The Opposite of Maybe: A Novel (11 page)

“Speaking of testosterone,” says Greg.

“Yeah, send
that
guy over here,” says Joe. “In the interest of keeping him from getting Brittany in trouble, of course.”

“Wow. Do they still even call it ‘getting in trouble’?” asks Hinton.

“Shut up,” growls Greg. “That’s my daughter you’re talking about. And because you have boys, you think you get a free pass from all this stuff?”

“Like hell I do. Only Jonathan gets a free pass, because he managed to keep himself unhitched,” says Hinton, and then looks embarrassed. “Sorry, Rosie. I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Don’t look at me,” Rosie says. “I managed to stay unhitched, too.”

“Close call, though, last week, huh?” says Greg. “That’s the closest you guys’ve come, right?”

“Yeah, what was up with that?” says Hinton. “We were all invited to a wedding, and then suddenly we weren’t?”

“Hinty!” says Suzanne. “I told you. We’re not going to talk about that today. If they didn’t want to get married, it’s none of our business. They’re fine the way they are.”

“It’s okay,” Rosie says. “There were some teacups in Texas that needed to be looked at, so Jonathan had to go.”

“Yeah, you know how it is, Hinty, when you’ve just got to see some teacups,” says Joe. “You just have to. We’ve all been there.”

Rosie can feel them all exchanging their amused glances. How Rosie and Jonathan
Don’t
Throw a Wedding.

Joe clears his throat and says, “Married or not, the main
thing you need to be thankful for is that you don’t have any kids. No kids is what keeps you two young. You’re going to outlive us all.”

Greta claps her hands. “Enough of this! I’ve made the dinner reservation for us all at Christopher Martin’s for seven. Do you think that’s going to give you enough time?”

Jonathan, back from loading the table onto the truck, doesn’t look worried in the least. “If we can get some manpower out of these wusses, it’ll be great,” he says. He turns to Patrick. “Okay, bro. Let’s do it. Grab the other end of this couch, will you. You other guys, why don’t you sit down and fan yourselves for a while.”

Patrick comes over and takes one end of the couch, and Jonathan takes the other, and then Greg sighs and grabs a part of it, too, and Joe and Hinton take the pile of cushions, and they all start bumping down the stairs, barking at one another and grumbling and groaning. When they get down to the street, they confer on how to load the things into the truck, and then Joe takes over, pointing and directing. And then they’re all laughing and shoving one another and they’re back to the regular guy thing, and Rosie knows that Greta and Joe won’t end up going to the soccer parents’ preseason meeting, and that the guys will move this whole household—teacups, tables, beds, and all of it—to the truck and get soused on beer and filled up with pizza in the process, and at some point Joe will hurt his bad knee and Greg, who’s overweight, will nearly pass out from heat exhaustion, but none of it will matter because they love Jonathan, and tonight they’ll all go to dinner at Christopher Martin’s and drink too much and propose toasts and tell stories about how tough it is to be parents these days, and they’ll be sloppy and sentimental about how much they’ll all miss Rosie and Jonathan, and then forever after this will be another story
that they tell, shaking their heads as they add to the legend of Rosie and Jonathan, this mythical couple who live in some kind of odd world, bumbling along but having things work out anyway. This one will be “The Day That Rosie and Jonathan Had to Be Told That Everybody Gets Old.”

It’s nearly one in the morning by the time Jonathan and Rosie get back to the apartment, to finish up and get the truck.

Joe and Greta have dropped them off, and given them tearful good-byes on the sidewalk, and then they clomp upstairs, Rosie banging around with the crutches, Jonathan in the middle of a long, meandering, whispered monologue about how he’d describe his current state: slightly buzzy but not too inebriated to get on the road and head out. He’s made clear from the beginning that they have to get going in the middle of the night so they can miss the New York City traffic, which he imagines will be awful, even on Sunday morning.

“I shouldn’t have had anything to drink since I’m not going to get any sleep,” he says. “But saying good-bye to friends. The only way to do that is to be drunk.”

