Waiting For Ethan (9 page)

“Did you know he was drafted by the Blue Jays for pitching but blew out his elbow before making it to the majors?” Luci asks.

I picture his sad hazel eyes and big body. Then I see him younger, smiling and muscular, dressed in a baseball uniform. He stands on the pitcher's mound, leans in for the sign from the catcher, goes into the windup, and screams in pain as he releases the ball. Just like that, his dream is over. I want to run to the mailroom and give him a big hug. “That's awful,” I say. Then, I can't help it, a vision of him now with his huge stomach hanging over his naked waist appears in my head. His sausage-like fingers fumble with the buttons on the red cashmere sweater Luci was wearing that night. I toss the rest of my salad in the trash and leave for the restroom.

 

When I arrive at Cooper's office at four thirty, he's on the phone. “They grossly miscalculated in Australia,” he says. “The Aussie four-G network isn't robust enough for their product.” He squints so that his dark eyes are barely slits. I notice small lines around the corners of his eyes. They make him look sexy. Oh God, what is wrong with me? I look around his office. In addition to his desk and two guest chairs, there's a table and a couch in here. The bookshelf next to the door displays various awards that he's won at TechVisions. There's one picture of him with his arm around a disturbingly beautiful dark-haired woman. Must be Monique, his glamorous girlfriend. She looks extremely familiar. Maybe she used to work here. Maybe that's how they met. Cooper looks at me and with his hand mimics someone talking too much. I smile and he smiles back. His teeth are straight and white. I think of Ethan's yellowish teeth with the gaps between them and their varying lengths. Maybe I should find out who Cooper's dentist is and recommend him?

Cooper must have hung up the phone because when I look at him again, he's studying me with his hand on his hip and a half smile. “Well?” he asks.

“Did you have braces as a kid?” I blurt out.

He cocks his head and squints. “I asked you how late you can stay, and yes, my father was an orthodontist.”

“I can stay until five thirty, and I'm sorry about your father.”

Cooper points to the guest chair, so I sink into it. “You're sorry that he was an orthodontist?”

“No, I'm sorry he passed.”

Confusion washes over his face. “Why do you think he died?”

“You said he was an orthodontist.”

Cooper shakes his head and opens a notebook on his desk. “He's retired, not dead.”

We have all this great technology and still no way to edit the spoken word. I feel my chest and neck getting splotchy. I look up at Cooper. We both laugh when we make eye contact. The laugh starts small but suddenly explodes into uncontrollable snorting. Just when it's about to end, we make eye contact again, and it picks up steam and keeps going. Tears stream down Cooper's face, and I'm hunched over, holding my stomach when it finally does end.

“Anyway,” Cooper says, “where were we with this project?”

“I'm supposed to tell you about the types of mistakes we find.”

 

It's almost 7 p.m. when Cooper and I finish categorizing the types of errors Luci and I find when editing. He looks at his watch. “Whoops, it's well after five thirty.”

I shut my notebook and stand. “I should really get going.”

He stands, too. “Sorry I kept you so late.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and shifts his weight from leg to leg. “Do you have a big date with Mr. Flowers tonight?”

Mr. Flowers? Then I remember he saw the roses Ethan sent to work. “I, no. I'm going to meet Luci and some people at Last Chance. It's karaoke night.”

“Do you do karaoke?” he asks.

“Depends on how many drinks I've had.”

He laughs. “I'd like to see that sometime.”

I walk to his door. When I get there, I turn to face him again. He is standing in the same exact position watching me. “Do you want to come?”

He sways from side to side. “I'd like to, but I have”—he pauses and looks down—“a thing at eight o'clock.”

A “thing” probably means a date with Monique. I step out of his office and am in the hallway when he calls after me. “Gina, another time?”

“Yes,” I say. “I'll check your calendar and schedule the next meeting.”

He studies me with the same squinty look he had when I first got here. “I was talking about—” He stops suddenly. “Never mind.”

I ride the elevator back to my floor wondering if Cooper Allen just asked me on a date. No, he couldn't have. He's dating Monique.

