If You Lived Here, You'd Be Home Now (28 page)

Andrew looked kind of crazy doing that. But he wasn’t crazy. That was the problem.

When they came in a while later, they were both sweating and panting. The kitchen was warm from the baking, and they instantly
tore off their sweatshirts. Andrew was wearing a dark blue T-shirt. It was a good color on him.

“Hooray!” he said, spotting the plate. “Brownies!” He grabbed one. “You really don’t have to bake every time,” he said as
he tore off a big bite. “Really.” He chewed and grinned. “Well, maybe you do. These are great. Even better than the last batch.”

“Can I eat them?” Noah asked.

I nodded. “They’re safe. But just one. It’s almost lunchtime.”

He leaned over the plate and studied the brownies, clearly looking for the biggest one.

“Hey, Noah, do me a favor, will you?” Andrew said. “I left all the equipment out on the yard. Will you gather it up and put
it in my bag and then carry it to my car?”

“Do I have to?”

“Noah!” I said. “No brownie until you do what Coach Andrew says. He’s nice enough to come here and play with you every week—”

“Not
every
week,” Noah said. “Just some of them.”

I shook my head at him warningly. “The least you can do is help clean up. When you’ve stowed all the stuff in his car, you
can come back in and have your brownie. Not until then.”

Noah heaved a dramatic sigh and slouched toward the back doorway and out.

There was a pause. “Got rid of
him
,” I said.

“That was the goal,” Andrew said. I had been joking, so that slightly unnerved me. He gestured toward the kitchen table. “Let’s
sit.”

“Am I in trouble?” I asked as I sat down. I was still wearing my sweatpants and a tank top—aka my pajamas—although once again
I’d thrown a hoodie on top to hide the fact that I wasn’t wearing a bra.

He just shook his head as he took the chair opposite me. Then he passed his hand through his hair. He seemed nervous. “I’ve
been thinking,” he said.

The nervousness was contagious. My pulse sped up. “Have you ever noticed how often you say that? That you’ve been thinking?
You spend a lot of time thinking.”

“Really?”

“It’s not a bad thing. It’s good to be thoughtful. No one’s
ever accused
me
of being thoughtful. Which is how I know it’s a good thing.” God, I was blithering. “So what were you thinking about this
time?”

“Our conversation at Thanksgiving.”

“That was a month and a half ago,” I said. “You’ve been thinking about it all this time?” I tried to sound calm. But I felt
a little sick. Why was he bringing it up now?

“Yeah,” he said. “It takes me a little while to process things sometimes. And you hit me with a lot of information all at
once.”

“Look, for what it’s worth—I was a little drunk.”

“So was I. But it was all true, right?”

“Yeah,” I said. “How pathetic is that?”

“Here’s the thing,” he said, ignoring my comment. “It’s just… I feel bad I haven’t said anything to you about it since then.
That was wrong of me.” I stared at him, surprised. He smiled sheepishly. “I have a tendency to want to run and hide when things
get too heavy. At least that’s what every girlfriend I’ve ever had has told me. And my sister and mother. And my grandmother,
but she’s a little nuts, so don’t count that one.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “I think I owe
you
an apology for talking your ear off.”

“No, you don’t. I felt kind of honored you confided in me.” He leaned forward. “Mostly I’ve been thinking about all the things
I should have said that night and feel bad that I didn’t say.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s been driving me nuts that I didn’t say anything helpful, just stood there like an idiot. What I should have said was
you’re doing an amazing job with Noah. And that life is—” He stopped, searching for the words. Being thoughtful again. I wondered
what it would be like to go through life like that: thinking everything through carefully before speaking or taking action.

You probably don’t end up with a kid at nineteen.

Andrew said, “Life just always changes, you know? So where you are at any given moment isn’t necessarily where you thought
you’d be, but in a few years that could all change again and you might look back and say, ‘Where I was then makes sense because
it got me to here.’ ” He grimaced. “That sounded way lamer than it was supposed to. I’m sorry. I’m not very articulate.”

“For a dumb jock, you do okay.”

He leaned forward. “You know, in a way, that’s my point.”