“I think we should sleep a bit,” she says. Her arms and legs feel so heavy they can barely move.

“No can do.”

“But my foot hurts, and my head hurts.”

“Rosie. The next few days are going to be hard enough, but if we get behind schedule right from the beginning, it’s just going to be worse. You can prop your foot up on the dash with a bag of ice. And take some ibuprofen. You’ll be fine.” He looks around. “Look at all this crap that didn’t get
taken away. Jesus. There are
bags
of garbage everywhere.” He reaches over and turns on the kitchen light, and the bulb burns out with an explosion that makes her jump.

“Oh, holy Christ! Did you see that? The fucking oven didn’t get cleaned,” he says.

“Sssh. We can do it now.”

“But why didn’t you get it done earlier? Your friends could have helped you.”

“You saw how people were dressed here today. Nobody came here to clean ovens. I still can’t even believe you got those guys to carry all that stuff.”

“Nah, they were always gonna help me. They’re my buds.”

“I know, but didn’t you see how mad at you they were?”

“Here’s a little secret, Rosie: people are like puppy dogs. They can’t stay mad.” He laughs a little. “Puppy dogs. Ask them tomorrow, and they’ll say that today was the best day of their lives.”

She stares at him. “Wow. God, I can’t get over how you just skate through life. Nothing bad ever happens to you,” she says. “You always get forgiven, don’t you? By the way, did you call your mom?”

“What is this? I called her on Thursday.”

“But she wanted to see you. Was she mad that you didn’t come?”

“She’s used to me,” he says. “I say it again: puppy dogs. Clearly you don’t have your friends and family trained the way mine are.” He laughs.

“I never even tried to train them,” she says. “It’s despicable.” But maybe he doesn’t hear that last part, because he’s knelt down next to the oven and is peering inside at all its caked-on splotches.

He sits back on his heels and puts on his German accent. Sort of a
Hogan’s Heroes
thing he does from time to time, to
great laughter from his friends. “Dis black mark iss number two thirty-seven, the Turkey Catastrophe of five years ago,” he says. “And over here ve have the Cherry Pie Disaster, number three forty-five. Date still unknown. Fräulein, I am so very sorry, but ve cannot let you destroy the past by cleaning this oven. No.
Nein
.”

“But I think we have to clean it. We need the security deposit back.”

“No. No. Cannot be done. Against the rules of scientific discovery.” He closes the door and comes over to her. “We’re not doing it, babe. Come on. Let’s go.” He smells like garlic and beer and sweat. She feels a sudden sweep of anger, with her breath fluttery in her chest. She might be in danger of throwing up.

“Nobody ever holds you to anything,” she says, pulling away from him. She looks back at the oven. “You’ve decided we’re not cleaning this oven, and so if I want the security deposit back, too bad. Because you don’t really care. You can really walk away from this, can’t you—leave this apartment in this appalling state, and not—” Her voice is getting higher.

He laughs and looks around. “What are you talking about? This is not exactly appalling. Appalling would be if we had left dead bodies in the closets.” He goes over to the closet and opens it to show her there’s no such thing. She watches his expression, the flourish of his hand, the hooded look of his eyes, and then she swallows and just says it.

“Listen, I don’t think I’m going with you. I can’t.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“I’m not going to California.” Her hairline feels suddenly freezing cold, as though it, too, is surprised by this news. She balls her hands into fists so they won’t start to tremble in front of him.

“Aha! But you have to. Your stuff is on the truck. Or did you forget that?”

“It’s toward the back end of the truck. The stuff I need, at least. I can take it out.”

“Oh, come off it, Rosie. You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m sorry. But I can’t.”

“Goddamn it, woman, it’s nearly two in the morning, and I want to get to Pennsylvania before we have to stop again. Just get over whatever this is, and we’ll solve it in the truck.”

“Take me to Soapie’s,” she says, and now she’s shocked to see that she’s actually calm. She’s really doing this. It’s the right thing.