I
am just getting home from the gym on Saturday morning and still in my sweaty clothes when Ethan arrives. Since our first date, he has been consistently early. “You're not supposed to be here for another forty-five minutes,” I say.

He pulls me into a tight embrace. “I couldn't wait to see you.” He starts to kiss me, but I squirm away, thinking about how much I must smell. After all, I just spent the past hour on the elliptical.

“I'm going to take a shower. Make yourself at home.” His eyes twinkle, and he looks like he wants to say something but refrains.

Twenty minutes later, I'm showered and dressed. Ethan is sitting at the kitchen table sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup and reading the paper. I notice another cup of coffee and two plates set up on the table. There is a lemon pastry on each plate. This is so close to my fantasy that my heart begins to race, and I feel light-headed.

“Are you all right?” Ethan asks when he sees me staring at the table.

“I'm perfect.” I feel like I'm dreaming. Any moment now the alarm is going to sound. Ethan continues to watch me, so I sit at the table and take a sip of my coffee and stare at the pastry. Would it be rude to tell him that I don't like lemon? Yes, it would. I pick up the pastry and slowly bring it to my mouth. I bite off the smallest piece and immediately reach for my coffee. I must have made the sour face I make when I eat anything with lemon.

“You don't like it?” Ethan asks.

“I love it.” Just to prove I'm telling the truth, I bite off a larger piece.
Yuck, it's gross. So sour.
Ethan watches me closely.
Keep chewing; don't spit it out.
I force the pastry to the back of my mouth and then down my throat and immediately gulp a large swallow of coffee to wash it away. “Yummy,” I say. Like I would ever really use that word.

Ethan smiles. “Lemon is my favorite,” he says. Great. Why didn't I just confess that I don't like it? Now I'm going to have to pretend to like it for the rest of my life. Idiot.

We finish eating breakfast—well, most of my pastry is still left—and head down to Ethan's Jeep. He insists on carrying my overnight bag and opens the Jeep door for me. Chivalrous, just like I always imagined he would be. Before he pulls out of my driveway, he leans over and kisses me. Luckily he tastes like coffee and not lemon.

The sky above is bright blue, and the streets below are wet with melting snow. The windows of the Jeep are halfway down so that at a red light, we can hear water flowing into the sewers, washing away the season's doldrums.

Ethan switches on the radio, and twangy music fills the car. I turn the channel to a top-forty station. Adele is singing about setting fire to the rain.

“What does that even mean?” Ethan asks.

I shrug. “Don't know, but she sure sounds good singing it. She has a beautiful voice.”

“She's fat, isn't she?” Ethan asks.

I glare at him. “What does that have to do with her singing?”

“It has everything to do with her appeal as a star.”

“I bet if she were a guy, you wouldn't comment on her weight.”

He laughs. “Yeah, if she were a guy I probably wouldn't be checking out her body, that's true.” When the song ends, he turns the radio back to his country station. Some guy is singing about being good at drinking beer.

“Really, this is what you listen to?” I ask. He switches off the radio. “I guess we don't agree on music,” I say.

“I'm sure we can find something we both like.” He thinks for a minute. “Do you like eighties music?”

“Sure.”

He sings a few lines from Bon Jovi's “Livin' on a Prayer.” Though I only know this because I recognize the words. He sings it with a twang. “You sing something, and I'll see if I recognize it,” he suggests.

I think and settle on a Cyndi Lauper song. I sing in key so it only takes Ethan a few lines to name the tune. “Time After Time,” he shouts. “You sounded great.” He smiles. “You have a beautiful voice and a beautiful body.” I feel myself blushing. He reaches for my leg and caresses my thigh, sending chills up and down my spine. “I can't wait to see more of it tonight.” His voice sounds velvety.

I know I should say something flirty back, but I just sit there embarrassed, trying to think of an appropriate response. “Me too,” I finally say. He takes my hand into his and squeezes it.

We drive in silence for a few minutes. Then he starts singing again. The words coming from his mouth sound like Billy Joel's “Only the Good Die Young,” but the tune is more Garth Brooks's “Friends in Low Places.”

