Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
W hen I returned to the kitchen, I discovered Gary had been hard at work. He found chicken and cheese and tomatoes and bread crumbs. Chicken Parmesan! He had the ingredients laid out on the counter, like a celebrity chef in front of a studio audience. I set up Kyle in the other room watching television. Purrfect sat on top of the refrigerator, silently criticizing everything Gary did.
“Here you go.” Gary pulled out another beer for me. I stepped toward him to grab it. At the same time, Gary stepped forward to hand it to me. We ended up face to face, closer, I think, than either of us had intended. We both just stood there, staring. His jaw ticked. That warm and fuzzy feeling bubbled up again in my nether regions.
I took the bottle. “Thanks.”
He didn’t move.
I didn’t move either.
We were so close I smelled lemons and oranges on his breath, remnants from the SourPaws we were drinking. In the air all around us, I smelled garlic. A pan of chopped garlic simmered in olive oil on the stove. “Are you expecting a vampire attack?” I asked.
“You never know,” said Gary. “I like to be prepared, just in case. One of those Eagle Scout things, I suppose.”
We were still standing face to face. Somehow, our bodies drifted closer. I took another sip of my SourPaw to occupy my lips, just in case they got any impromptu urges. Looking over at the display of ingredients, I said, “That’s quite the layout.”
“I thought we could do it together,” said Gary. His eyes twinkled in the glow of the kitchen lighting, hinting at something more than cooking. Or was I just imagining things? I took another sip of SourPaw in a feeble attempt to quench the fire building in my tummy.
“Come. I’ll show you what to do.”
* * *
Gary laid the chicken breasts on a cutting board, then I whacked them with a mallet.
“I’m pretty sure it’s already dead,” he said, leaning over my shoulder.
Once flattened and tenderized, Gary dipped the pulverized chicken in an egg wash, and I coated it in flour. Gary sprinkled on the bread crumbs. I sprinkled on the Parmesan cheese. Gary added salt. I added pepper.
“Is now a good time to add the marjoram?” I asked.
With the chicken breaded and seasoned, Gary fried each piece in oil. Then I placed each piece in a baking dish. Gary spooned homemade tomato sauce on each piece of chicken. I added a slice of mozzarella cheese. Gary added fresh basil and the sautéed garlic. I sprinkled on more Parmesan cheese.
“Now can I add the marjoram?” The exhaust fan from the oven must have blown a wisp of hair across my forehead because, before I knew what was happening, Gary reached up and brushed it away from my eyes. The gentle touch of his fingertips on my skin made the entire length of my arms break out in goosebumps.
Gary stepped away from the pan and smiled. “Knock yourself out.” I’m not sure Gary’s recipe actually called for marjoram, but he was kind enough to humor me.
When we finished assembling the ingredients, I had to admit, the final product looked pretty darn good. We still had to bake it, of course, but I could tell it was going to be the best chicken Parmesan ever.
“Not bad,” said Gary. “Not bad at all.”
“We actually make a pretty good team,” I said. “If only we were this good at setting you up with Janet.”
Gary froze. “Right,” he said, finally. Avoiding eye contact, he used a wooden spoon to reposition the chicken in the baking dish, then placed it in the oven. “If only.”
He took another sip of SourPaw.
Then another after that.
As Gary put the oven mitt back on the counter, I tried to get a bead on what he was thinking, but his face was impossible to read. If I hadn’t known better, I might have thought that Gary was glad our plans had fallen short. G lad he wasn’t with Janet.
Stupid Karen . It had to be her. Maybe there was something between Gary and Karen, after all. But then, as I thought about it some more, that wouldn’t explain why Gary was going along with my set-him-up-with-Janet plan. Spending all of his free time with me just to get with someone he wasn’t interested in didn’t make sense. Unless …
No.
No way.
Absolutely not.
Surely Gary wasn’t just playing along because … I couldn’t even finish the thought. Ever since the day I hired him to paint Aunt Catherine’s house, it had been one disaster after another. Surely he could see that he and I didn’t fit. Surely, he knew that anything beyond our current business arrangement would be an impossibility.
“We should make some pasta to go with the chicken,” I said, changing the subject. “Do you prefer penne or linguine?” I filled up a pot of water and set it on the stove.
“Penne,” Gary said. “Penne is better at soaking up the sauce.”
“Exactly,” I agreed. “Whenever I try to eat linguine, it just slides off the fork.”
While we waited for the chicken to brown and the cheese to bubble, I mixed up a salad and Gary sprinkled garlic on a loaf of bread. He was still acting funny. All quiet and serious. I decided I would just confront him right then and there. Ask him point-blank if he was even interested in Janet at all. And if he wasn’t interested in Janet, who was he interested in? “Gary …” I began.
