Page 89 of Perfect Mess

“Penne,” Gary said. “Penne is better at soaking up the sauce.”

“Exactly,” I agreed. “Whenever I try to eat linguine, it just slides off the fork.”

While we waited for the chicken to brown and the cheese to bubble, I mixed up a salad and Gary sprinkled garlic on a loaf of bread. He was still acting funny. All quiet and serious. I decided I would just confront him right then and there. Ask him point-blank if he was even interested in Janet at all. And if he wasn’t interested in Janet, whowashe interested in? “Gary …” I began.

“Hey, come check this out.” Gary crouched down, studying the wallpaper. “You should see this.”

What now?I joined Gary on the other side of the kitchen. There were pencil marks on the wall. Drawn numbers. Sketched letters. Faded lines scribbled between roses and etched among the vines.

“What are those?” I had to squint to make anything out.

Gary traced a sequence of markings up the wall. “Looks like measurements or something.” He held his finger over some scrawled pencil marks I could barely make out. “Three feet, ten inches.” Rising up the wall, Gary found more pencil markings. “There are dates, too. And initials.” Then he turned to me. “Who’s HB?”

At first, the letters didn’t register. I was too busy wondering why Aunt Catherine let some hooligan vandalize her ugly kitchen wallpaper. Then it hit me. H.B. When I looked again at the markings, it felt like I was staring at a ghost. “Henry Burns.” It took everything I had to keep it together.

“Who’s Henry Burns?”

I had to gather myself before answering, blink back the tears that were building. “My father.”

I followed the measurements as they climbed up the wall, each year’s mark higher than the last. I could picture my father as a young boy standing there, Aunt Catherine lining up the pencil on the top of his head. “He told me he used to spend summers at his aunt’s house when he was a kid. This house. Right here.” I wiped away the tear dripping down my cheek with the back of my hand. “Sorry. It’s stupid. That was a long time ago, I know.”

“It’s not stupid.” Gary grabbed the tissue box from the counter. The resulting nose blowing was reminiscent of a flock of Canadian geese playing trombones in a Labor Day parade.

“You and your dad, you were close?”

I nodded. In those days, I tried not to think about my dad too much. The hurt was still new. He had died only a few years before. I missed him terribly. I didn’t even talk about him with Janet. But for some reason, I started talking about him with Gary. “He was the one that raised me after my mom left.”

“Is she still around?”

“Somewhere,” I said. “After the divorce, she and the guy she was with moved to California. Got married. Then divorced. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat.”

“You ever talk to her?”

“She sends me birthday cards.”

“Love hurts,” Gary said. The way he said it made it seem like he knew from experience.

“Love sucks,” I agreed. With Kyle’s mom no longer in the picture, I figured Gary must be dealing with demons of his own. I could see it in the way he looked back at me. Not just a mirror, but a magnifying glass. Taking my pain and sending it right back at me tenfold.

“Was it ever good? Between your parents, I mean.”

“They fought like cats and dogs,” I answered. “My dad was a good guy, but he could never make her happy. No matter what. It was never enough.”

Pulling myself away from the wallpaper, I decided it was a good time for another drink. I found a corkscrew in one of the kitchen drawers and a pair of plastic cups we could use as wine glasses.

Gary opened the Syrah and poured me a cup. “You know you’re not doomed to become her, right? You’re not your mother.”

I shrugged. “When I was little, people would tell me I was just like her. And every time they said it, I thought to myself, God, I hope not.”

It was like my mouth was on autopilot, spilling secrets previously locked away and buried, never meant to see the light of day. But that night, somehow, some way, Gary made me feel comfortable enough to keep talking. He made me feel like I could tell him anything.

Gary poured a cup of wine for himself too. He looked over at me with a serious look on his face. “And that’s why you’re still waiting for Mr. Right.”

“I’m not waiting for Mr. Right, Dr. Freud,” I said. “I’m waiting for Mr. Perfect.”A doctor who drives a red BMW, and gives massages and bakes chocolate soufflé.

“Sounds like Mr. Impossible,” Gary said.

Not impossible, I thought. Just complicated.Because I have to steal him away from my best friend first.

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