28
“Stop it, that’s so gross,” Greer is saying on the drive home. This is really happening between Ethan and me.
“Mom, make him stop,” Iris says. Cliffy laughs. The taste of Ethan is narcotic, and I wonder if that’s a thing, if people actually get hooked on another person.
“Mom!” Iris says, and whacks me on the shoulder.
“What? Sorry. I was thinking about something,” I say.
“Cliffy’s being so gross,” Iris says. “He keeps trying to lick my elbow.”
“Stop it, Cliffy,” I say as I pull into the garage. I put the car in park and turn to them; I’m almost surprised to see them sitting there with me. “That was fun tonight. It was, right?”
“Fun-tastic,” says Cliffy, and Iris tells him to shut up.
He texts me an hour later: I have a lot to say that I won’t say in text in case I need to deny it later
I’m smiling at my phone. A rush of carbonation comes over me. Me: Yeah, me too
Ethan: Let’s tackle the pantry at 9
He’s the first thing I think of when I open my eyes. I close them again and conjure the smell of him. I open my eyes again—this is not normal. This isn’t a want like when I want to buy a sweater. This is a want like I don’t know how I’m going to get through the next three hours until I see him again. I grab my phone to review the text from last night. He said nine. I just have to get my kids to camp, walk Ferris, and go to Phyllis’s.
I shower and shave my legs with my reading glasses on to make sure I haven’t missed anything. I try on a white skirt with a navy top and decide I look like a flight attendant. I try on a floral dress that made sense at Theo’s christening but doesn’t make sense for pretending to clean out a pantry. I am working myself into a frenzy and I collapse onto my bed. This is not a man I need to pretend for. He is the impossible thing, the one who wants me more when I’m myself.
I put on my favorite yellow shorts and a white T-shirt. I drop my kids at camp, give Ferris a quick run, and stop by Phyllis’s. Her daughter Sandy is there and I pretend that I remembered it was Monday and that she was coming. She normally comes from Manhattan on Saturdays, but this week she switched to Monday because of a cough. We had a long conversation about this. I pretend that I’m there to borrow Portnoy’s Complaint, which is the first spine that catches my eye.
Of course it’s Monday. I text Frannie: Sorry, I’m not going to make it this morning. I’ll swing by tomorrow
Frannie: I never thought I’d ever find anyone making out with my little brother in the pantry
It’s a statement, not a question. I don’t want to get into this with her. I mostly just want to get to where he is. Me: And yet here we are. See you tomorrow
When I’ve sent the text, I look up and his car is in my driveway. He’s standing there, and Brenda’s in the window. I don’t want to go to the dog park. I want to be in his pantry, pressed too close together. As I get closer to him, I see that he doesn’t seem light.
“Hey,” I say. “Wasn’t I coming to you?”
He takes my hand. “Yeah. But I got a call that we’re due in court tomorrow morning on this case I’ve been working on forever. I need to get back to Devon to prep my client.”
“Today?” I say. It comes out so small, like I’ve choked up this tiny, heartbreaking word.
He looks behind me at Phyllis’s house. “Can we go inside?”
“Sure,” I say. “No.”
“No?”
“It’s kind of a mess.” I’m kind of a mess. It’s strange that I want to get completely naked with this man, but I can’t handle the idea of his seeing my kitchen. “When are you coming back?”
“As soon as I can. Friday the latest.” That’s four whole days.
“Oh, okay,” I say. I don’t want him to see how disappointed I am.
He’s holding both of my hands now. “So I’ll call you later?”
“Sure,” I say.
“Sure’s not yes.”
I look up at him and smile. “Yes,” I say. “Call me.”
He looks over my shoulder again and I am a hundred percent sure Phyllis is watching through the window. I don’t really care; this is probably making her day. I lead him by the hand to the side of my house, past our kitchen windows, and around back. And I’m up against my back door with his mouth on mine and his hands in my hair before I’ve had the chance to think another thought about Phyllis. When I have been adequately kissed goodbye, he gives both of my hands a squeeze. “This is torture,” he says.