Page 24 of Is This for Real?
Zelda:Don’t tell me you’re mixing them up.
Zelda:You and RORY should come to this party. It’s LIT. Dancing. Thinking “You and Me” time.
Zelda:Miranda brought Max. He's so funny.
I love Zelda. I decide not to explain because I don’t want to bring down her buzz.
Me:Enjoy!
I look back at Jamie and my smile fades. I join him. He hugs me. We cling to each other for a moment. I have to be strong for him like he was for me when my parents died. We walk up the stairs to my apartment on the third floor.
I open the door, and the two dogs bark. Gilda keeps barking at Jamie, so I pick her up and try to calm her down. Benson sniffs Jamie and then retreats back to his dog bed.
Jamie takes off his coat and hangs it over a chair. He doesn’t sit, though, pacing instead. He isn’t one for sitting still for long. I was the one who’d sit for hours with our moms when we were kids, crafting little dollhouse items.
“She’s going to be all right. That call . . . thankfully I was in New York and not in Singapore.” He rubs his forehead. “Are both of these dogs guests?”
"Both guests. Benson and Gilda. This month, they’re paying more of the rent than I am. Benson’s dad has a consulting gig in Ohio for the month. And Gilda’s mom is shooting a commercial in LA.” I keep talking nervously. “It’s lucky Theresa thought to go to the hospital.”
“She just read some article about women’s heart attack symptoms, and so she got worried when she started having similar symptoms. She needs to take a rest. She wants me to take over Theresa’s Sports Store, just for a bit.”
I almost laugh.Jamie? Taking over the sports shop? Mr. Jet-setting-around-the-world in that neighborhood shop?
“Just for a little while until she can get back on her feet and find someone or sell it,” he says.
“Oh no, not sell it!”
“If I don’t want it. Or if you don’t want it.” Jamie fidgets.
“Me?”
“She suggested I reach out to you. You’ve helped with the store. You built that dollhouse gym for the window. And she said that you’ve been learning marketing with your dollhouse business. Are you and Rory whispering marketing tips across the pillow?”
“Very funny. He does give me a lot of tips. Not while in bed, though.” I smirk. “But marketing is all about creating that emotional connection.”
“And you’ve got that.”
I frown at Jamie.
Jamie shrugs. “Couldn’t resist. But you are a bit like an old married couple.”
I don’t think I’ll share that feedback with Rory. I can’t take any more physical contact than our last brunch. “Except without the digs.”
Jamie’s gaze is thoughtful and assessing. “You’re so contradictory sometimes. I don’t understand you. Just because my parents divorced and yours almost divorced doesn’t mean marriage is doomed.”
Apparently, it’s everyone-pile-on-Penelope night about her romantic love cynicism.
“I don’t think marriage is doomed,” I say. “I just think it’s complicated.” That if the expectations are too high, it might not live up to them. Or I could lose myself trying. I don’t want to lose myself—or my creative drive—in a relationship. I don’t think Jamie would understand. Even if I saw it with his mom and how she had so much time to explore everything she wanted after the divorce. Not immediately, of course. At first, she was devastated. Jamie can’t see it because his loyalty has always been divided between his two parents.
Jamie gazes at me, as if considering this, and then turns away, surveying the apartment. I look at it through his eyes. We have a two-bedroom, duplex, brownstone apartment facing the backyard. A duplex sounds fancier than it is, but it does have ten-foot ceilings. Zelda and I both think our living room/dining room gives off a happy vibe, with our blue couch and pops of brightly colored pillows. Olivia said the pillows looked like we’d thrown a bag of M&Ms on top of our couch. We took that as a compliment. I’ve managed not to spread out from my craft desk in the corner to the oak dining table or the coffee table in front of the couch, so it all looks tidy. And Zelda’s desk is immaculate, as always.
Our bedrooms are in the nine-by-ten extension. A spiral staircase in the southern corner leads to Zelda’s bedroom below mine. We joke to guests that the spiral staircase leads to another floor with a gym and a ping-pong table—like that New York dream where you open the closet doors and find you have another room.
“Are you making these?” Jamie asks, picking up the miniature French bread on my crafting desk. “These are really good. They look real.”
“Thanks.” Saying a miniature looks real is the highest compliment you can pay a miniaturist.
“And this dollhouse is great here in the living room.” My white, Malibu, modern dollhouse, which luckily gives the impression of being a piece of décor, sits on one shelf in the wall unit. He opens its front doors. “Is this your only dollhouse?”
