I have this memory of Mom. I’m five or six and we’re walking down one of the cherry blossom-lined streets in Niagara-on-the-Lake. It’s just the two of us—Dad and Izzy were probably at one of Izzy’s many practices—and it’s a warm and sunny morning. Spring. Mom has my hand and we’re looking at houses. Houses with garages. Some garage doors are open, the items inside for sale. Amidst the mostly grown-up things—pots, pans, chairs and tools—there is usually a small children’s section, with toys and puzzles and games. Mom tells me I can choose anything—as long as it doesn’t cost more than fifty cents.
As I root through a cardboard box filled with myriad plastic toys, Mom asks the owners if they’re moving. She asks this question at every house.
“Why do you always ask if they’re moving?” I say as we walk back down the driveway.
“Because if we can find the perfect house with the perfect garage, then, there’s a chance we could move.” And then, she tells me her secret. And then she says that it’s now our secret. Something we can work on together, just the two of us—if I want to, she says. When I hear the plan, I want to. But we never found the perfect house with the perfect garage. And now she’s gone.
And I pushed the memory deep down, where it stayed, buried, for years and years. Until one day, about a year ago, I was looking to replace a light fixture in the guest bathroom. The chandelier I was seeking was a metaphor and I knew it—change the light fixture, change my relationship with Eric. It didn’t work, but when I couldn’t find the light I was looking for in an antique shop, Izzy had suggested garage sales. I went out that following Saturday, house to house, and though I never found the light I was looking for, it was as though the switch flipped, and a corner of my memory I’d kept dark for years was illuminated.
I’ve been garage hunting ever since. I don’t bother with garage sales. Instead, Gloria sends me links of open houses and I narrow them down to the ones with garages—though it’s not just any garage. I have something very specific in mind. I’m looking for a detached garage in the back of the home that leads into an alley. So, it really is a garage hunt, not a house hunt. And I’m always looking. The thing is, time is running out. I’ve been thinking about doing this book garage idea for years. That was Mom’s dream, and at some point it became mine. But Mom never got the chance. And now, I keep putting it off, too. I’m only two years younger than Mom was when she died. What am I waiting for?
A few hours later, after having popped into a few shops on Queen, I’m crossing the street to cut through Trinity Bellwoods Park when someone calls my name. And there he is, sitting on the stone wall of the entrance, waving to me. I take a deep breath. Will and I still have to work together, after all. I walk over to him and see he’s sitting with a girl of about eight or nine. She has a book in one hand, a pain au chocolat in the other. She’s wearing pink shorts, a tie-dyed shirt, her long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, held with a velvet scrunchie.
“Hey,” he says, standing and walking over to me. He looks unsure for a second, as though gauging my reaction, and I know it’s because I haven’t replied to his texts. And yet, he leans in to hug me. He smells like sandalwood and coffee. I breathe him in, not letting go. When we break apart, he motions to the girl. “Addie, this is Kit. Kit, this is my favorite daughter, Addie.” She rolls her eyes but it’s obvious she’s flattered by the attention. “It’s his favorite joke.” She pulls at the edges of her T-shirt to reveal the front, which reads World’s Greatest Daughter. “Guess who bought me this T-shirt?”
“You act like I made you wear it,” Will teases, wrapping an arm around her. She leans into him and laughs, her green eyes—the same shade as Will’s—sparkling. She has the same skin tone as Will, too, though hers is spattered with freckles. Even her hair is the same chocolatey brown. I wonder what it must be like to have someone look like you, and to so clearly adore you and for a moment, I have a pang of envy, then dismiss it, reminding myself that “Having a child so you have someone who looks like you” probably ranks high on many Top 10 reasons not to have kids lists. As Addie chatters, I wonder how Addie’s mother feels about the fact that her daughter looks like a very pretty, girl version of Will, and, likely, not like her? I lean my head to check out the book she’s reading, surprised that she’s not staring at a phone, though maybe she’s too young for a phone. I’ve never been good with guessing kids’ ages. I pull The Interestings out of my bag and hold it out to her. “Look at the book I just picked up. It’s by the same author.” She looks at the cover of the Meg Wolitzer book in her hand—The Fingertips of Duncan Dorfman—then back at me.