We continue playing our version of
Name That Tune
for several miles. Our game ends when I stump Ethan on Foreigner's “Waiting for a Girl Like You.” It's not a fair victory because I substitute boy for girl. It's the only line I know, so I keep repeating it: first like it's an opera; then I do a disco version, followed by Motown, and finally I perform it with a twang before Ethan invokes the Mercy Rule, which I instituted miles ago to get him to stop singing “Born in the U.S.A.”

After being on the highway for an hour and a half, we turned off onto a two-lane road, which we have been on for almost ninety minutes now. There's a lot more snow up here than at home, but unlike ours, it's still mostly white, not sullied by car exhaust and road salt.

A half hour later, Ethan turns off the main road onto a small, winding street that appears to be carved through a mountain. I marvel at the beauty of the area. “You have to see it in summer,” he says. “I'll bring you back so we can hike to some of my favorite waterfalls.” He tells me about the area, but I'm not listening. Instead, I'm imagining him dropping to one knee and proposing at one of those waterfalls, a ray of light bouncing off the pear-shaped diamond as he slips it on my finger.

We pass a sign for Glory, and Ethan takes a few turns. Finally, he pulls into a long driveway flanked by six-foot snowbanks on each side. Although Ethan told me nothing about what the house looked like, I envisioned it as a small Cape. Wrong. It's an exquisite log cabin with two levels of porches, the front side of the house donning more windows than logs. A tall fence, also made from logs, stands to the right enclosing the backyard. “Look behind you,” Ethan instructs when we get out of the Jeep.

I turn. The view I have is like an award-winning panoramic photograph of mountain peaks, only it's real. Incredible. The Ethan I imagined lived in a house with lots of windows that faced an ocean. Sometimes he lived in a high-rise in the heart of the city. Never did he live in a big house made of logs nestled into a mountainside. No wonder he sings with a twang.

We make our way across a stone walkway that leads to the front door. It hits me then that I am approaching the house Ethan lived in with his wife. While I was sitting around year after year waiting for him, he was living a whole other life with someone else. It's just not fair. He should have been looking for me.

“What the . . .” Ethan suddenly shouts. His stride becomes quicker as he heads toward a pile of boxes on the left side of the porch. He peeks inside one and immediately flips it shut. “Jesus Christ, she didn't pack up my stuff. She crammed it into boxes and dragged them out here for anyone to walk off with.” He kicks the stack. A box from the top tumbles off, banging loudly on the porch.

I stand frozen at the bottom of the steps not knowing what to do. Ethan exhales loudly and turns to face me. “She could have left the stuff inside,” he says. I nod in agreement, wondering why she put all his belongings out here. Ethan runs his hands through his hair. “Sorry, I just wasn't expecting this. I'll show you around before we load the Jeep.”

He reaches into his pocket for his keys. A feeling of doom overtakes me. Why would Leah go to the trouble of piling the boxes outside if he can get into the house? “It's okay, Ethan. I don't really want to see the inside. Let's just go.”

He jiggles his key lightly in the lock and then abruptly pulls it out. “Must be the wrong one,” he says over his shoulder. He reaches into his pocket for another key chain.

Oh boy, she changed the locks. “Really, I don't want to see the house.”

He tries two more keys with the same results, his jiggling of the key getting increasingly aggressive. I take a step backward on the walkway, thinking how awful it must feel to be locked out of your own house.

Ethan goes back to the first key. “I know this is the right one.” He fiddles with the key for a few seconds and then yanks the key chain from the lock and fires it into the snowy bushes. “She changed the locks. She changed the damn locks.” He kicks the door and then rests his head against it. “It's still my house,” he whispers. “It's still my house.”

I often have the most inappropriate response to stressful times: laughter. I fight hard to swallow the sound before it escapes, revealing me for the awkward thirty-something I am. Slowly, I walk up the stairs. When I reach him, I rub his back. He shakes my hand off his shoulder and rips his cell phone out of his pocket. Without even looking at me, he storms down the stairs, bumping me hard, and stomps toward the fence leading to the backyard. I watch him fumble with the latch while regretting my decision to come here. I should have listened to Luci. Damn. The gate swings open, and Ethan disappears behind it.

