Why I Love Singlehood: (24 page)

“Norman, you are so not helping,” I said and turned my attention back to Minerva. “‘Straighten up’ is code for ‘hide the mess somewhere else,’ right?”

She grinned and nodded in gratitude of my validation. “‘Organize kitchen’ translates to ‘scrub till your knuckles bleed.’”

At that point, it became clear that the mocha wasn’t going to cut it. Minerva needed serious reinforcements.

I entered the kitchen as Norman asked, “So, are you taking them to any good charities while they’re in town, or are you slummin’ it and just going to the country club?”

I couldn’t hear Minerva’s response—if there was one—but I grinned when I heard Norman yelp. Smacked him with a stack of paper menus, I guessed.

Looking around the kitchen, I considered my options. A batch of butter cookies was baking in the oven, nearly done. I had intended to do the traditional raspberry jam sandwich thing, but that was altogether too teatime for the poor girl. She needed reassurance. She needed strength, but not too much. Sending her home too wired would be a recipe for all things hideous. She needed sanity.

And so I quickly whipped up a glaze consisting of mocha-malt and confectioner’s sugar in a saucepan, adding butter at the last minute in homage to Paula Deen. Snapping off the heat of the oven, I drizzled the glaze straight from the saucepan to a few cookies in swirls so tight that they almost looked like petals. In a last minute addition, I placed chocolate-covered espresso beans at the cookies’ centers, and stepped back to view my work. They reminded me of black-eyed Susans or some sort of rare, edible daisies. Comfort, kick, creamy…the perfect pick-me-up.

I presented them to Minerva as Cici’s Pick-Me-Ups (although I wrote “Daisy Pick-Me-Ups” on the menu board—because when it comes to mother-in-laws, you can never be too safe). They did the trick.

“By the way, Minerva, how’d you manage to escape the wrath of Cici and come here?” I asked.

She popped an espresso bean into her mouth and said, “I told her I needed to go study.”

“But you don’t have your books.”

She grinned slyly. “They don’t know that. It’s the one time I would
rather
be studying.”

Just seeing Minerva so frazzled had made me want to check my own blood pressure; but the next night, when I read her e-mail—her ranting, venting, I’m-not-gonna-make-it-send-the-straightjacket-and-bring-drugs e-mail—it really hit home for me. She’d sent it from her bathroom, sitting on her mold-free blue toilet. It was the only place she could get away. And while I won’t disclose the contents of that e-mail, let me just say that most of it was in block caps, consisting of profane epithets and threats of biochemical warfare made almost entirely of Tilex, Listerine, and other under-the-sink cleaners.

But here’s where my confession comes in: while I was totally commiserating with and feeling her pain, I was, in truth, thinking one very selfish thought the entire time:
Thank God it’s not me
.

I’ve never had to deal with in-laws. Shaun’s mom and dad lived on Long Island, and I only met them for lunch or dinner a couple of times. We actually spent holidays apart—I’d go stay with my sister and Shaun would stay with his family and we’d just coordinate the big meal and that was it. I’ve never had to host anyone. I’ve never had to subject my home to the scrutiny of a white-gloved finger or a watchful eye. I’ve never had to polish silverware or check the china for nicks.

Nor do I want to.

Mind you, Minerva has the stereotypical mother-in-law from hell. (And I can’t help but wonder how that stereotype came to be a stereotype in the first place. I mean, what makes mothers-in-law such dragons? Most of the time they seem perfectly acceptable as just plain mothers. So what happens after the I-dos? Does a switch flip in their brains? Is some kind of scary hormone released? How did
in-laws
come to be synonymous with
evil
?)

Shaun’s parents and family were always friendly and generous. They welcomed me in their home, complimented me regularly, complimented Shaun on his good taste in women, etc. But I wonder: had Shaun and I tied the knot, would that have changed? If so, in what ways? Would Shaun’s parents have suddenly begun to make more trips down South, possibly purchase a summer home in Wrightsville Beach or Emerald Isle? I bet they would’ve. The prospect of grandkids—no matter how remote—does strange things to a person. Or would his mom have started to insist upon taking me shopping because my wardrobe was in need of spiffing up? Would they have approved of my career change?

