Page 34 of Pick-Up
“The ex-wife,” we say in unison. Then we start laughing again.
This guy is a pain in the ass, but he sure is easy to hang out with.
“She signed you up? For this torture? Without asking?”
“She sure did.”
“Is that why you got divorced?”
“It didn’t help.”
“Wow. Shehatesyou.”
I take one more sip from the flask as he eyes me. Across the courtyard in the shadows is a woman I don’t know, working the apple cider stand. I think I notice her glancing at us—birdlike, severe black bob, chic camel trench. I wonder briefly if she’s Ethan’s ex. Then I realize I don’t want to know.
When I look back at him, he’s peering at me a little shyly like he wants to ask me something. And the intensity of his gaze makes me shift in my seat. I suddenly feel like maybe no one has reallylookedat me in years. At least not like this.
“So, you’re divorced too?” he says finally. “I mean, I know you are, if I’m honest.”
I flush. Everyone knows. Even people who don’t know me. Did he see the Golden Globes meme like everyone else? “Almost three years in the club,” I say.
“When you were married, would you have signed him up for something like this?” Ethan asks. “Did you hate him enough?”
I think for a moment, then I shake my head. How to articulate this? “He wasn’t that kind of husband,” I say finally. “And he’s not that kind of ex-husband either. I could have signed him up, but it doesn’t mean he would have come.”
He nods. “He’s not in Brooklyn, I take it.”
“He is not. Which, most of the time, I’m kind of grateful for.”
“I guess that explains why you got divorced. If you didn’t want him in the same state?”
“Well, he didn’t want to be around,” I say. Maybe the alcohol is going to my head, but, for once, I don’t bother censoring myself. “I feel like people always want a concrete reason why it didn’t work, you know? But it’s a lot of things. Offhand, I can think of, like, twenty. Not the least of which is the frequency with which he said, ‘It is what it is.’ There’s only so much a person can abide.”
“It’s always a lot of things,” Ethan agrees. “It is what it is.”
I kick him lightly in the shin. He reacts as if he’s been mortally wounded—then grins. And the way it lights up his face is impossible to ignore in the glow of the schoolyard festivities.
“But yeah,” I continue, if only to distract myself. “He traveled to LA a lot for work. And the business trips got closer and closer together until the scales tipped and he was there more than he was here.”
“Happens to the best of us,” Ethan tries.
“Does it?” I say. “I hope he’s not the best of us.”
There’s a pause while we digest this.
Ethan looks down at the rugged blacktop, with a furrowed brow, and then back up at me. “You asked why I wanted to help you before?”
I nod, unsure of where this is going. I realize I’m holding my breath.
“The truth is, someone needed to step in before you caused an international incident, obviously. But, to be honest, I also wanted to avoid talking to people. This is a small community. The divorce thing… it’s hard.”
Ah. I get this. “It is hard.”
I think back to some of the moms, and a couple of dads, who greeted Ethan at the cotton candy booth with extra exuberance. Was it hard for him because he felt like an outcast? Or because, now that they knew he was available, parents kept hitting on him?
Before I can ask, he continues and I snap back to attention, oddly flustered: “I think I mentioned, I didn’t used to come to school events like this much. I worked a lot. Things are different now. Maybe that’s why my ex wanted to torture me with the cotton candy gig.”
“Fair enough, then,” I say. “I get it. None of it is easy.”
