Page 118 of Pick-Up
“Thanks,” she says, when we let go. Her eyes are flooded.
“Let’s get this trick-or-treating nonsense over with and get back to my house,” I say. “I’ve got a giant duty-free thank-you bottle of rum for you and a tote bag full of shit nobody needs from the Caribbean, including chocolate-covered coconut patties.”
“Rum sounds great,” she says. “I hope you have an IV.”
I have not stopped thinking about my conversation with Celeste.
When we got back to my place, I made us passable rum punch. We ate pizza, watchedA Series of Unfortunate Eventsand pretended not to notice how much candy the kids were inhaling. I did not mention Ethan. I wouldn’t know what to say anyway.
We did not speak of her mountain man husband again, except at the very end of the night, when Bart asked if Jimmy was in the bathroom—as if he’d only just noticed that Henry’s dad was missing. Even Celeste had to laugh at that.
But what I can’t stop thinking about is the one-eighty. The fact that Jamie was the poster child for “ideal dad” until the moment helost patience and a sense of his own autonomy. I guess I am not alone in feeling tapped out sometimes. Turns out parenting is hard. And so is being a person. I love Jamie. But it never seemed like Celeste had picked the sexiest, coolest or funniest husband. She had picked the most lovable and loving. The handiest. The best sport. She had made a smart choice. But, as it turns out, he is also a human. He needs space for an identity outside granola bars and Goldfish.
As solid as he is, he is still changing.
Maybe there is no smart choice. Maybe, as Derek said, relationships are never convenient. No one is ever one thing. There is no perfect. Except perfect T-shirts, of course.
Does this mean I need to cuteveryonemore slack? All the moms and the dads? Even…
It is this thought that’s passing through my head as I stare blankly into space at my makeshift desk at the kitchen table the following afternoon. I have left my probiotic soda unsipped and my sad cucumber-and-turkey sandwich untouched. I am subsisting solely on self-sabotage. I have only an hour before I need to leave for pick-up, and yet I cannot focus on completing a single email. My work remains undone.
My brain has become a land mine, filled with flashes of Ethan’s eyes, shoulders, chest, dappled in sweat. His hands on me. My hands on him. Him gazing down at me from above in my bed at Citrine Cay. I know what happens with these types of memories. We try to preserve them. Wrap them in tissue paper, careful not to crumple them. Close the cardboard box and stow them away, pulling them out with wonder about ourselves at a different time. They become a way to keep ourselves afloat. A kiss that lasted three to five minutes. A memory to return to for a lifetime.
Is that all Ethan will be to me? A memory? If so, why won’t he stop haunting my thoughts?
The buzzer blares. And I am a jack-in-the-box. Answering the door for UPS is valid procrastination.
I jump up and cross the living room to the intercom. Press thebutton with the key and listen to it unlock and buzz. Wait to hear a package drop in the hallway outside.
But it is oddly quiet.
Until the buzzer blares again. This time, in my ear.
“Holy shit!” I yelp, my hand to the side of my head. Then I sigh and press the key button again to let the offender in.
This time, there are footsteps. They come to a stop outside my apartment. The doorbell rings.Ah. The Fed-Ex person wants my autograph. More excuses to avoid work!
Combing my fingers through my bedhead and sweeping my hair into a quick ponytail, I swing the door open. Only it is not a delivery person. It is not a mail carrier. It is not even my upstairs neighbor, Bonnie, dropping off leftover cinnamon buns for my kids.
My polite smile drops.
Ethan is standing in front of me. And it’s like I forgot that he existed in this New York dimension and not just on repeat in my brain. For a moment, I am confused about how he can exist in both planes. In Brooklyn, he is wearing a perfect jacket over his perfect T-shirt. And, as always, he is a tall drink of water.
“It’s you,” I say. Because I am the most articulate.
He ignores my genius observation. Narrows his eyes at me. Says instead, “You just buzzed me in without asking who I am.”
“I know who you are.”
“Yes, but you didn’t when I rang the buzzer.”
“I figured it was the mailman.”
“It wasn’t. And this is New York City. Which is why you need to ask people to identify themselves before you buzz a potential murderer into your building. Especially when you live on the first floor!”
“Oh. Are you a murderer?” I put a hand on my hip.
“Would I tell you if I was?”