And I can’t help but obsess over the Jeanette—oh, they must
love
her. They liked me, but I’ll bet
she
’s getting the heirloom silver, and
she
’s going to be included in the latest family portrait, and
she
’s the one his mom is bragging about right now:
My son’s bride-to-be has a
doctorate
in philosophy and wrote a
serious
book—not like his last girlfriend. She only had a master’s degree and wrote a novel and now serves coffee for a living
…

Sadder still, Shaun never would’ve had mother-in-law issues on my side. No husband of mine ever would. And I would subject myself to a firing squad of mothers-in-law-from-hell if only to have my parents by my side if I ever walk down the aisle; if only to have my father give me away; if only to have my mother dance with my groom at the reception.

What really disturbed me as I witnessed Minerva’s meltdown was how it was suddenly so clear to me that my relationship with Shaun was so
noncommittal
, and we both seemed to prefer it that way. I liked not having to worry about splitting myself in two for every holiday or getting the guest room ready just short of using those ultraviolet light sensors to detect the presence of microbacteria. And Shaun liked only having to attend the occasional wedding or graduation. It was just plain easy this way for both of us, him especially.

And yet, I realize now that all along I wanted so much more. I just didn’t want to put in the work to get it.

So I’m left with a real dilemma now. I seem to want to have my cake and eat it, too. I want all the perks of marriage—the shared companionship and expenses, the vacations, the dining out—without the sacrifices and compromise and headaches. I want one guy promising me that it’s only ever gonna be me, and I want the ring to prove it (not that that guarantees anything); but I don’t want to file jointly, and I don’t want to share bank accounts, and I don’t want to be Mrs. Someone Else’s Last Name. Or worse still, Mrs. Perino-
hyphen
-Someone Else’s Last Name. Worst of all, Mrs.
His
-First-
and
-Last Name. Ugh. Heck,
Mrs
. just sounds old to me. My mother was a Mrs. It worked for her. But I didn’t even like being called
Professor
Perino most days.

Perhaps being single is relative; because as far as I’m concerned, I’m married to The Grounds. Totally 100% committed. And I’m perfectly willing to take the bad with the good because it’s all worth it. To spend each day with familiar faces, with friends and former students and colleagues and the things I love most—books and cookies and conversation—is sheer joy. It’s a place to be and to belong. It’s
my
place. My playgrounds. My stomping grounds. My grounds.

So what stops me from going the whole nine yards with a man, then? Why was I so willing to settle for so little, when I clearly wanted so much more? And what do I want now?

I reread the post, deleting the paragraphs about Shaun and the Jeanette and a line I’d added at the end:
Were we ever a real couple, or were we two single people who shared a bed and had great sex?
Because as I read that line, what had immediately followed was,
My God, isn’t that what I’m doing right now?

I called Min but got her voice mail. Without leaving a message, I hung up and vowed to make cookie dough truffles just for her the next time she came in. Standing there with the phone still in my hands, I felt my heart sink deep into my chest. The illusion about how good life with Shaun had been, the one I’d lived with all these years, had shattered. And not only could I not pick up the pieces, but there was nothing to reconstruct because there hadn’t been much there to begin with. And I don’t know which hurt more: losing the illusion or never having had the real thing.

With a sigh, I put the phone down, returned to my laptop, and clicked “Cancel Post.” When a warning popped up,
“Are you sure?”
I physically nodded and clicked the onscreen button.

It was way too long, for one thing. Besides, nothing good could have come from it.

Rather than look for new recipes as planned, I picked up a book from my end table, curled into my reading chair, and stared into nothingness.

23

Three Sides

BASED ON MINERVA’S
last secret-e-mail-from-the-bathroom, I knew that Cici was flying home this morning. And yet, I was still surprised to see both her and Jay enter the shop just after lunch. Jay propped his sunglasses on top of his head to better read the new menu board from halfway across the room. He seemed single-minded as he scanned the pita wrap options. Minerva stood tightlipped beside him, hair still ponytailed and heavy bags under her dark eyes.

