Families and Other Nonreturnable Gifts (25 page)

While I try to figure out some response, the waiter puts our drinks down in front of us. I sip mine gratefully. My face feels hot, but the iced tea makes me shiver with a sudden chill. “Both his parents died when he was still pretty young. You don’t recover easily from that.”

“Oh my god,” Cathy says. “Poor guy. No wonder he seems so sad. Maybe your dad’s heart attack brought back some of his worst memories.”

“Yeah, probably.”

“What about his romantic history? Do you know if he had a bad breakup recently or anything?” Something about the expression on my face makes her quickly add, “I swear I don’t mean to pry. You don’t have to tell me anything you think is confidential. It’s just that I really do like him, and so I want to figure him out.”

“He doesn’t talk about his private life much,” I say. “It just doesn’t come up. And my dad’s not the type to ask.”

“How’s he doing? Your father, I mean?”

I tell her Dad’s doing great and fill the time waiting for our food with hospital anecdotes. Part of me wants to steer the conversation as far and as fast away from the topic of Jacob Corwin as possible, and part of me wants to ask Cathy tons of questions about the date.

Did he kiss her? They wouldn’t have done anything more, I reassure myself—neither of them is the type to speed things along physically.

Although Jacob sped things along pretty quickly in my father’s living room.

That was different.

I wonder if they’ve already made a plan to get together again.

Do I care?

I should. I should be rooting for this relationship to work out, because if he and Cathy fall in love, I won’t have to worry about his hurt feelings anymore, or about how long things will be awkward between us. He’ll have his girlfriend and I’ll have my boyfriend, and that would create some kind of emotional Venn diagram where we can be friends in the overlap.

But I feel a tiny little stab of hurt somewhere in my head when I think of him and Cathy talking together or sitting together or holding hands or anything like that. Just hearing her talk about him like she has a right to, like he’s not just my friend but someone who’s potentially important to her—that’s a stab right there.

The waiter puts our sandwiches down, and Cathy tucks eagerly into hers, which gives me a moment to let my mind wander, and I picture Jacob looking at Cathy the way he used to look at me.

That stab is the worst one so far.

It’s the first time I’ve admitted to myself that I’ve known for a while that Jacob liked me and that
I
liked the way he’d jump to get whatever I needed or come over to talk to me if I was sitting alone. That I could tell he liked looking at me. That I could tease him and even take advantage of him, and he’d put up with it—maybe with exasperation, but he’d endure it and come back for more.

It’s why I knew he wouldn’t push me away when I kissed him.

It’s why I kissed him.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” Cathy asks me, and I realize she’s inhaled half her sandwich already, and I’m still just staring at mine.

“Oh, sorry. I was just thinking about the stuff I need to get at Costco. I should make a list before I forget.” I busy myself getting some paper and a pen out of my purse and spend a minute or two staring off into space and occasionally writing things down. It buys me some time to think my own private thoughts for a little while longer.

I’ve enjoyed soaking up Jacob’s admiration more than I’ve ever acknowledged, even to myself. Not that realizing that changes anything. I have a boyfriend, a great one, and Jacob’s free to see anyone he likes, even Cathy, even if she’s really too tall for him, and too bony and earnest—

I stop myself. Cathy’s great. I’m being a jerk.

Jacob’s free to date whoever he wants. Because I’m satisfied with Tom.

But if I’m satisfied with Tom, why did I sleep with Jacob?

And then it hits me: it’s because Tom got that tattoo! That’s why I slept with Jacob.

My body almost crumples with relief. I’ve figured it all out.

Tom made it clear our relationship was permanent, and right after that I slept with another guy for the first time ever. Those two things
have
to be connected.

I know I want to be with Tom forever, but the fact I’d never been with another guy was probably flipping me out on some unconscious level when he showed me that tattoo and we celebrated an entire decade of being together. I would never cheat on a fiancé or a husband, so I needed to get something out of my system while Tom and I were still just girlfriend and boyfriend.

I slept with another man so I could commit myself wholeheartedly to Tom for the rest of my life and never cheat on him once it mattered.

This revelation makes me feel so much better.

I heave a big, relieved sigh and put my paper and pen away.

