These Are the Moments (22 page)

ChaPTer 57

Now

Wendy loved this place.

Donald took her to the coffee shop down the block, but by the grand showing of his wallet and his dramatic choosing of their table, you would’ve thought it was a steak dinner.

“Oh, coffee is so expensive these days,” he said at the counter. “But please, feel free to pick anything you’d like. On me.”

Then there was the
let’s sit away from the draft
comment and the
isn’t it nice to get out of the office for a while?
fishing for a compliment comment.

Donald wasn’t a bad guy. He didn’t mean to sound like a stingy asshole. He just happened to be a stingy asshole.

Wendy had no earthly idea what this whole dramatic display was about. Maybe he was firing her. Maybe he’d finally figured out how many bags of coffee she’d been secretly stealing and taking home. Maybe he was quitting, retiring or something, and this was his gentle way of saying,
Bad news is you don’t have a job. Good news is I get to spend the rest of my life on a yacht.

Sitting across from Donald felt strange. He had this nervous habit of picking at his particularly dark arm hair, tugging so the skin beneath raised into tiny triangles of flesh.

“How’s the family?” he asked her. Like they didn’t see each other every day. Like he’d forgotten she had one of those.

“Good,” she said. “Uhh, healthy.”

“Excellent, excellent. So why don’t we get right down to it, shall we?”

“Sure,” she said. Sip.

“Tell me,” he said. “Where do you see yourself in this career? The law field, specifically?”

This was unexpected. Donald asked her about her family, but never listened. He asked her about her weekends, but didn’t care. Questions about her future? This was downright confusing.

“Oh, my plans,” she said, conjuring up a good, bullshit, boss-approved reply. “Right now, I’m concentrating on learning the field. I’d like to advance one day. Maybe consider some type of schooling.”

She could’ve done better had she been more prepared.

“Schooling,” he said, slapping a hand on the table, the coffee swaying in the cups. “That’s just what I wanted to hear. I have a proposal for you.”

A proposal?

“You see, I’m in need of a paralegal. You do fine work, great work, even. But I’m looking for someone who can take on a bit more responsibility around the place. The tougher stuff, you know what I mean?”

She nodded. Was he firing her? It sounded like he was firing her, just circling around the words, as if maybe he wanted
her
to be the one to say it.

“So, I propose that you get your paralegal certificate,” he smiled at her, like he’d just reached into his pocket, grabbed hold of a crisp hundred and forked it over.

“Oh,” she said, blank-faced. “I hadn’t considered that. A paralegal. That would be a promotion?”

“Absolutely,” he said. “The works. Pay raise. More client interaction. A great learning opportunity.”

Did she want to learn about the law? Like really learn about it? She’d gotten comfortable, going to work and coming home, living just under the radar of responsibility. She liked living this way. But what about her career?

Adults were supposed to want careers. They’re supposed to want to make money, tons of it, that just sits in some imaginary vault in a bank, untouched. Adults said yes to promotions. Adults were sensible providers, thinking about their families and their futures and their 401(k)s.

Wendy was not an adult.

But she also wasn’t stupid.

“Thank you, Donald, for this amazing offer. If it’s all right by you, I’d like to think about this a little, and get back to you? I’m sure I’ll have some more specific questions very soon.”

He nodded, satisfied. “Very judicial of you. I like it.”

Chapter 58

Then

She liked this feeling.

His feet were cold. They closed in on hers, and he said, “God, you’re so warm.”

Horizontal, they were in his bed, her holding him as he held onto her. She was wearing his boxers and one of his old T-shirts.

“Too warm?” she asked.

“No,” he said, “a good warm.”

Most of Wendy still felt like her mom or dad could walk in any minute. She felt like she was in her own bed, sneaking Simon in through a window, whispering to each other in the night.

But Simon’s room was different. He had furniture. Not good furniture, of course, but boy furniture that was a deep chestnut brown, that looked like it should hold a wooden duck or something. It was quiet for a college apartment. There wasn’t any stomping above them, not even an echo of a party around them.

It was just Simon and her.

“This is weird,” she whispered.

“What’s weird?” he groaned. His arm had gotten heavy over her.

“I’m in your bed.”

“Yes,” he said, taking a deep breath, pulling her close. “You are.”

“And tomorrow?” she asked.

“Tomorrow, we’ll still be here.”

She let out a breath. “Doesn’t it feel odd to you? Me in your bed?”

“It didn’t,” he said, and then he pulled her around to face him. “What’s on your mind?”

“You’re going to think it’s dumb.”

“Never,” he said, eyes closed.

“You’re not even looking at me.”

“I’m listening. Swear.”

“Okay,” she said. “It’s just that . . . I’ve never done this before.”

He smiled. “What, sleep?”

She gave him a light shove. “Come on. Be serious.”

“Okay, I’m serious.” He pinched his lips into a straight line, eyes still shut.

“I’ve never been in somebody’s bed before. A boy’s bed, I mean.”

“I know,” he said. “I’m pretty partial to that fact.”

“But you . . . you’ve pretty much lived with girls before. And I guess I’m wondering . . . if that makes this
less special.”

He opened his eyes and squinted at her, then pushed his lips to meet hers. It started slow, but then he kissed her with intention, like it was a way to slip his words straight into her mouth.

The idea of
the other girls
had been tugging at her mind, keeping her from fully letting herself into them. She’d started staying over most nights with Simon, since Reese was normally gone, but they still didn’t cross any lines. He’d told her he’d wait as long as she needed. For her mind. For her body. For whatever she needed.