“What is?”

“You think I’m a dumb jock because you’ve only known me as a PE coach.”

“I don’t really think you’re dumb,” I said. “I was joking.”

He dismissed that with a wave. “The point is, I came to Fenwick because I got laid off at my banking job and so I came to
help set up the new computers and teach the older kids some computer skills and then one of the coaches left and they asked
me to fill in for her. There was no master plan. It just happened. And the really weird part is I love being a coach. I feel
like it sort of is what I was meant to do.” He stopped and cocked his head at me. “Am I making any sense at all?”

“I think so. You’re basically saying life is random, right?”

“Yeah. Or no. I mean, it
is
random but the randomness can move you forward. We make choices and they lead somewhere. It’s just not always in a straight
line.”

“Yeah, well, I think I took a U-turn a few years ago.”

“But maybe you needed to be going in that direction.” He made a face. “Okay, now I’m hating this metaphor.”

“Let’s lose it,” I agreed.

“You see?” He looked suddenly young and vulnerable. “I suck at saying things.”

“No, you don’t. I like everything you just said.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“And you forgive me for not being all brilliant and understanding right away, when we first talked about all this stuff? And
for being such a coward since then, not bringing it up again until now?”

I shook my head in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You’ve only ever been nice.”

He smiled and it was such a warm and open smile, my heart leaped. “Hey, there,” he said. Then I realized he wasn’t smiling
at me, but past me. I turned and Noah was standing there, his upper body tipping forward in the effort to counterbalance the
weight of the coach’s big mesh bag, which was slung over his shoulder.

“I think I got everything,” he said. “It’s really heavy.”

“I’ll take it to the car,” Andrew said. “Go ahead and put it down.”

Noah instantly dropped the bag. He hadn’t secured the top, and as it hit the ground balls fell out and started rolling all
over the floor.

“Noah!” I jumped to my feet at the same moment as Andrew, and we both started grabbing for balls. Meanwhile Noah casually
stepped over to the table, selected his brownie, and ate it, idly watching us chase down balls like none of it had anything
to do with him and we were very silly people to be scrambling around like that.

My arms full, I approached Andrew, who was slipping a couple of balls back into the bag. He held the bag open and I dropped
the balls I’d gathered in there. I looked at his hands as I was letting them slide in—those too-big-for-the-size-of-his-wrists
hands—and felt a rush of desire so strong I was terrified he’d see it on my face. I ducked away. “Any under the stove?”
I said and crouched down, pretending to look, just so I could hide my flushed cheeks a little longer.

There was a burst of music. I stood up and turned around. Andrew was answering his phone with one hand, clutching the net
bag with the other. “I’m just heading out now,” he said into his cell. A pause. “Western Bagel okay?” Another pause. “Onion
with light cream cheese. Got it. Be there in twenty minutes.” He put the phone in his pocket. “I better run. I’ll see you
at school, Noah. And I’ll see
you
at the next T-ball practice, Noah’s mom. You’re going to be amazed at how good this kid gets.” He hoisted the bag over his
shoulder. “Thanks for the brownies.”

“No problem,” I said and stayed in the kitchen while Noah led him to the front door.

Of course I spent way too much time after that trying to figure out the subtext of our conversation. Had he noticed how I’d
been avoiding him and wanted to make sure we were still friends? Was his apology sincere or an act of kindness? What was he
trying to accomplish by even having that conversation?

I couldn’t ask Mom or Melanie what they thought, because I didn’t want to admit to either of them that I was spending time
thinking about Andrew’s motives.

So I was left trying to figure out the puzzle by myself.

It was only after the next T-ball practice, when I heard Noah say to him, “Don’t make me bat. I suck at it,” and Andrew gravely,
kindly, and patiently replied that he didn’t suck, that he was good and getting better all the time, that I realized he was
talking to Noah
exactly
the way he had been talking to me, and that our conversation in the kitchen had simply been a coach’s pep talk.
You’re doing great, don’t worry about your past mistakes, get out there and keep going, you’re a winner
, etc.

Andrew may have become a PE coach by accident, but, boy, did he have the right personality for it.

