Page 76 of Pick-Up
Ethan presses his lips together; I shrug. Then we bust out laughing—hard.
“Pretty decisive!” I say, through tears.
“Um, yes,” he snorts.
And it feels good to laugh about it with someone, my dumpster fire of a marriage. It beats the eggshells people usually walk on.
Eventually, our outburst stems to a trickle and a wheeze. I wipe my cheeks with the back of my hand—my misery so very amusing.
“What did he like so much about LA, anyway?” Ethan asks, like he does not like LA to the same degree.
“Oh, he said the weather, the sushi, the In-N-Out, the canyon hikes.”
“Can’t blame him for the In-N-Out.”
“No. You can’t. Though he claims their french fries are decent. And they’re really not.”
“They’re indecent?”
“Indecent potatoes. They’re an affront to root vegetables everywhere.”
Crickets—or some such island insects—have begun chirping in the background. I am reminded that we’re outside. It’s gotten too dark to see beyond the pool.
“Strong words,” Ethan is saying, “about a starch.”
“I really like potatoes. I will defend them to the death.”
“Clearly.” He nudges my toe with his under the table, sending another wave of heat through me. And something else: maybe affection? Damn. I have definitely had too much punch.
“Seriously: Why do you think he really liked it?” Ethan asks. “LA. Not the fries.”
I take a breath, trying not to react to the intimate way his foot grazes mine. “Because he didn’t have to be a parent.”
Ethan sits back and lets out a low whistle. “Damn. I mean, I get that it’s challenging, but…”
“I mean, it wasn’t just that. He liked feeling successful. He liked the borrowed power from being in the orbit of stars. In Hollywood, he found his people. His fellow opportunists and immoralists. He found a scene where he looked like a comparatively decent human being. Where he didn’t have to feel bad about bailing on us or putting himself first because he was ‘living his truth.’ ”
I watch Ethan turn that over in his head. “I get that to an extent. I used to care about those things too, I guess. But then you grow up, produce a few shoots and realize stars are overrated.” Suddenly, his eyes go wide. He leans in. “Wait! Speaking of, I have a genius idea!”
“Speaking of poor ethics and bad taste?”
“No! Speaking of stars! Let’s take our lantern down to the water and go look at some constellations. The sky is spectacular here, and we haven’t even checked it out!” He is puppy-dog adorable when he’s excited. It’s contagious. There is no saying no. I have nono.
Plus, I do love a night sky.
We have killed the pitcher of punch. I take a final watery sip from my glass of melted ice, then stand and throw my hands up. “Let’s do it!”
Ethan runs inside and turns off the villa lights before we go. There is something touching about his need to do this—a sense of responsibility, of care, of age-old dadness. I endure only a short lecture about wasting electricity.
A minute later, barefoot, with the lantern in tow, we make our way down toward the water. It is dark. Not like city dark or suburban dark or even rural-road dark, where there are still occasional streetlights or passing high beams to guide you. It is dark like a blackout. Black like our windowless upstairs bathroom at home, where Nettie and Bart go behind closed doors to see their phosphorescent toys glow. Blind like the middle of the night.
The moon is a slim crescent. A sliver off a wheel of cheese. The farther we get from the villa, the inkier the night becomes. Soon, I can sense more than see Ethan next to me, plodding through the sand, telling our story in footprints. I can smell his grassy cologne and it ignites something deep inside me. Something that I’d rather not name. The dark protects me from seeing it. From him seeing me see it. I wonder if he’s thinking the same.
“Ow!” he yelps. “Dammit!”
Apparently not.
“Are you okay?” I ask in his general direction.