A few minutes later, I hear him yelling, “I still pay half the mortgage.” His voice echoes around the house. “He gave it to us. Not to you.”

I shouldn't be standing here listening to this. I grab a box from the porch and take it to the Jeep. I carry over another one. “I'm not talking about it anymore, Leah. The lawyers can figure it out.” His voice breaks with emotion. Then, much louder, “I said I'm not talking about it anymore.” A few seconds later, “I'm hanging up now.” He's quiet for a minute, and then in a chilling voice, “You're going to be so sorry, Leah.”

 

The yard is silent except for the sound of melting snow dripping off the roof and onto the stairway. I have loaded three of five boxes when Ethan appears at the fence, a golden retriever with a blue Patriots bandanna around its neck next to him. I slowly approach the gate. The dog jumps up on me and licks my face. “Easy, buddy,” Ethan says, grabbing the dog by its collar. “Gina, this is Brady. Brady, Gina.” The dog barks at me, and I grab Ethan's arm, pulling him in front of me.

Ethan laughs. “Are you afraid of him?”
Afraid
is not the right word. I am terrified. “He won't hurt you. I promise.” Ethan lifts Brady's paw and places it in my hand. “Nice to meet you, Gina,” he grumbles. Despite his joke, his clenched jaw and fist reveal that he is still furious.

Cautiously, I pet the dog. He looks up at me with warm, friendly eyes.
There's nothing to be afraid of
, he seems to be saying. I pet him for a few minutes, and then Ethan kneels in the snow and hugs him. “I miss you so much, buddy,” he whispers into the dog's neck with more tenderness than he has ever spoken with to me. He continues hugging Brady. I feel like they should be alone so I walk toward the house.

When I get to the porch, I hear Ethan saying good-bye. A moment later, he is next to me. We grab the remaining boxes and load them into the Jeep. Ethan stares at the house for a few moments before climbing into the driver's seat. He puts the key in the ignition and throws the car into Reverse without saying a word.

“Are you all right?” I ask as he backs out of the driveway.

He slams on the brakes, puts the car in Park, and opens his door. “I'll be right back.”

He disappears behind the house again. I wonder what he's doing back there and think about Luci saying how her divorce was the worst time of her life, how she did things she regretted. A few minutes later, the gate swings open and Brady comes bounding out with Ethan trailing him. Ethan opens the Jeep's back door, and Brady leaps in. Ethan shuts the back door and climbs back into the driver's seat.

“What's going on?” I ask.

“What do you think?” Ethan snaps as he backs out of the driveway at breakneck speed.

“You're stealing Brady?”

His usual beautiful blue eyes are icy. “He's my dog. I'm not stealing him, Lee—” He stops to exhale.

“Did you tell Leah that you're taking him?”

“Drop it, Gina. He's my dog. I should have never left him here.” Ethan steps on the brake at the stop sign at the end of his street. A car comes around the corner. The driver slows when she sees Ethan. She waves. He glares at her and then peels out onto the next street.

“Who was that?” I ask.

“Leah's tramp of a friend, Karen. She's probably going to check on Brady.”

“What's going to happen when she finds out he's not there? You'd better tell Leah you took him.”

Ethan takes a look at Brady in the rearview. “No way.”

“Ethan . . .”

He pounds the steering wheel with his fist. “She gets the house, she gets our friends. I get the dog.”

I jump at the sound of his fist hitting the steering wheel. “I just don't want you to get in trouble.”

“How am I going to get in trouble for taking my own dog? Just drop it.”

“Is Jack going to be okay with you bringing home a dog?”

He pounds the steering wheel with his fist again. “Jesus, you're relentless. Let me worry about that.”

We're more than three hours away from home. I fold my arms across my chest, lean back in my seat, and stare out the window. Maybe this is how Ethan was with Leah all the time. Maybe that's why she wants a divorce.