“You read kids’ books?”
I shake my head. “No, mine’s for adults. But I really like Meg Wolitzer. What’s yours about?”
“These kids who play Scrabble. I have to finish this before Dad will let us go to VR. But it’s pretty good. I’m getting some good Scrabble words out of this, so watch out, Dad.” She looks at me. “He always wins, but not for long.”
“You don’t let her win?” I tease. “Harsh.”
“Life’s harsh.” He grins. “That’s also why I make her read. Kids who read turn out to be far more successful than those who don’t,” he says for her benefit. She groans. “Seriously, Dad? Not every second has to be about learning something, you know. We could just be getting ice cream.”
When he shakes his head, she buries her face in her book and Will nods for me to join him a few steps away.
“Hey, so, um, are we cool? You didn’t reply to my texts.” His voice has an edge, like he’s protecting himself.
I nod, but keep my distance. Say something, I tell myself. But what—I’m going to just blurt out how, despite my growing crush on him, there’s no way we could ever be a thing? My stomach clenches and I fold my arms over my chest, to stop myself from reaching out to him. There’s something magnetic about him—even though it would be so much easier to just tell him I’m not interested, or lie and say I’m in a relationship and that our one-night thing was just a mistake—but I don’t.
He studies me for a moment, his green eyes on mine, challenging me to tell him what’s going on, but all I want to do is kiss him, and eventually I look away. But he takes a step closer.
“Do you want the rest of this?” Addie calls, breaking us apart. We both turn and Will makes his way back over to the wall, to Addie, and I follow him back even though there’s no reason for me to hang around.
Will takes the pastry. “There’s no chocolate left in this.”
“Why would I leave the chocolate?” she says. “It’s the best part. Besides, you’re always saying you’re trying not to eat chocolate.” She looks at me. “He keeps the chocolate chips in the freezer because he likes them cold and then he eats handfuls of them while I’m at school.” Will points at her, looking slightly embarrassed.
“Hey, you’re giving away all my secrets.” He turns to me. “It’s either cut back on chocolate or exercise more. Maybe that’s the benefit of living in an apartment building. If I lived where you do I could take the stairs for exercise.”
“Wait, you’re the lady Dad likes who lives on the forty-fourth floor?”
“Thirty-ninth,” I say. The word “likes” echoes in my head and I meet his eyes. They’re locked on mine. I turn back to Addie, knowing my face is red, though shouldn’t Will be the one who’s embarrassed? “The forty-fourth floor has a gym and hot tub and a place to barbeque if you’re having friends over. And then there’s another floor on top of that, and there’s a restaurant where you can order food and drinks.” I keep my focus on Addie.
“Is your building taller than the CN Tower? I’ve been to the CN Tower but I was like, five, and Dad was so freaked out that he made me freak out. He hates heights.”
“You hate heights?” I say, now turning to Will. “You never said anything when you were over. Or at Hotel 6ix.”
“It’s no big deal.” He shrugs. “Catering events in condo party rooms on the top of buildings is a big part of my business. I have to deal. And you”—he points at Addie again, but he’s grinning. “Can you stop making me look like such a doofus?”
She rolls her eyes and pretends to ignore him, asking me for all the details on my building. I tell her about the bowling alley and the basketball court—places I’ve never actually been but I don’t let on because she seems to think I’m the coolest person she’s ever met, and selfishly, it’s a nice feeling. Will’s phone buzzes and he excuses himself. And so Addie and I chatter on for a few more minutes. When I look up, Will’s back, and he’s just watching us, a smile across his face.
I know that look. “Gotta go,” I say, standing.
“See you tomorrow, right?” he says.
“Right,” I call over my shoulder, my heart pounding. I pick up my pace, not letting myself turn around.
“It’s purely professional,” I say to Izzy later that day. “I have absolutely no interest in things going any further with Will. And he knows that.”
