Chapter 7 #3
The line is dead before Cece can say goodbye.
Lorraine does a lazy lap around the pool, using her right hand as an oar, humming a familiar show tune.
Cece leans back in her chair and tries to recover the boozy equilibrium she’d discovered earlier in the day.
Was going back into actuary work so soon a mistake?
Wasn’t the whole point of doing all this—working at Rayburn, moving to New London—to get some perspective?
Money—or lack thereof—has a way of changing one’s perspective, and even if Cece’s still coming to terms with it, Morgan’s dishonesty, or maybe that’s too strong a word…
his opacity, then, makes Cece feel like she’s flailing.
She’s tired—more tired than someone her age ought to be, and if this is life’s way of throwing her a line, she had better grab it, before she drowns.
The kombucha tingles on her tongue. It might be nice, she thinks, to get back on track, to not have these kinds of worries, the ones that make her feel dingy and small.
She lets herself look at Jonathan’s message again: Just checking in.
I know you said we shouldn’t talk, but I’m worried about you. Is this really what you want?
A pang warms Cece’s chest. Guilt? Regret?
She’s forgotten how kind and thoughtful he can be.
When had she known they were in it for the long run?
When had she known they had a chance? Jonathan had been forthright about his feelings for Cece; although if she’s honest, his unbridled assuredness in their budding relationship caused her to feel uneasy and skittish, like a dog scrabbling across hardwood floors.
They’d been dating for five months, and Jonathan invited Cece to spend Christmas with him and his parents.
They’d rented a not-so-rustic cabin in Stowe for the season.
Jonathan and his parents were big skiers, and Cece quickly gathered that this wasn’t just any old vacation.
The Von Trapp Family Lodge with all its pomp and holiday cheer, daily après-ski, and daunting slopes drenched in downy white—was a deeply held tradition.
There was only one problem; she’d never skied.
This unfortunate fact was treated like a genetic defect by Jonathan’s mother, who physically recoiled when Cece mentioned it was her first time at a ski lodge.
The next morning, Jonathan stayed with Cece on the bunny hill for the entire day, and when her hamstrings ached and her ankles grew stiff, he whisked her back to the lodge where they sat in front of the roaring fire and sipped hot chocolate.
Cece couldn’t help but apologize. She was a drag on the family vacation.
While his parents were hitting the slopes, Jonathan was stuck babysitting her.
“I’ll gladly spend the entire weekend with you on the bunny hill,” he said.
“What if I’m no good? What if I don’t like it? Your mother nearly fainted when I told her I didn’t know how to ski.”
“She has very strong feelings about skiing. She thinks it’s a life skill. Like swimming,” Jonathan said with a chuckle.
“That’s what I’m worried about,” Cece said, before she realized what she’d revealed. She cared. Cared about what his parents thought of her. Cared whether they could imagine her in their son’s future.
If Jonathan noticed her slipup, he didn’t harp on it.
Instead, he stood up and tossed another log on the fire where it crackled and popped, sparks pinging against the chain screen.
He eased down next to Cece and pulled her close, his wool sweater itchy and rough against her cheek.
“Don’t mind my mother. I like you, Cece, which means my parents like you.
It’s simple. They’ve got no say in the matter. ”
Cece had her reservations, but at the time, it seemed cynical and foolish to doubt Jonathan, especially while they enjoyed the warmth of the crackling fire, amidst the merrymaking of skiers still in their gear, elbowed up to the bar, their faces red and chapped.
Bone-chilling cold, fingertips numb, nose ruby red…
the crisp Vermont air seems an impossibility now in this summer heat.
How far away that memory feels…She stares at Jonathan’s text message.
A response would be easy enough. Prolonged radio silence feels rude, immature even.
But what to say? How to play it? Honest, guarded, deceitful to prove a point, alluring to get her way?
I’m okay, she types. You don’t need to worry about me. I hope you’re managing.
She leaves the last question of his message unanswered.
At the moment, she doesn’t know what she wants, although the kombucha is providing a clarity of sorts, a distinct desire.
Such assurance in anything, let alone her feelings, seems ludicrous.
Does she want to see Jonathan? Yes. Maybe.
But she doesn’t want to type it out, to be faced with the visual evidence whenever her mood inevitably changes.
Is this really want you want? She’s already moved on, moved out, slept with another man (once, twice).
But of course, she hasn’t really gotten over him, them—not really, it seems. This particular revelation should elicit discomfort, even panic in Cece, but she finds herself unbothered, her body featherlight, her mind deliciously sluggish, infused with the singular pleasure of day drinking.
“What a load of shit,” Lorraine bellows, yanking her retro headphones down around her neck. She paddles toward the steps, a magenta sarong wrapped around her waist, her tanned and wrinkled bosom straining against her one-piece. “NPR must be running out of content.”
“That so?”
“For someone who doesn’t like hard kombucha, you sure drink a lot of it,” Lorraine says, elbow deep in the cooler. “You drank me out.”
“Sorry.”
“What do you say we take this show on the road? You got plans today?”
“You’re looking at them,” Cece says, happy to be on better terms with her landlord. She prefers this Lorraine to the one lecturing her on archaic zoning laws or the inadequacy of the EPA.
“I’ve got some friends who run a rum distillery over in Stonington. We could check it out. They always show me a good time.”
Cece agrees heartily. Nothing sounds better than continuing the party. If she doesn’t stop, if she can keep moving forward, she won’t have to think. “What were you listening to?”
“I’ll tell you in the car,” Lorraine says, shaking the keys in her fist. “But I’ll give you a hint: It involves your stupid generation. Millennials!”