But Wendy wondered if that was really true.

When he pulled away, he said, “Please, don’t ever confuse that with this. They were not and have never been even in the same hemisphere as us. That’s like saying the movie is better than the book. You and I both know that nothing could ever compete with the source material. Okay?”

She nodded. “Okay.”

“Do you worry about that stuff?”

She didn’t want to. Thinking about his life minus hers was an unwelcoming nagging in the back of her mind.

Did he hold her like this?

Did he kiss her before she fell asleep?

Did he say he loved her?

Yes. All of the above.

But here was the big question, the one that she didn’t really want the answer to:
Did he mean it?

“No,” she answered, “not really.”

“You know, just because you’re staying here… I don’t want you to feel any pressure.”

She stretched her arms and rolled over. “Let’s talk about this tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Come on, Wen. Talk to me.”

“Let’s be happy, okay?”

“Okay. We’re happy.”

And really, that was all she could ever ask for.

Chapter 59

Now

It was everything she could ask for.

I’m a painter.

I’m in a gallery.

I have an art show.

A few weeks before the show, her debut as a real-life, paid painter, she couldn’t sleep. In lieu of sleeping, she’d let her head hit the pillow and run through the list of a thousand minute details in her head. She’d have to talk to Raven about the lighting. She’d need to talk about the succession of the paintings, the frames, the order. She’d have to ask about the caterer. And bartenders.
Would there be bartenders?

“I’m buying a painting,” Simon had said. “The first one. Or the last one. You pick.”

That had been
then,
when the paintings were just paint and water, only hers. Now, they would be the main attraction, hung up for the world to see.

Things had changed since the bachelorette party. They still talked, but it wasn’t going anywhere. They talked about the same philosophical debates—
does God exist, do we have a purpose, is there a plan
—but there was never anything personal. He kept her at an arm’s length, and she wasn’t pushing. They were in a strange
we want to talk but not really
phase.

Mom and Dad were ecstatic. Dad was on the phone a lot, calling everyone who’d pick up the phone, every distant relative, every obscure acquaintance, asking them to come out and show their support. He promised them wine. Bottles and bottles of wine. Mom promoted the show to her Bible study and people leaving Mass and strategically placed a prayer intention in the service. They were a marketing powerhouse.

“If you become a famous painter, I need you to promise me one thing,” Reese said.

“This is going to be something stupid, isn’t it?”

“Do you promise?”

Wendy did.

“Whatever you do, for the love of God, do not cut off your own ear. It’s just not attractive. And I hate hospitals.”

“Both very sound reasons, thank you,” Wendy said.

Claudia had lobbied the event to her teachers, made announcements in her classes, and even took a trip to the principal’s office to extend an invite.

Everyone was going to be there.

Midnight, a week before the big night, Wendy couldn’t even rest her head anymore. Upright, she sat in her bed, feverishly typing up a list for herself of every possible thing that could go wrong.

1. Problem: Freak fire. Solution: Grab paintings and get the hell out of Dodge. Note: where is Dodge, exactly?

2. Problem: Thievery. Solution: It’s a small town. Cops are readily available.

3. Problem: Simon. Solution?

If she invited him to the show, he’d just give her a bullshit response about boundaries or a work thing or another lame excuse. It could end the little talking they had left. If she didn’t invite him, well, he just wouldn’t come. And so what?

So what.

If she didn’t at least ask, if she didn’t at least try, could she live with that?

Her thumb hovered over her phone.

“Hey,” she texted him.

“Hey,” he texted back instantly.

She took a deep, consequential breath and typed. “So, the art show is in a few weeks, and I know you’ll probably say no, but I didn’t feel okay with not asking you. So, I thought maybe you could come. If you want to.”

He texted back right away. “Hmm.”

Hmm, really?

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” he said.

“Okay, I understand!” she said. Exclamation point. No hard feelings.

This would’ve been a good end to the conversation. But Simon, being Simon, could not just leave it there. “I mean, considering the subject matter, and the fact that we’re in kind of a strange place right now, I just don’t think it’s a good plan.”

“Absolutely. I get it.”

“Why did you ask me?”

She set her computer on the floor, lifting the phone up to her face. “Uhh because?”

“I mean, did you ask me because you hoped this would bring us together somehow? Or were you just asking me as a friend?”

Unbelievable.

She felt the blood rush up into her cheeks. “Are you asking me if I’m trying to get back together with you?”

“Not exactly,” he said, typing. “I’m just curious why you would want me there. I feel like I might need to make it clear that us talking—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

She should never have asked him. She should never have started talking to him in the first place. Screw Vivian and her stupid wedding. Screw Simon and his stupid mouth.

“—doesn’t mean that anything is going to happen with us again. I can promise you. It won’t.”

This also would have been a good end to the conversation. But Wendy couldn’t let him win. “Just to be clear,” she said, “I never said that I wanted you back, so not sure where you’re getting that from. And also? I take back my invitation. I don’t want you to come.”

“Okay.”

“And Simon,” she continued, “I don’t want you texting me anymore. I mean, we never even talk about anything real. You only talk when it’s on your time. God forbid I try and start a conversation. It’s bullshit and a waste of time.”

“I don’t trust you to talk to me,” he said. “No offense.”

“Then why talk to me at all?” Her fingers typed feverishly. Her brain buzzed. “Don’t answer that. I’m done here. See you at the wedding.”

She powered down her phone, and picked up her computer.

The web browser tab was still open to the art program application. She’d filled out all of the information, just for fun. She moved the mouse over the submit button, hesitated, then clicked.