6.

When I finish telling Cathy the story, she says, “That’s incredible.” She’s scarfed down two entire plates of grilled cheeses: six small sandwiches altogether. I guess it’s a nice break from those ramen noodles. “Were your parents okay with the age difference?”

“They didn’t love it, but they’re not the kind of parents to tell me I couldn’t see him or anything. I do remember my father working the words statutory rape into a conversation with Tom years ago as a joke, which gives you some insight into his sense of humor. But they let me do what I wanted.”

“I don’t know why it surprises me so much: my parents were like eighteen when they got married. But here on the East Coast it feels different—people are just so much older when they settle down. You two live together, right?”

“Yeah, ever since I graduated. But even before then, I used to spend all my weekends with him. His first apartment was kind of gross, but after I graduated, we got a nicer place. I mean, legally it’s his place, but we picked it out together.”

Cathy shakes her head. Wisps of reddish hair fly around her forehead. She cut it recently, and it’s a little short for someone her height, makes her head look too small for her body. She has beautiful eyes, though, big, green, and thoughtful. “The longest relationship I’ve had was with my college boyfriend, and that didn’t even last two years.” She munches on a crust of grilled cheese. “I haven’t had a date in ages. I just don’t meet anyone new.”

“I’ve only ever had one boyfriend, though. I’ve never even dated anyone else.”

“Have you wanted to?”

“Not really. Dating seems so awkward to me—having to make conversation with a stranger, trying to figure out what you have in common—” I interrupt myself, leaning forward abruptly. “You know what’s really weird?”

“What?”

“My mother is dating now.”

“Your mother? Wait, what do you mean? I thought she was still married to your father.”

“She is technically. But they’re getting divorced and he’s moved out.” Mentioning my dad’s apartment makes me think of Jacob—and all of a sudden I have a brilliant idea.

I stop in the middle of a sentence and think for a moment.

Yeah, it’s brilliant.

“You okay?” Cathy says.

“I’m great. Just wondering…How would you feel about being fixed up with a guy?”

“Depends on the fixer-upper. If it’s my grandmother, I would run in the opposite direction. But if it’s you…Do you have someone in mind?”

“Yeah, this great guy who works for my dad and—” I’m interrupted by the bartender who’s come over with two more glasses of wine. “We didn’t order these,” I say.

The bartender nods down toward the other end of the bar. “They’re from those two guys. They said to tell you that they’ve never seen two beautiful redheads out together before and the least they could do is buy you both a drink.”

Cathy’s mouth opens up wide in a combination of surprise and amusement. “Where? Those guys? At the end?” She peeks. They’re watching us. She quickly ducks her head, her pale skin reddening. “Tell them we say thank you.”

The bartender nods and walks away. He’s a real Bostonian, big and tough, with a raspy voice and a nails-on-chalkboard accent. We watch surreptitiously as he gives them the message, and then the guys smile right at us and move in our direction. “Oh god,” Cathy says. “I think they’re going to come over! Did you know they’d do that?”

I shake my head. I don’t have any experience with flirting in bars since I’ve never been single. Cathy clearly hasn’t had much, either. “Maybe by sending a message back through the bartender, you kind of invited them to come over?” I say.

“We can talk for a minute, right?” she whispers just before they reach us. “It would be rude not to?”

But then she goes all flushed and silent when they start chatting us up, so I’m forced to make all the small talk—yeah, it is funny we’re both redheads, but we’re not related; we’re just friends, and they’re pretty different shades anyway, and no, that wasn’t what brought us together; actually we sort of work together at the community college, and what do they do?

They work at a big insurance company, running analyses and crunching numbers, which they cheerfully admit is boring, but hey, it’s a steady job in this economy so they’re not complaining, not a bit.

There’s some talk about where we’re all from originally, and the taller one expresses a lot of interest in the fact that Cathy’s from the Midwest and kind of moves over to talk to her more about that, because even though he grew up in Stoughton, just thirty minutes away, he visited his relatives in Michigan a lot when he was growing up, so that makes him an honorary midwesterner, right?