“Make your list?” Cathy asks.

“Yep,” I say and pick up a sandwich half. My appetite’s back.

16.

R
ochelle is mildly annoyed that I forgot to buy Splenda. We’re completely out, and she can’t drink her coffee without it.

“Can I make a suggestion, Keats?” she says. “Tape a piece of paper to the cabinet in the kitchen—or even better, mount a dry erase board. Then we can all write down whatever we need as things run out. Don’t you think that’s a better system than just trying to pull together a list at the last minute?”

She means well. I know she means well. But I’m not in the mood for a lecture on organization, not from Rochelle. When I first started working for her, the kitchen was a mess, just a grungy old coffeemaker and a couple of half-eaten boxes of stale cookies. I cleaned it up, stocked it, labeled, shelved, and jarred everything, and made sure there was always a fresh pot of decent coffee for anyone who wanted a cup.

Also, I just made her article a lot better.

Then I wonder why I’m reacting this way. Rochelle’s decades older than I am. She has a PhD in English. She’s poised and stylish and married with children. And she’s my boss. She has every right to give me advice, and this particular bit of advice is practical and easily implemented. So why am I chafing under one well-intended suggestion?

I don’t know.

Maybe I’m just sick of my job. Or of my life.

That evening, Tom and I are driving to meet Lou and Izzy for drinks and a movie, when I ask him if he thinks I should take the GREs in the fall.

“Why would you do that?”

“I don’t know. Just to see how I’d do on them.”

“I already know how you’d do. Great. You totally killed on the SATs, remember?”

“I did okay.” Not as well as Hopkins or Milton—they both got perfect scores. “I was just thinking that if I did
really
well on them, I could think about going back to school.”

“Where?”

“I haven’t gotten that far yet. Maybe get an MA in English literature somewhere. Or maybe think about law school.”

“Those are two really different things—don’t you have to take a different test for law school?”

“Yeah, I guess. I haven’t put that much thought into this yet. I just feel like I want a change. I’m starting to hate my job.”

“I thought you loved it.”

“I do.”

“You’re not making any sense.”

“It’s a perfectly fine job.” I finger a tiny imperfection on my jeans leg. “I just don’t know if it’s what I want to do for the rest of my life.”

“It won’t be.” He reaches over and pats my knee. “You’ll probably end up running the whole college. Or another place will hire you away for a much more important job.” He squeezes my thigh. “Plus you know…Someday you might not want to be going to a job at all. You might want to stay home with the kids.”

“Oh, am I having kids?”

“I certainly hope so.” He grins. Man, he’s handsome.

“Someday,” I emphasize. “Not for a while.”

“Right. Anyway, I’m not saying you shouldn’t take the GREs. If you want to, you definitely should. I’ll even help you study—we can make flash cards and I’ll quiz you.”

I put my hand over his on my leg. “Thanks. You’re a pretty sweet guy, Tom.”

“Only
pretty
sweet?”

 I lean over so I can give him a kiss on the cheek. “Very sweet.”

When he smiles and tilts his head like that, he still looks exactly like the guy who gave me a ride home when he was in college and I was fifteen.

* * *

After we’ve gotten our drinks, he announces to Lou and Izzy that I’m thinking of taking the GREs.

“God, that’s like my worst nightmare,” Lou says. “Test taking is not a strength of mine.”

“I hear you, man,” says Tom, and they clink beer mugs.

“I did okay on mine,” Izzy says. “I mean, I’m sure nowhere near as good as Keats did, but okay. It didn’t really matter, though, because my parents wanted me to stay at home and go to community college, so I could help with Stanny.”

“Your phone’s ringing,” Tom says to me. The bar is crowded, and the four of us are crammed into a booth that would have been an intimate table for two. “I can feel it vibrating.”

I get to my feet so I can work the phone out of the pocket of my jeans. “It’s my mom.”

“Ignore it,” Tom says.

“I’ll just see what she wants.” The bar is noisy and hot, and I don’t mind having an excuse to walk outside onto the cool, quiet street for a second.

“Am I interrupting something?” Mom asks.

“We’re just at a bar with Lou and Iz. No big deal.”

“I need your help.”