* * *

My mother had arranged for the masseuse to come and give Mel and me our Christmas-present massages one night the following
week.

Eliana the masseuse was big. Not fat, just big. Linebacker big. Shoulders-as-broad-as-a-football-field big.

“You go first,” Melanie said with some trepidation as we peeked out the window at Eliana, who was strutting up our front walkway
with a folded massage table tucked under her arm as if it were a clutch purse.

Two hours later, after my mother had paid Eliana and she and her table were heading back down the front walkway, Mom closed
the door and said, “Well? How was it?”

“Amazing,” said Melanie dreamily. She was wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt, and under her mussed-up hair, her face looked
flushed and young. “I told her I didn’t get many massages so just to keep it kind of soft. It all felt so good. I haven’t
been this relaxed in ages.”

“What did you think?” Mom asked me.

I sat down heavily on the sofa. “I ache all over.”

“Really?” Mel said. “But she was so gentle.”

“Not with me she wasn’t. I told her I wanted her to go really deep into the muscle. I mean, I kind of figured if I was getting
a massage, I should really feel it, right?” They didn’t exactly rush to agree with me. “Anyway, she was still being kind of
delicate, so I told her that I meant it, that she should really press down hard.” I shifted my body, which made me wince.
“I think maybe I pissed her off a little because she got kind of rough then. She was digging her fingers so hard into my muscles,
it really hurt.” I didn’t tell them, but I’d actually started panting from the pain.

“Why didn’t you just tell her to pull back?” Mom said.

“Are you kidding? That’s exactly what she
wanted
: for me to say I couldn’t take it anymore, that I wasn’t as tough as I thought.” I shook my head. “No way I was letting her
win.”

Melanie said, “So instead you let her
hurt
you?”

“It’s fine. I mean, in a way it feels good.” As I stood up, I inadvertently let out another small groan.

“You’re an idiot,” Melanie said.

“Me?” I turned on her. “I’m not the one who invited my on-again-off-again husband to Casino Night so everyone could gawk at
us out together. If we’re going to talk about idiotic behavior—”

“People aren’t going to gawk.” She appealed to Mom. “Will they?”

Mom patted her on the shoulder. “Of course not. I think it’s a good idea.”

“That’s not what you told me yesterday,” I muttered.

“Shush,” she said. But it was true: when we were alone, she had said to me that she was worried Melanie was setting herself
up to get hurt again by going out in public so soon with Gabriel. “People will ask too many questions and assume they’re permanently
back together, which will make it much harder if they ultimately decide it isn’t working,” she had said. Now suddenly it was
A Good Idea? “She’s just being Rickie,” she told Melanie now. “Ignore her.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Ignore me even though I’m right.” I stumbled toward the stairs, each step igniting a new pain, to go score
a couple of Advil from my parents’ bathroom.

I
had already started my community college classes: Shakespeare, abnormal psych, and economics. I wanted to try out different
subjects since I knew I wasn’t going to be a bio major when I transferred to a four-year college.

At first I sat by myself in every class, but one day a girl asked if she could borrow a pen, and we chatted for a while when
psych class ended. She was twenty-three, not that much younger than me, and was also stuck living at home, although in her
case it was so she could take care of her mother, who had been paralyzed in a car accident. From then on we always sat together
in psych and sometimes went out to lunch together afterwards.

And there was a friendly guy in Shakespeare who started chatting with me one day. He was only nineteen and had an energetic
puppyish quality that was pretty endearing. I kind of liked playing the role of the older and wiser adviser with him. So now
I had a seatmate in that class too.

My classes were all on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, so I was free to have lunch with Mel when she asked me and Mom to
join her one Tuesday. She picked us up at home and, saying she had a craving for smoked salmon, took us to Barney Greengrass,
the restaurant at the top of Barneys in Beverly Hills.

“I have a confession,” she said when we were all seated. “You guys are here under false pretenses. Well, sort of false. We
are
eating lunch. But as soon as we’re done—and no stalling, Rickie—we’re heading downstairs to try on dresses and we’re not
stopping until we all find the perfect thing to wear to Casino Night.”