The shorter guy inserts his body between me and Cathy, smoothly turning the general conversation into two separate, private ones. He’s reasonably cute, and while we chat about good neighborhood bars, I wonder what it would be like to go out with someone who isn’t almost a foot taller than me. I’ve always liked Tom’s size. When we hug, my head presses against his chest, and it feels safe and cozy there, but it does mean I have to put my head back to look him in the eyes, and during sex, we’re not exactly face-to-face. It’s a silly thing to complain about, and I’m not actually complaining. But that’s the thing about only ever being with one guy: you wonder what it would be like if things were different, not because you want them to be different, but because you’re a little curious.

For a while, I politely make conversation with Shorter Guy while Cathy blushes and stammers at Taller Guy (the girl’s got to get out more), but after a few minutes of this, I’m done. I mean, I want to help Cathy out, and maybe she and T.G. have a future together, but this particular game’s boring when you’re not actually on the prowl. I lean sideways so I can signal to Cathy around S.G.’s torso.

“I really should head home soon,” I tell her. “I’m sorry. But you should stay.”

“Wait,” Shorter Guy says. “You’re leaving? Why? You have to go wash that red hair of yours or something?” He winks jovially.

“Yeah,” I say, sliding off the stool. “That’s exactly what I have to do.”

“I better go, too,” Cathy says, also standing up.

“Aw, come on,” Taller Guy says to her. “Don’t let her drag you out of here. Let me get you another drink.”

Cathy looks vaguely terrified. She’s a smart girl and a well-respected teacher at the school, and one day she’ll probably be a high school principal, but right now she looks like a five-year-old who doesn’t know where her mommy is. “I think I should go,” she says nervously.

“At least give us your phone numbers,” says T.G.

“You give us yours,” I say, and I think that’s when they know they’ve wasted their ten bucks on our drinks. Their voices are curt as they rattle off their phone numbers. I only pretend to enter them in my phone.

Once we’re outside, Cathy says, “That was kind of fun, wasn’t it? No one’s ever sent me a drink before. But I don’t go out to bars much.”

“That could definitely be a contributing factor. You know, you could text that guy and see how he responds. If he seems nice, you could—”

But she’s already shaking her head. “Too weird.”

We say good night, and it isn’t until I’m back in my car that I realize we never finished our conversation about fixing her up with Jacob. It still feels like a good idea to me. They’re both graduate students. They’re smart and academically inclined. Neither of them is originally from the East Coast. They’re both mildly attractive in a nerdy way. Neither seems to go on many dates.

There is, admittedly, a less than ideal height difference—she’d probably tower over him—but I know couples like that and it’s no big deal. It’s kind of endearing actually. I do wish Cathy had a little more…spirit I guess is the best word—she’s so self-effacing sometimes—but it’s not like Jacob is Mr. Dynamism. He’s funnier than she is and maybe a little quicker and more interesting to talk to…but overall, it’s a good fit.

The only thing is, I feel funny telling Jacob I’m fixing him up with someone. He’s never mentioned his love life to me or to anyone else in my hearing, so it feels weird to suddenly just say, “Here’s the number of a girl I think you’d like.” But it seems even more awkward to have Cathy cold-call him and say, “Hey, there! I’m a friend of Keats!”

I’m parking in our building’s large, well-lit garage when the solution hits me: I’ll have them both over for dinner and invite a couple of other people so that the fix-up will feel a little less obvious.

I like this idea and not just because it gets those two together. Making dinner sounds like fun. Tom and I don’t entertain that often: it always feels easier to just go out with friends than to have them over. And neither of us is a particularly good cook. But I’ve always wanted to be the kind of person who throws casual dinner parties, and this is a good excuse for one.

I’m walking toward the elevator, thinking about what I’ll serve my guests, when I hear someone calling my name. I turn. Tom waves at me as he pulls his car into the space next to mine. He joins me just as the elevator arrives. “Where were you?” he asks as we step inside. “I assumed you were home hours ago.”

“I grabbed a bite to eat with one of the grad students from school—Cathy Miller.”