We’re sitting on the balcony of her apartment, which overlooks the water. It’s a gorgeous, sunny day, and while I’m happy to be hanging out with Izzy I can’t help wondering what Will’s up to this afternoon.
“Uh-huh.” She lives in a building that’s the complete opposite of mine—the building is really old, and so are the tenants. But the units are massive—they have three bedrooms and three bathrooms—and Izzy and her husband, Roddy, love the space, and the fact that the only real controversy among the tenants is whether the gym on the twenty-fourth floor should get an elliptical machine. Roddy’s out on a friend’s sailboat and she’s invited me over to help her put together goodie bags for the Olympigs, the weekend festival of pig festivities she runs to raise money for a charity close to her heart. Right now, I’m stuffing the bags with PopSockets that have her new Instagram account—@Instaham.
Izzy always inspires me with her own child-free life. Where being child-free is often associated with being lazy or selfish, Izzy is neither. In fact, she might be one of the busiest and most selfless people I know.
“And you have to work with him?” Izzy teases me.
“We both signed contracts. We’re legally bound. That’s why we’re working together. And anyway, he’s the best chef I know.”
“Name another.”
“What?”
“Chef.”
“Gordon Ramsay.”
“Who lives in Toronto.”
“Susur Lee.”
“A stranger. This Will is the only chef you know,” she corrects me, smiling.
“Well, good reason to work with him, then.”
“I don’t see what the big deal is. You seem to be justifying him to me, when I’m not asking you to.” She stands.
“Where are you going?” I call after her.
“To get more wine. I assume we’re going to need it. We still have another five hundred bags to go.”
My phone buzzes. Dad’s name shows up on the screen.
“Hey, Dad. What’s up?” I say, hoping that everything’s OK. Dad lives in the country, in an old farmhouse he and Mom bought when they first married. He’s lived alone ever since we left home—my sister first, then me a few years later. I often worry that he’s lonely, especially in the winter, when the touristy town gets sleepy, and with a bad snowfall, he can be shut in for days. But despite multiple attempts to get him to move closer to us, he always insists he likes his life and that he’s not lonely, though every time I visit he seems to have added more fish to the aquarium or a new aquarium to another room. It must mean something—but what?
“I was wondering…do you know how to make meringue?” he’s asking me now.
“Meringue?” I repeat. “As in the stuff on a lemon meringue pie, or the other kind that you eat by itself?” I ask, as though it makes any difference. I haven’t got a clue how to make either.
“Well that’s the thing. I’m not sure. I saw a picture of meringues with a raspberry sauce drizzled overtop but now I can’t find where I saw it, and I found a recipe in one of your mother’s cookbooks but I’ve just made them and they turned out like the top of a pie, and that doesn’t seem right.”
“You know this is Kit, right?” I joke. Will would know the difference in a heartbeat. “But I’m at Izzy’s—want me to put her on?”
“Ahh, great. I already left a message for your sister earlier. She didn’t answer her phone.”
“Alright, well, I’ll ask her and call you back.”
“When do you think that’ll be?” he says. “No rush, of course,” he adds, which makes me think there is a rush.
“Why are you making meringues, Dad?” I say suspiciously, and he clears his throat.
“Oh, no reason, just trying to stretch my skills. Use it or lose it, they say.” What is it he thinks he’s going to lose—an egg white? I wonder after hanging up. Maybe he’s entering a town contest or something. Although not likely. He lives in an actual small town, not an episode of Gilmore Girls.
I tell my sister about Dad’s call and she gives me a funny look and rattles on about the ins and outs of meringues, but my mind wanders. My sister either paid more attention when our mother was in the kitchen or got her genes, while I got my father’s culinary hopelessness. For years now Dad has gotten by on simple meals like pasta or rice and pre-roasted chickens, which he breaks into meal-size portions, freezing them in small containers and then taking one out each night. I don’t like to think of it, because it feels like such a sad existence.
Now, I can’t help wondering: am I destined for the same life? Will I one day be taking my own dinner out of a Tupperware container I’ve stored in the freezer?
Of course not, I tell myself. There’s always going to be a million takeout and delivery options here in the city. Even if I do live alone for the rest of my life.