He stands there with his hands at his sides, and then he sighs. “Look, is it the oven? Because I swear I’ll
pay
you your portion of the security deposit, if it means that much to you.”

“No.”

“Well, then what is it? We can’t clean the damn thing right now, even if we wanted to, because there’s no light in this kitchen.
And
the stores are all closed, so we can’t go buy a lightbulb. So get over yourself, and let’s hit the road. It’s been a long day.”

She sighs. “No. I’m not going.”

“What the
fuck
, Rosie?” He goes into the bathroom and closes the door. She hears the water running, the fan going on. She folds her arms across her chest and stares out the window at the streetlight. Breathe. Deep, deep breaths. Then after a while the toilet flushes, and he comes out and stands in front of her. “What if we compromise?” he says heavily. “We’ll go spend the night at Soapie’s and then leave in the morning. Okay? That what you want?”

“No.”

“Come on,” he says. “I don’t know what my crime is, but won’t you give a guy a chance to say he’s sorry?”

“But you’re not sorry,” she says calmly.

“But this is madness! Because I know you. In exactly two days you’re going to call me and say, ‘Ohhh, Jonathan, I’ve made a mistake, and can’t you come back and get me?’ And the truth is, I won’t be able to, because there’s a deadline on turning in this truck, and if I turn around because you’ve got some bug up your ass, then I’ve got to pay a lot more money. And I’ll have had to drive through Pennsylvania
three times
.” His voice is rising, and he stops himself, closes his eyes for a moment, and then pats the air with his hands. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “Getting mad at you is not going to help matters, I know. But the fact is, Rosie, we don’t have a lot of money. So even if you decide to come much later, it’s going to be hard to get the airfare together to fly you out there.”

“Then I won’t come.”

“So we’re breaking up, then? Just like that?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know.”

“What’s the matter with you?”

“I don’t know! It just hit me, how you really are, and what this is going to be like. I can’t get in that truck and drive across country with you and deal with that twerp of a man while you and he set up some museum. I can’t.”

“Twerp?” He laughs. “This is all about Andres Schultz again? And don’t tell me, there’s going to be a part about the wedding, too. And red boots! There is, isn’t there?” She knows what he’s doing: he’s trying to jolly her into laughing, and then she will be disarmed, and then after a few more jokes and maybe some hugs and some halfhearted promises that look fullhearted, she’ll willingly go and get in the truck.
She knows he thinks this. She knows it has worked for him before. But she is not a puppy dog. No more.

“Just stop it,” she says.

He looks out the window and then drums his fingers on the countertop, calculating. Then he sighs and says, “Okay. Fine. You want to change the whole plan right here at the eleventh hour and ruin what we’ve been planning for weeks, then great. You go right ahead. I’m taking you at your word.”

“Thank you,” she says. She gets up and makes her way to the truck, banging her way down the stairs on her crutches, and then he comes down and unlocks it and gets in, without even once looking at her.

Riding back to Soapie’s, with the wind blowing her hair, she feels as free as she’s felt in a long, long time.

Soapie’s house is dark and quiet as they pull up. Jonathan drives the truck around back, and Rosie winces at the crunching sound the tires make on the gravel drive, the way the whole thing rattles and shudders when he turns the key off, and mostly at the white gleam of the headlights against the bank of kitchen windows. The sensor lights come on, and she is braced for even worse: that Soapie herself might come charging out of the house in her nightgown, demanding to know what’s going on. The old Soapie would have done that. But when it doesn’t happen, Rosie says quietly, “Okay, well, let’s get this over with.”

Jonathan, who has been grimly silent all the way over, climbs out of his seat and goes around to the back. She hears the rolling door go up, hears him plunking boxes down onto the ground. Has he forgotten that she needs help disembarking from the seat? Or maybe he’s too angry to come and help her. He’s ready to be done with her. Whenever she dared to look over at him during the drive, she saw his jaw working back and forth, his eyes staring straight ahead.