He leans over and sniffs at my mouth. “You smell like alcohol.”

“We had a couple of glasses of wine.”

He frowns. “You’re too small to drink that much and then drive.”

“I’m fine. They were spread out. Hey, I just had a really fun thought.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m going to fix up Cathy and Jacob.”

“Your father’s Jacob?”

“Yeah.”

“Why? Is Cathy short?”

I laugh as the elevator doors open and we head down the hallway to our apartment. “Not at all. She’s kind of huge actually. Tall, I mean—she’s thin. Well, pretty thin.” I shake my head to get myself back on track. “It’s just that they’re really similar—their interests and all that. I was thinking we could invite them both over for dinner. And some other people, too, just to make it more fun. Maybe Lou and Izzy?” I reach the door first but wait for him to get out his key.

He unlocks it, then gestures for me to go inside first. He’s gentlemanly that way. “Sounds like a lot of work. Why not just tell them to call each other?”

“They’re both really shy. I don’t think they’d ever do it.”

He lets the door swing shut behind us. “Will we also have to help them have sex if they hit it off? I’m not sure I’m prepared to go that far. Although it could be interesting. . . .”

“Oh, oh!” I interrupt him as another idea comes to me. “We can do it this weekend and say it’s for my birthday!”

“But you and I will still celebrate it tomorrow, right? I made a reservation.”

“Of course. That’ll be my real celebration. This will just be an excuse to invite them over. But it means they’ll say yes, because you have to when it’s for someone’s birthday!”

“Does that mean I have to do whatever you say tomorrow?”

“Yeah.” I move right up close to him. “You’ll basically be my slave.”

“Interesting.” He grins down at me, but when I start to put my arms around him, he pulls back. “Oops, watch out for my arm.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing—I just pulled a muscle at work.”

“Poor baby. Want me to rub it?” I reach up, but he holds me off.

“Nah. That sounds painful. I may try putting some ice on it later.”

“Okay.” I head over toward my computer. “I’m going to go send out an e-mail about dinner before I forget.”

* * *

This is what I write in the e-mail, which I send to Jacob, Cathy, and Izzy:

I totally forgot about my birthday up until right now, so I know it’s kind of late notice, but can you come over on Sunday for dinner and cake?

I blind copy them all. I don’t want either Cathy or Jacob wondering why they’re on such a short list when we’re not birthday dinner close.

Izzy e-mails me back immediately to say they’re going to the Sox game that night and can’t come. I’m bummed they can’t make it. I can’t think of anyone else to invite: Lou and Izzy are kind of our go-to friends for last-minute stuff.

“Would it be weird if it’s just the four of us?” I ask Tom a little while later. He’s watching TV in the bedroom. “You and me and Jacob and Cathy?”

“They left,” he says, staring at the screen.

“Who?”

“The people who care about this conversation.”

“Very funny.”

“I get you with that every time,” he gloats.

I stick my tongue out at him, but he doesn’t notice.

I decide to hold off on a decision until Jacob and Cathy respond. Later that night, I get back a Sounds great from the former and a Thanks for thinking of me! I’d love to. What can I bring? from the latter.

I decide not to invite anyone else. The worst that could happen is that they’ll sense they’re being fixed up. They’ll be fine with that if they like each other and maybe resent it if they don’t.

But I think they will.

* * *

The next morning, Tom gets up early and runs out to Dunkin’ Donuts to bring me back breakfast in bed. It’s not much of a surprise since he always does that on my birthday, but it’s a tradition I love.

He snuggles up to me in bed—carefully because he says his arm still hurts—and asks me if I’m happy, and I am, blissfully happy, lying there lazily popping little bits of crunchy-soft doughnut into my mouth in between sips of hot, milky coffee.

Mom calls me at work and tells me she remembers every detail of That Day twenty-five years ago, and assures me that even though I tore out of her too quickly for her to get an epidural so it was her most painful delivery, she forgave me the second she looked into my big blue eyes. “And saw that crazy red fluff on top of your head,” she adds. “That was a shock. But a good one.” She tells me the same thing pretty much every year.

