Chapter Nine
Chapter Nine
As soon as Oliver opens the front door, Emmy comes running. “Mommy!”
I scoop her into my arms, all limbs and wet hair, still damp from Oliver’s pool. “I missed you so much!” It’s only been a week, but I swear she grew taller at camp.
“Did you bring me a present?”
“Emmy!” Oliver laughs. “At least thirty seconds of love before you expose your true self?”
He looks different too. His hair is a little longer and his face is unshaven.
“Hmm, well….” I pretend to search my bag long and hard for a gift. “I might have something in here? Let’s see…”
Emmy’s face lights up when I pull out three gifts: a pair of soft pink puppy-dog pajamas wrapped in fancy tissue paper and tied with a silk ribbon, which she pretends to be interested in; a glittery rhinestone-encrusted jewelry box in the shape of the Eiffel Tower, which she sets aside; and a book on tigers, which she opens immediately.
She sits on the floor of Oliver’s living room and flips through the pictures while also asking, “No candy?”
“Check the jewelry box.”
There she finds bright pink strawberry-shaped gummies. Her eyes widen. “Thank you! Can we play hide-and-seek?”
“Ems, your mom had a long trip.” Oliver offers me a drink.
“Sure.”
Emmy goes back to her book, tracing her finger across the illustrations and sounding out the French, while I follow Oliver to the kitchen. “Your place is looking nice.” He’s hung more art since I was last here. A series of framed photographs of vintage boom boxes from the eighties.
“I had to fight against the decor stereotype with everything I had.”
“Which one?”
“Sad Divorced Dad.”
At the word divorced we both flinch. “Hmmm. Let me check your freezer.” I open it to find it’s packed full of frozen fruit and espresso beans, no sad TV dinners in sight. “You passed.”
He smiles, a full, even smile. He squeezes lemon into my iced tea and hands me the tall, thin glass. He rocks back on his heels, his back against the fridge, and we sip our tea, standing as far apart as possible in his bachelor kitchen. I was so excited to get home and back to Emmy, but being here now, I feel homesick—for Alicia and L’Wren, for Paris, for my little hotel room, and for Jasper and the electric feeling of being near him.
“How was the trip?”
Emmy interrupts, coming to stand directly between us. “Now can we play hide-and-seek?” She takes me by the hand and down the hall, toward Oliver’s bedroom.
“Do you have time?” Oliver calls after us.
“One quick game and then we’ll take off.”
“You guys hide together,” Emmy instructs.
“We don’t hide together, silly.” Oliver has followed us into his room. For a moment, I wonder if he’s afraid of what I’ll find. But we’re separated—what’s there to hide?
“Your dad and I should pick different spots so you have lots of places to look.”
“No. I want you both in here. I’ll count.” Emmy closes the bedroom door. The two of us scan for options. The room is small; there are no curtains to hide behind, and Oliver’s bed has built-in drawers underneath. That leaves the closet. It’s barely big enough for both of us, cramped and dark. I sit on my heels while Oliver squeezes in next to me and shuts the door. The bare skin of his arm brushes against mine. Something sharp is digging into my right hip. I adjust myself. “I was sitting on a boot.”
He laughs and shifts so that we are facing each other, opening up a few more inches of space. “Better, right? Tell me about Paris.”
“Oh. She’s coming—”
Oliver’s bedroom door opens. We listen as Emmy’s footsteps creak on the floor outside the closet. And then retreat, out of his room and down the hall.
“I’m confused,” Oliver whispers. “She chose the hiding place?”
“Em- my !” I call loudly.
Nothing.
“I’m worried about her short-term memory.”
“Oliver. We’ll give it one more minute.”
Oliver shifts again, but there’s no more relief to be found in such a small space.
“Did you get nice weather in Paris?”
“Beautiful. Sunny every day.”
“Diana….”
I bury my face in my knees. I know what’s coming. “I don’t want to talk about the picture.”
“What picture?”
I look up into his face, arranged to be perfectly neutral. “Thank you.”
We sit in the quiet. The silence between us has changed. It feels unfamiliar. Charged, even. My eyes have adjusted to the dark and I can make out Oliver’s face more clearly. I can see the sweep of his long lashes. “What is it?” he asks.
“Nothing. Jet lag.” I shake my head and then call, “Emmy?”
Quiet. And then…in the afternoon stillness, I make out the faint sounds of electronica music and a familiar voice asking kids to like and subscribe. I press my ear against the back wall of Oliver’s closet. “That’s Mr. Beast! She’s watching YouTube. Your daughter’s stranded us in a closet for extra screen time.”
Oliver grins. “Well played, Emmy. Well played.”
“I guess she forfeits? Good timing. My feet are asleep.”
Oliver watches me stand, then finally lifts himself, his body even closer to me now.
“Do you want to see the house I’m flipping? It’s near the trampoline park. We could take Emmy and wear her out and then I’ll drive you both home.”
“I don’t know. I seriously smell. I should probably get home and shower.”
He leans in to take a sniff. “You’ll blend right in at the trampoline park.”
—
I get a second wind, chasing Emmy through the trampoline park, until we all decide to call it. It’s only a five-minute drive from there to the flip. Oliver pulls into the stone driveway and Emmy skips toward the back to pick dandelions in the overgrown yard.
“She’s my little helper. And by helper, I mean she promises not to complain while I work, but then she asks to leave every three minutes.”
At the front of the house, Oliver has cleared all the weeds and dead leaves, along with three dying trees, and is planting rows and rows of colorful zinnias. “My favorite,” I say, but he doesn’t meet my eyes.
“So you can actually see the front of the house now,” he tells me, “which has massive curbside appeal.”
He unlocks the front door and it’s impossible not to see the house’s charm—it’s exactly what a young couple would want. A storybook first home.
“I found these old windows in a junkyard. It took me a week to sand and stain them, but they came out pretty well.”
He shows me the kitchen, still in pieces, but with new cupboards and an island made from an old draper’s table.
“It’s really lovely, Oliver. You’ve done all this yourself?”
“I’ve got a guy helping with the electrical. And two guys coming to do the insulation. But everything else, yeah. I still need to seal the floors. Something matte, I think. And the faucets haven’t come in yet, so I’m waiting on those.”
He’s radiating happiness like he did when we first met, when he would stay up late into the night, sketching furniture designs and planning future travel. We should go to Stockholm, he would say. Look at this architecture. Maybe I’ll build us a hotel. Or Lisbon. We can bring back tile for our kitchen. Or maybe we stay in Italy? Just long enough to learn how to speak Italian and make a good pizza.
“I was nervous to show you. I’m glad you like it.”
Out the kitchen window, we see Emmy lying on her back in the grass. “I think we did a good job of wearing her out.”
—
At home, Emmy and I eat cheddar omelets and sweet potato fries and we take turns reading her new tiger book with terrible French accents. I’ve already showered, but as soon as Emmy is asleep, I run myself a bath. I slip in and the water is so hot, my skin blushes a deep scarlet. I force myself to stay here until the water cools, and when it does, I slowly sink underwater, my entire body submerged. I imagine the young couple who will want to buy Oliver’s house. I picture them the way Oliver and I used to be—not only dreaming about the future but believing that the feeling you were reaching for was right around the corner—the permanent sensation of being exactly where you’re supposed to be, a confidence and contentment that drowns out any doubt. Oliver should put a claw-foot tub in the new house, for the couple. An extralarge one so they both can fit. The water should be hot, so she can stay in for as long as she likes.