowly, she turns the laptop around. And I see the last website I was reading. Ten Dinners to Impress Your Girlfriend.
“Sean, what is this?” Her voice is quiet, and I can’t read her face, but now she’s taking in the wine, the flowers on the table, the almost entirely unwrinkled button-up I’m wearing.
She’s about to bolt. I can feel it. I can laugh it off. Tell her I was looking for a good chicken recipe and happened to find this. Reassure her that everything is normal. Try this again another night.
But I’m done waiting. I’m done feeling like I have to trick her into looking me in the eye and having a real conversation.
I put the plates I’m holding down and take a deep breath.
“I wanted to talk about us. I have since Ireland, but every time I try to start, you run.”
She looks away and crosses her arms, but she doesn’t tell me I’m wrong.
I cross to the table and sit down next to her. I take her hand. “Grace, I know this is scary. I know you love what we are. I love it, too. This last month has been … honestly, the best month of my life. I say that as someone who doesn’t particularly like bookstores.”
She doesn’t even laugh at that. Shit.
I tighten my grip on her hand and press on. “That’s why we need to talk about this. Because I don’t want this to end in six months. Four months now.”
Grace rips her hand from mine and stands. “Then what do you suggest? Stay married until it stops being fun? Until you get bored?”
“No, of course not,” I say, irritated. I stand, too. “I don’t want this to end.”
“You don’t want this to end now,” Grace corrects. “We have no proof, none, that we can make it through the hard times that all marriages have. I know because I see those difficulties every day. They’re big questions, Sean. Whether or not to have kids, whose career gets priority when, what to do when you don’t like each other’s friends. We haven’t talked about any of that because we haven’t dated.”
“Then let’s date! Let’s talk about it! Let’s figure it out. Grace, I love—”
“Don’t you dare say it.” Her voice whips out across the kitchen. She looks like she’s about to cry. “Don’t you dare use that to get me to do what you want.”
My jaw tightens. “Would it even work?”
She takes a ragged breath and turns away, burying her fingers in her hair. I stare at her profile, and even now, fighting, I want her so much I ache with it.
She’s scared, I remind myself. She’s overwhelmed.
I try again. “Grace, I’m not saying we need to stay married. If you wanted, we could get divorced today. Getting divorced won’t change the way I feel about you because it’s not just friendship, not anymore. It hasn’t been for a long time.”
She doesn’t say anything. Then, quietly, wit
h her back turned to me, she says, “I don’t want to lose you.”
I step toward her, hope rising. “You won’t, Grace. You won’t. I promise.”
She whips around. “No. You can’t. That’s the point, Sean. You can’t promise me that because we haven’t done the work to get the point where you can promise me that. What we’ve done the work on is friendship. That’s what can last. That’s what we need to protect.”
“But we’re more than that,” I say, taking her face between my hands.
Grace shoves me away. I’ve never seen her so angry.
“No, we’re not,” she spits. “We’re just friends who accidentally got married, and now we fuck.”
I flinch. “Don’t say that. Please don’t say that.”
“Why not? It’s the truth. And it’s not a bad thing! But we will never, ever be more than friends. Why can’t you see that? Why can’t you be happy about that? Why do you have to make dinners, and pack picnics and … and … and ruin everything?” Grace demands.
She takes Bradley and runs out the back door, then over to her place. She doesn’t take her phone, she doesn’t take her stuff. She just runs. It’s not far, but it’s just far enough I can’t follow.
That’s when I realize the truth I’ve been fighting off all those weeks.
She’s never going to be in love with me. The sex was fun, but at the end of the day, all she ever wanted was friendship. She said that from the beginning. Like the selfish fucker I am, I thought that if I just made a fucking chicken and told her the right way, she’d love me back.
I take the chardonnay bottle I had opened for her and smash it in the sink. Then I sit down on the ground and cry. For the first time in my life, I don’t want to walk away.
But now I know I have to.
20
Grace