 Around noon I get a big vase of flowers delivered to my desk. They’re ostensibly from Dad, although I suspect that Jacob was the one who actually ordered them, especially because the card says, “Happy birthday, Kesha. I love you. Dad.” My father has never said the words “I love you” to me in his life. I picture Jacob dictating the note to the florist over the phone and it makes me laugh: he probably made sure he was out of Dad’s hearing. And probably also spelled my name letter by letter in the vain hope that the florist might actually get it right.

No one gets my name right.

Hopkins e-mails me and Milton IM’s me, both to say happy birthday.

I’m hoping to get there soon, Hopkins writes. We’ll celebrate your birthday and say good-bye to the house all at once. Given how long it’s taken her to actually make it to Boston, I figure we’ll probably be able to squeeze a Fourth of July celebration into the mix. Maybe even Labor Day.

Milton’s IM starts with:

—Hey, happy bday and all that stuff.

—Tanks, I write back.

—What are u doing to celebrate?

—T’s taking me out tonight.

—Cool. Have a good one. Bye.

At least he remembered.

At four in the afternoon, I hear the first wobbly strains of “Happy Birthday to You.” My boss Rochelle, chairman of the English department, enters holding a cake with seven lit candles, followed by whoever’s in the office that afternoon. I ask Rochelle what the significance of the number seven is, and she says, “That’s how many candles were left in the box. You need to buy more, sweetie.” I’m touched she remembered my birthday: I’m in charge of every other celebration around here, so she had to make a real effort to organize all this.

When Rochelle finds out that Tom’s taking me out to dinner that night, she insists that I leave early and go home and make myself pretty for him.

So by the time Tom comes home at six thirty, I’ve showered and pinned my hair up and am wearing a dress I’ve never worn before, very ’50s looking with a tight bodice and a full skirt. When he walks in, I arrange myself on the sofa like some kind of odalisque, lying on my side with my arm stretched languorously along my torso and my back arched. “Just let me jump in the shower,” he says, walking past me without noticing. “I’ll be right out.”

I’m slightly annoyed, but all is forgiven when he comes back out fifteen minutes later freshly showered and breathtakingly handsome in a tie and jacket. He gathers me up in his arms, tells me I look beautiful, and gives me a deep, long kiss. “I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he says. “About this moment. When I have you all to myself for the rest of the night.” I kiss him back and wonder if he’ll be inspired to just carry me into the bedroom, but when he releases me, he checks his watch, says that our reservation is at eight and we’d better get going or we’ll lose it.

He won’t tell me where we’re going, but I recognize the restaurant and squeal as we pull up in front: it’s one that I’ve been wanting to go to forever and have clipped reviews and articles about. I hadn’t even thought he was paying attention.

Inside we’re led to a really nice corner table near a window, and Tom informs me proudly that when he made the reservation, he let them know that it was both my birthday and our anniversary and that tonight needed to be extra special.

“Let’s take our time,” he says. “No rushing through the meal, no talking about work, or complaining about our families. Let’s just enjoy being here together.”

We sit there grinning at each other happily, but it does occur to me to wonder what we’ll talk about if we can’t discuss work or families.

Food, as it turns out. The waiter brings our menus, and after Tom orders a bottle of wine, we spend some time discussing the various options and agree that I should get the lobster and he should get the steak, both of which are wildly expensive, but Tom says that it’s our night to splurge.

He’s in a funny mood, kind of overexcited, which is sweet but weird. He startles when the waiter shows up at his elbow to pour the wine, which Tom tastes and—to my embarrassment—proclaims “delightful.” He gets nervous around waiters in fancy restaurants, tries too hard to impress them, and ends up sounding pretentious.

He gets up at some point “to use the restroom,” but I know he’s arranging some kind of birthday/anniversary surprise, and sure enough, after we’ve finished our entrees but before we’ve ordered any dessert, the waiter brings over a slice of chocolate cake with “Happy Birthday and Anniversary!” squeezed in around the edge of the plate in raspberry sauce letters.