“Hey, come check this out.” Gary crouched down, studying the wallpaper. “You should see this.”
What now? I joined Gary on the other side of the kitchen. There were pencil marks on the wall. Drawn numbers. Sketched letters. Faded lines scribbled between roses and etched among the vines.
“What are those?” I had to squint to make anything out.
Gary traced a sequence of markings up the wall. “Looks like measurements or something.” He held his finger over some scrawled pencil marks I could barely make out. “Three feet, ten inches.” Rising up the wall, Gary found more pencil markings. “There are dates, too. And initials.” Then he turned to me. “Who’s HB?”
At first, the letters didn’t register. I was too busy wondering why Aunt Catherine let some hooligan vandalize her ugly kitchen wallpaper. Then it hit me. H.B. When I looked again at the markings, it felt like I was staring at a ghost. “Henry Burns.” It took everything I had to keep it together.
“Who’s Henry Burns?”
I had to gather myself before answering, blink back the tears that were building. “My father.”
I followed the measurements as they climbed up the wall, each year’s mark higher than the last. I could picture my father as a young boy standing there, Aunt Catherine lining up the pencil on the top of his head. “He told me he used to spend summers at his aunt’s house when he was a kid. This house. Right here.” I wiped away the tear dripping down my cheek with the back of my hand. “Sorry. It’s stupid. That was a long time ago, I know.”
“It’s not stupid.” Gary grabbed the tissue box from the counter. The resulting nose blowing was reminiscent of a flock of Canadian geese playing trombones in a Labor Day parade.
“You and your dad, you were close?”
I nodded. In those days, I tried not to think about my dad too much. The hurt was still new. He had died only a few years before. I missed him terribly. I didn’t even talk about him with Janet. But for some reason, I started talking about him with Gary. “He was the one that raised me after my mom left.”
“Is she still around?”
“Somewhere,” I said. “After the divorce, she and the guy she was with moved to California. Got married. Then divorced. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat.”
“You ever talk to her?”
“She sends me birthday cards.”
“Love hurts,” Gary said. The way he said it made it seem like he knew from experience.
“Love sucks,” I agreed. With Kyle’s mom no longer in the picture, I figured Gary must be dealing with demons of his own. I could see it in the way he looked back at me. Not just a mirror, but a magnifying glass. Taking my pain and sending it right back at me tenfold.
“Was it ever good? Between your parents, I mean.”
“They fought like cats and dogs,” I answered. “My dad was a good guy, but he could never make her happy. No matter what. It was never enough.”
Pulling myself away from the wallpaper, I decided it was a good time for another drink. I found a corkscrew in one of the kitchen drawers and a pair of plastic cups we could use as wine glasses.
Gary opened the Syrah and poured me a cup. “You know you’re not doomed to become her, right? You’re not your mother.”
I shrugged. “When I was little, people would tell me I was just like her. And every time they said it, I thought to myself, God, I hope not.”
It was like my mouth was on autopilot, spilling secrets previously locked away and buried, never meant to see the light of day. But that night, somehow, some way, Gary made me feel comfortable enough to keep talking. He made me feel like I could tell him anything.
Gary poured a cup of wine for himself too. He looked over at me with a serious look on his face. “And that’s why you’re still waiting for Mr. Right.”
“I’m not waiting for Mr. Right, Dr. Freud,” I said. “I’m waiting for Mr. Perfect.” A doctor who drives a red BMW, and gives massages and bakes chocolate soufflé.
“Sounds like Mr. Impossible,” Gary said.
Not impossible, I thought. Just complicated. Because I have to steal him away from my best friend first.
Gary raised his plastic cup. “Cheers.”
I tapped my cup to his, then took a sip, the wine loosening my tongue. “Really, they never should have been married in the first place.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He was a carpenter. She was a VP at a marketing firm. He was into baseball. She was into reading the Wall Street Journal . He was into being a good dad and faithful husband. She was into screwing other dads and husbands.” There I was again, over sharing about the checkered past of my traumatic upbringing.
“Love is complicated,” said Gary.
“You’re telling me.”
It seemed like Gary had more to say, but whatever it was, he let it go. We both settled into the silence, leaning against the kitchen counter, once again, close.
As we both just sat there staring at the oven, it felt like my senses shifted into overdrive. The scent of Gary’s mint and oak cologne mingled with the smells of baked marjoram and simmering garlic. I took another sip of Syrah, notes of blackberry and pepper tingling on my tongue. I could both feel and hear the steady thump of my heart beating.
You know that feeling when something is happening to you, but it’s like you’re outside of yourself? Like it’s happening to somebody else. Like I was watching old home movies of someone else’s life on VHS cassette. Leaning forward on the edge of my seat. What’s going to happen next?
Mint. Oak.
Garlic. Smoke.