“What’s up?”

“It’s just…I wanted Milton’s room to look halfway decent since all the real estate agents are coming to see the house. So I asked him to straighten it up, and he threw a fit.”

“What do you mean ‘a fit’?”

“Well, he threw something at me.”

“Seriously? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. It was just a pillow.”

“A pillow?” I laugh. “That doesn’t even count as throwing something, Mom.”

“He was seriously angry. He also hurled a book across his room and put a dent in the wall. Just when I’m about to start showing the house and need it to look its best.”

“So what do you want me to do?”

“Come out here this weekend. Please? Tell him he has to accept that this house is being sold, whether he likes it or not. And maybe get him out of his room for a little while so I can clean it up.”

“I could come on Saturday. Tom’s playing golf with his dad all day. His mom wanted me to have lunch with her at the club, but I wouldn’t mind having an excuse to skip that.” Eating at the club with Tom’s mother is an agonizing experience. She talks too loudly for the hushed dining room, and people are always turning to stare at her. I don’t know why the Wellses were so desperate to join this particular old-money club. They don’t really fit in there.

Actually, that’s probably why.

“Tell Tom’s mother that I need you at the house. Because I do. I haven’t made a dent in the packing. I could really use as much time and help as you can give me.”

“You mean I get to pack, too? I can’t wait!”

When I get back to the bar, Lou is telling Tom about a TV show they’re “totally addicted to.” I slide in next to Tom, who whispers a quick “Everything okay?” and I nod.

Lou is describing the main guy on the show and how he works out and tans and has this on-again, off-again relationship with some trampy girl, and I realize that they’re talking about the show Jacob and I watched that night in my dad’s apartment. I can only remember it in flashes, but those flashes swirl around me now: the comically huge biceps on the best friend, the skimpy clothing, the deep kisses the girl kept giving the guy, Jacob’s saying they looked like siblings. Or did I say that?

Jacob and I used to be like siblings. Now we’re not even friends.

I fidget, cramped on the small bench, and massage my temples.

“You okay?” Tom asks, half shouting in my ear the way you do at a noisy bar.

“It’s hot in here, don’t you think?”

“Want me to get you an ice water?”

“That would be great.” I slide out of the booth so he can get up.

“Anyone else want anything?” he asks.

“Two more Coronas,” says Lou. “Oh, and did you want something, too?” he says to Izzy and laughs. He makes the same joke every time.

After Tom moves away and I sit back down, Izzy leans across the small table. “You’re so quiet tonight, Keats. Is everything okay at home? What did your mom want?” Her big blue eyes are concerned, the thick layer of mascara fanning her lashes into star points.

“Everything’s fine. She’s trying to sell the house, but my brother—he lives at home—doesn’t want her to.”

“How old is he?” Lou asks.

“Twenty.”

Lou snorts. “A guy that age shouldn’t be living at home anyway. I mean, unless he’s like Stanny.”

“
You
lived at home until you were twenty-five,” Izzy points out.

“That was different. There was a separate entrance, and I paid rent.”

“Well, maybe her brother does, too.”

“He doesn’t,” I say. “He’s not very independent. He’s got some issues.”

“Like Stanny?” asks Lou.

“No,” I say. “He’s got different issues. He doesn’t like to leave the house. I mean, he
really
doesn’t like to leave the house—I don’t think he walked out the door once this year. And I’m not too sure about the year before that.”

“Things are probably too comfortable for him at home,” Lou says. “Someone should just kick him out of there. Show him a little tough love.”

I realize I’m rubbing my temples again. “You’re probably right,” I say wearily.

Izzy pats my hand. “It’ll all be okay, Keats.”

Her reassurance is meaningless but her intentions are kind, and I thank her. When Tom comes back, I tell him that my head is aching and I’ll have to skip the movie. I urge him to go on ahead with Lou and Izzy, but he says he’d rather just go back home with me. When we get back, he turns on the TV, which just makes my head hurt even more.

* * *

“Okay,” I say to Milton on Saturday. He’s in his desk chair, working on the computer, and I’m sitting on his bed, watching him. “What’s this about your throwing something at Mom?”

He stares at the computer screen and types something. “Huh?”