“You like chocolate cake, right?” Tom says. “I picked it for you because you usually get something chocolatey. But if you’d rather have something else—”

“It’s perfect. Share it with me.”

“I will. But first I want to give you your presents.”

“Yay!” I put down my fork and push the plate away.

He slips his hand inside his jacket and pulls a box out of the inside chest pocket. He hands it to me and watches eagerly as I open it.

There’s a necklace inside. I scoop it up to examine it. An extremely large oval purple stone dangles from a thick gold chain. “That’s so pretty,” I say.

“Do you like it? My mom helped pick it out.”

I’m not surprised. It looks like something his mom would pick out. She doesn’t have bad taste—she’s an attractive woman who dresses well—but she’s over fifty and likes the kinds of things you’d expect a woman her age to like. Which aren’t necessarily the kinds of things a twenty-five-year-old would like.

“If you’re not crazy about it, we can exchange it for another color or something completely different,” Tom says.

I once returned a gift he gave me. He had told me I could, but when he found out, he looked so hurt I resolved never to do it again. Not unless it was something so awful and so expensive it would be crazy not to. This necklace doesn’t qualify as either, so I say firmly, “It’s great. I love it. Tell your mom I say thanks.”

His face lights up, and I’m glad I went with the pretend-you-like-it approach. It’s a perfectly nice necklace, and I’ll find times I can wear it—mostly to his parents’ house, I’m guessing. Anyway, the point is he took the time to go shopping with his mom to find me a gift. I’m lucky I have a boyfriend who cares enough to do that, who doesn’t just grab something at the drugstore or hand me a twenty and tell me I should go buy myself a nice present. He cares.

I put it back in the box, then reach for my fork.

“Hold on,” Tom says. “That was just your birthday present. I still have to give you your anniversary present.” He starts to slip his arms out of the jacket.

“Um, Tom?” I say as the jacket comes off. “If this present involves your going full monty, maybe it should wait until we get back to the apartment. Not that I don’t love the idea—”

“No, that’s your third present,” he says with a laugh. The jacket’s off, and he’s unbuttoning his left sleeve at the wrist and rolling it up.

“Then why are you getting undressed?”

“Hold on. You’ll see.” He keeps rolling up his shirtsleeve.

“You got a flu shot? For me? Aw, honey!”

He shakes his head, preoccupied: he’s rolled the fabric so tight it won’t budge, and he swears and struggles with it and has to pull the shirtsleeve down again. He’s more careful this time to keep the folds smooth, and he’s able to pull it up almost to his shoulder. He extends his arm out to me, twisting it a little from the shoulder so I can see the exposed area above his elbow.

It’s a little pink and a little inflamed, but even so, I can clearly make out the letters of my name written in dark black ink.

No, not written.

Tattooed.

Tom’s had my name tattooed on his arm.

   Keats

Like that.

* * *

And I had thought it was hard to pretend to be happy about the necklace.

He’s waiting for my reaction, his excited eyes flickering up to mine and then back down to his arm like a little kid who’s painted a picture on a wall and isn’t sure whether his mom is going to praise him or punish him.

“Wow!” I say after I’ve opened and closed my mouth a couple of times without saying anything. “This is. Incredible. I can’t. Believe it.” I sound like I’m talking in Morse code. I clear my throat and get out an entire “When did you do it?”

“Yesterday.” He beams. “Remember how I said my arm hurt? This was the real reason I didn’t want you to touch it and why I came to bed after you and was wearing that long-sleeved shirt all night. I had the bandage on underneath. It really hurt. I had to take a painkiller to get to sleep.”

I hadn’t even noticed. I think I was asleep by the time he came to bed.

“I wasn’t really having dinner with my dad,” he adds. “That was all a setup so I could sneak out and do this. But Dad knew he was supposed to cover for me.”

“Your parents knew you were getting a tattoo?” I’m surprised. The Wellses are fairly conservative people. Politically and every other way. It’s one of the reasons I’ve avoided getting them together with my parents, who are as liberal as they come. Another reason is that my parents aren’t at all interested in getting to know them.

Tom smiles sheepishly. “Not exactly. I only told them I was getting you a surprise present and didn’t want you to know.”

