Page 59 of Is This for Real?
Rory jumps up and gets long skewers and potholders, as well as the food supplies. I move closer to the fire, and we toast our marshmallows over the flames.
“So, did you spend a lot of summers out here?” Rory asks.
“Yes, Olivia and I shared the bedroom with bunkbeds downstairs, and Jamie had the other bedroom. My parents slept up here on a pull-out couch on weekends when they came out, and Theresa and her husband had the main bedroom. And then they spent the winters with us, skiing at our house in the Catskills. It worked out really well, mostly because Theresa wasn’t working then and could watch us all for the summer.” And because my parents didn’t fight in front of Jamie’s parents. Maybe it should have been a red flag—that both couples worked better together than alone. I look over at the couch area. Theresa replaced the pull-out couch after they died.
“And nothing ever happened with Jamie? No romantic walks on the beach?” he asks.
“Jamie has always thought of me as a sister. Which makes sense, given the way we grew up. I don’t know why it didn’t work that way for me.” I can smell the shampoo fragrance of Rory’s freshly washed hair. I keep my gaze on the flickering fire.
“Are you sure you’re over him? He might be interested now.”
Rory is not looking at me as he makes his s’more, smooshing the marshmallow down between the graham crackers and the chocolate. It’s oozing out, like emotions.
“I was really nervous before our brunch with him and Willow, but I didn’t actually feel any great longing or desire for Jamie,” I say. “But then, that’s not very reassuring either, is it? I was in love with him and now I am not. See, it proves my point that love doesn’t last.”
“Not with the wrong person. I don’t think there’s just one love. I’ve been in love with past girlfriends, but it didn’t work out long term. But that’s not to say it wasn’t real at the time.”
This is exactly why we shouldn’t date. I might still be in love even after Rory will have moved on. I shift slightly away and ask, “So, then how do you know what’s going to last and what’s not going to last?”
“I don’t know. My parents say that it’s when there’s both that attraction and a strong friendship—that you feel you can talk to that person about anything. My mom said she knew when my father helped her set up her first art show. He just came by and did whatever he could to help out.”
“That’s so sweet.”
“Yeah, and then after they tell that story, they look at each other, and I realize I should leave the room.” Rory laughs. “Jake also says the clues are there if you look for them.” Jake is Rory’s best friend.
“Jake and his top-ten question survey?” I ask. Jake swore by it after meeting his partner, Audrey.
Rory laughs. “It’s a start. What did your parents say?”
“I never asked them that. Given that I wasn’t sure that they would last. Too dangerous a topic.” Our glances meet.
He asks, “Should we play a game?” The bookcase under one of the windows is filled with board games.
“Yes.” Let’s get off this topic. We play Scrabble, the board between us. I win two of our three games.
I run downstairs to use the bathroom, and the first floor is still ice cold.
“Should we move the single mattresses and sleep up here?” I ask when I come back up. “It’s warmer up here now, and because of all the windows, the sun usually warms this up in the morning.” Not that it’s supposed to be sunny tomorrow.
He agrees. We carry the two mattresses up the stairs and set them up in front of the fireplace. It looks like two pals camping out. We get ready for bed. I burrow under my blankets, and he puts out the fire with a mug of cold water. It works well for putting out that blaze; unfortunately, the cold rain has done nothing to dampen my ardor for Rory.
Chapter seventeen
Cleaninghastobeas unromantic an activity as a couple can possibly do together, especially when it’s dreary and raining outside.
Rory makes a fire again, and we cook our usual breakfast together—pancakes, eggs, and strawberries. It feels very domestic, like we’re starring in a cute-couple-cooking commercial. I tell Rory that he can work, he doesn’t have to help me clean, but he says it will be quicker if we both do it. I can’t argue with that.
Once pop music is blaring from the speakers in the living room, it feels quite lively. Is this the secret? Should my parents have just played pop music instead of arguing about who was responsible for cleaning what?
And that is before we find the pink cleaning gloves. Rory dons one pair and I wear the other. Then he suggests we might need the aprons, too. So now we each have an apron and pink cleaning gloves. I can’t stop laughing at what Rory looks like. He grabs a bucket and a scrub brush and then suggests we take a picture together. We look happy. And the thing is, I am happy.
We separate to each clean a bathroom.
I’m just starting to scrub the tub when Rory sticks his head in and imitates a cleaning commercial. “Leaving any streaks? Grit? I hope you’re cleaning to the shine.” He holds up a Mr. Clean bottle.
He rubs a finger along the tub and tsks. “I expected better. Especially after last night’s Scrabble win with ‘ablution.’”
“Do you really want to criticize my cleaning job when I’m holding a paper towel covered in mold?” I ask, showing him the evidence from behind the toilet.
