Page 59 of An Introvert's Guide to Life and Love
“Thank you for your help. And the pizza.”
“Anytime.”
“You know, I saw that movie four times the summer it came out in theaters.”
“Hmm?” He looks confused.
“Pirates of the Caribbean.”
“Ah. See? We would’ve been friends even back then.”
We look at each other, the moment long and sticky. Nothing can happen between us. Our conversation about his ex-girlfriend confirmed that. But still…
And then he starts to sing. “Duh-duh dun dun, duh-duh dun dun…”
It’s thePiratestheme song.
I burst out laughing and smack him on the shoulder. He runs outside, still singing as he snaps on his helmet and swings a leg over his bike. I chase him, weak with laughter, which only makes him sing louder.
I shout after him, “You are without doubt the worst pirate I’ve ever heard of!”
“But you have heard of me!” he calls back, just before he disappears down the dark street.
When I wake up the next morning, my first thought isouch. My muscles ache, my hands ache. The walk to the dining room for breakfast is slow and painful. Somehow my quads are sore, as well as some muscles around the backs of my shoulders that I didn’t know existed.
In my victorious haze last night, I’d thought maybe I could return to the house in the morning before work and devote an hour or two to ripping up carpet in one of the bedrooms. Now I realize that was wildly optimistic. I am completely exhausted, as though I ran a marathon yesterday. There is no way I’ll be recovered by tonight; the only thing I’m going to want to do after work is soak in the Jacuzzi and then crawl into bed. Which means I’m wasting an entire day when I should be working toward my goals so that I can eventually, someday,go home.
As I’m lingering over my plate of scrambled eggs and potatoes with ketchup, staring absently out at the beach, my phone rings. It’s my mom; she must have heard my thoughts from across the country and now wants to make sure I am actually coming home.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Darling, did I wake you?”
“No, I—” Why does everyone keep assuming I sleep until midmorning, like I’m a teenager? “I’m eating breakfast. What’s up? And why are you up at the crack of dawn?”
“Pickleball, darling, pickleball!”
“Right.” I take a sip of my now lukewarm coffee.
“Anyway, listen, is Gramps with you?”
“No, he’s back at his place. He eats Grape-Nuts at fiveA.M.I guess that’s where you get it from.”
“Oh, hush. Well, I am calling because Trish and I had a terrific idea. You know his birthday is coming up?”
“That’s right. June tenth, isn’t it?” I somehow pluck the date out of my memory and instantly feel bad that I haven’t thought about his birthday until now.
“Yes, which is six days away. You will still be there, I assume.”
“Um…” I picture Pebble Cottage: its brown, brown walls, one room now devoid of carpet. I mentally combine these images with the fact that I, apparently, can’t do two days of manual labor in a row, and that I still have to purchase and install flooring, not to mention paint the walls.
I groan and shove a forkful of eggs in my mouth. “Unh-hm.”
“Yes, we figured. I hope you’re using sunscreen. So here’s our idea: surprise birthday party!”
“Oh. Wow.”
“Your father and I will fly down, arriving the evening before hisbirthday, and check into a hotel. Maeve and Blake are still TBD, since one week is short notice for them.”