Watching Minerva approach, I couldn’t help but wonder if Jay was really as hungry as he looked or simply playing the part of the cheery lunch companion in the presence of his moody wife. I guessed it was the latter but was still unsure if I should commend the guy on his bravado or condemn him for his levity when Norman stepped up to take their orders.

“Hey, Norm,” Jay said, still eyeing the board. (Norman liked to be called “Norm” about as much as Minerva liked to be called “Minnie.”)

“Hi, Jay.” He turned to Minerva. “Glad to see you survived the invasion.”

I froze and gave Norman a death stare from the other end of the counter.

Jay’s face clouded. “What makes you say that?”

Oh, crap.

As Jay turned to Minerva, I tried with all my might to think of some clever diversion. Short of burning myself on the steamer, I had nothing.

“I can’t believe you,” said Jay quietly. “You told them.”

Minerva’s face pinched while Jay’s voice stayed hushed. “Is nothing in our life—in
my
life—private? What else do you tell them?” He turned back to Norman, who was doing an excellent job studying the wall farthest from Jay and Minerva.

“Contrary to popular belief, I had a lovely weekend,” said Jay to Norman. “And my mother is not a monster or a psychotic drill sergeant or anything else you might have heard.”

“Jay!” Minerva said, blushing.

“Don’t even,” he warned. “I’m sure you said plenty.”

“I didn’t say any of that!” she insisted, pain evident on her face and in her voice.

“No, let me guess. You bitched about what? The cleaning? The silver? I bet it was the silver.” Minerva studied her fingernails, GUILTY AS CHARGED stamped across her face.

“Well, guess what: the house needed to be cleaned, and
you
were the one who decided how clean, and
you
were the one who insisted on silver. You’re the one with the competition thing and the perfection thing and all that expectation bullshit, Minerva. That’s all
you
. Not her.”

Jay fixed his gaze back on the menu board only to draw a few steadying breaths before rounding on her again. “You know what, we’re done here. We’re not having this conversation center stage. I think these people have been given enough of a show already.”

She reached a hand toward him, but he shrugged it off.

“How could you?” he asked, shaking his head sadly. “How could you let them think that I’d let anyone—anyone at all—treat you like that? How can
you
think that?”

I saw the look in Minerva’s eyes at that moment, like she didn’t know how she could’ve gotten it so wrong. Minerva, who got As in every class she took, who memorized the periodic table, who used five different color pens when she took notes, was stymied in that moment.

He pulled his sunglasses back down over his eyes. “Get whatever you want; I’ll be in the car. I’m not hungry anymore.”

Minerva watched him go, blinking hard before silently following him out.

Neither Norman nor I so much as moved until the door closed behind her.

Norman cleared his throat. “Um, Eva? Didn’t you want me to check the coffee stock? The coffee people called about the new Jamaican line yesterday and wanted to know if we needed more.”

It took a full second for me to shake out of my trance. “Oh. Yeah, that’d be great. Thanks.”

“Yeah, thought I’d just go check,” he said, ducking into the kitchen. Although I wanted to hate Norman for fleeing while the tension was still palpable, at least he’d been brave enough to move. I pushed myself off the counter and began stacking cups and saucers, hoping the soft clinking would fill the void—left by the Brunswicks’ abrupt departure—that was still clinging to the corners of the café. Soft jazz whispered from the speakers above normal conversations of customers oblivious to the fight that had just occurred within feet of them.

My heart instinctively went out to Min. I didn’t envy her the ride home, or the inevitable argument that would resume once they got there.

My hands paused between cups as one of my mother’s favorite mantras flitted into my mind over the gentle sounds of the café.
There are three sides to every story,
she’d say while Olivia and I scowled at each other.
Yours, hers, and what really happened.
Cici probably wasn’t the monster Minerva had made her out to be. It was only logical—how could anyone so seemingly horrid raise such a genuinely good guy? Sure, Minerva occasionally complained about Jay’s quirks and conspiracy theories. But never had I seen Jay mad at her, ever. Never heard him say a cross word to her or even shoot an annoyed glance in her direction. It occurred to me that Minerva wasn’t perfect, either. She had quirks and bad habits. She had insecurities. She and Jay had fights.