“So they don’t know you got a tattoo?”

“Not yet.” He wiggles his arm a little. “But they won’t mind. Dad got one when he was in the army, so he can’t really have a problem with it. Anyway, forget about them—what do you think?”

His face is so hopeful, so excited, so eager for assurance that he’s done something wonderful.

I feel sick.

I don’t want my name tattooed on Tom’s arm. He should have asked me first. It’s my name. If he had, I would have told him not to do it. But he went ahead and did it without asking, and now it can’t be undone.

“It’s such a surprise,” I say. The waiter comes by to fill our water glasses, and I see him look at Tom’s arm and his eyebrows soar. He grins at me and briefly touches his hand to his heart as he moves away again. I guess he finds the gesture touching. Which probably means I should. I reach across the table and squeeze Tom’s extended hand. “I can’t believe you did that for me.”

“Ten years, Keats,” he says and finally lets go of his sleeve. It shifts down so it covers the tattoo, although the fabric is still all bunched up around his elbow. “I wanted to do something really special. I mean, once you make it an entire decade, you know it’s forever. I had to do something to honor that.”

Most of the girls I know have gotten tattoos. Izzy once told me she has one—“but it’s private, just for Lou,” she said coyly and never did say exactly where on her body it was or what it looked like. I’ve thought about getting one myself—maybe a little rose or snake on the back of my shoulder.

But I’ve never thought for a second about getting Tom’s name tattooed on my body. Now, as he gazes at me hopefully, I realize that he wants me to do what he did. He wants me to get his name engraved permanently on my skin. In my flesh. He’s too nice to put me on the spot about it—and it’s probably worth more to him if I come to it on my own anyway. But he wants me to. I can see it in his eyes.

I think of all the celebrities who’ve fallen in love and gotten tattoos and later tried to get them removed. WINO FOREVER and all that. I always thought they were idiots.

I still do.

But it’s different for us, right? Tom and I—we really are forever. He’s right: you make it ten years, and that’s all the proof you need that you’re a couple who’ll never break up.

It would make him so happy if I showed him the kind of faith he’s showed me. I’m not scared of the pain. I’m not worried about how it will look.

I just don’t want Tom’s name in permanent ink on my body.

And I don’t want mine on his.

I take a really big sip of wine. “Did it hurt a lot?”

“Yeah. But I survived.” You can tell he’s proud of himself. He survived a painful ordeal. For me.

“You used someone reputable, right? And made sure everything was clean and sterilized?”

“No, I went to the sleaziest guy I could find and had him spit in the open wound. Come on, Keats, give me a little credit.”

“Sorry.”

He pulls the fabric up again and surveys his arm proudly. “I think I picked the best place to put it, don’t you? On weekends, when I’m wearing a T-shirt, everyone will see it. But when I’m dressed for work, it’s covered. Smart, right?”

“Very smart.” I feel like I need to praise him more. “I like the font you chose.”

“Oh, good. Me too.” He lets go of his shirt and picks up a fork. As he digs into the cake, he says offhandedly, “So how do you think your family would react if you got a tattoo with my name on it?”

I give a short laugh. “You’ve met them, right?”

“Meaning?”

“My father has this whole speech about tattooing. You’ve never heard it? He equates it with branding cattle and docking dogs’ ears. My mom just thinks it’s low class. And Hopkins—” I stop. “Actually, I don’t know what Hopkins would think about it.”

“My sister already has one.”

“Oh, yeah.” I’d forgotten that. We don’t hang out with Anna that much because she’s kind of hard on Tom, just like she was the first day I met them both. She’s fine with me, but for some reason, Tom seems to drive her crazy and she’s always finding fault with him. But she does have a little tattoo above her wrist that says PEACE, which is ironic given her personality.

“Anyway,” Tom says, pretending to be focused on the cake but surreptitiously sneaking a peek at me, “it’s not like I expect you to do this too, or anything. It was just something that felt right for me.”

“It was really, really sweet,” I say.

“You like it?”

“No, I love it,” I lie.