Smoke?
Gary and I both looked over to where the oven was doing its best impression of a smoke machine at a heavy metal concert.
“Gary!”
He sprang into action, donning a pair of oven mitts, then dumping the flaming pan into the sink. Dousing the flaming wreckage with the kitchen faucet, charred chicken fumes billowed across the entire room.
* * *
Dinner was a disaster, so we improvised. Gary borrowed a couple of fans from the neighbors, which we set up near the windows to blow out the smoke. Kyle and I went online to order delivery from the Thai place. We ate pineapple fried rice on the patio, out by the pool, while we waited for the smoke to clear.
We were all famished, so it wasn’t long before empty containers littered the table. I watched Gary take his last bite, then waited for him to finish chewing. “So. What did you think?”
Gary furrowed his brow, like I had just asked him to solve an algebra problem. “It’s good,” said Gary, poking a stray piece of pineapple with his fork. “I never realized how well pad Thai goes with garlic bread and margaritas.”
“I agree.” With the chicken Parmesan off the table, literally, and the wine long gone, I had decided a pitcher of margaritas wasn’t such a bad idea after all. I also made Kyle a virgin Pina colada.
“When can we go into the pool?” Kyle asked.
“As soon as you help with the dishes,” Gary answered.
Everyone pitched in to help. I washed. Gary dried. Kyle dumped the empty containers in the trash and then wiped down the table.
As I handed Gary another plate, I couldn’t help but notice he was humming. “Is that a Justin Bieber song?”
Gary’s face flushed, caught red-handed. “Sorry. I forgot you have some sort of weird Justin Bieber thing.”
It suddenly occurred to me I still hadn’t returned the T-shirt he let me borrow back when we first met. “I still have your T-shirt up in my closet. I’ll give it back to you before you leave.”
Gary waved me off. “Keep it. It fits you way better than it would ever fit me.”
“Thanks, I guess.” It was a gracious gesture, though it was a bit of a double-edged sword. I mean, it was a comfortable T-shirt and all, but it had Justin Bieber on it. I handed Gary another wet plate. “So you actually like Justin Bieber?”
“I mean, he’s okay, I guess.” Gary’s eyes shifted back to the plate he was drying. He stayed quiet for a few moments, like he was going over something in his head. When he looked back up at me, he said, “I got it when I was with Ann.”
“Kyle’s mom.” Gary had only ever mentioned her the one other time. On the nature hike of doom. I remembered thinking that he must have loved her very much. Not that I had any direct knowledge or experience on the subject. It just seemed that way. A gut feeling based on a vibe.
Gary’s nod was the only response that I got. Then he went right back to drying the plate. I told you how Gary made me open up about my feelings. Made me feel safe to talk to him about anything. Apparently, I did not have that same effect on him. Because after that, he didn’t say another word about Ann. It must have been one hell of a divorce.
“So what makes you loathe poor Justin so much?” Gary asked, quickly changing the subject.
I took a deep breath and sighed. “It’s complicated. He used to be one of my favorites.” I handed Gary another plate.
“Go on.” Gary grabbed a fresh towel from the drawer.
“You know that song, As Long as You Love Me? The one he did with Big Sean?”
“I know it.” Gary hummed a verse to prove his point.
“ As Long as You Love Me was our song.”
“Our song?” For a moment, I thought Gary was going to drop the plate he was drying.
“His name was Greg. For a few weeks there, we were even engaged.” Once again, it was a sore subject I never planned to discuss. Gary’s face looked like I had told him I was an alien from outer space here to conquer the planet. “Don’t look so surprised.”
“I’m not surprised,” he said. “It’s just, I don’t know. I figured you were the kind of person who wasn’t interested in settling down.”
“Oh really,” I teased. “So you picture me as some lonely old troll. Living in a cave under a bridge. Preying on passing billy goats.”
“No, of course not,” Gary stopped drying and rubbed at his chin. “I figured you would end up living in a gingerbread house in the middle of the forest, luring small children that you could bake into pies.”
“I think you’re mixing up your nursery rhymes.”
“Technically, I think they’re considered fables.” Somehow, we had ended up right next to each other again. I could smell his mint and jasper cologne again, this time commingling with the sea-breeze scent of the dish soap. Eyes like whirlpools in the ocean.
Gary fixed those whirlpool eyes right on me. I couldn’t help but notice his dimple was out again. “So what happened to Greg?” It was a simple question with a complicated answer. Or was it? Maybe when it came down to it, it wasn’t so complicated at all. I never loved him.
“He bought me a blender,” was the answer I gave Gary.
“You broke up because he bought you a blender?”
“It was our one-year anniversary. Just a couple of weeks after he proposed. I wanted him to buy me flowers and take me out to dinner. Get me a nice card.” There went my mouth again, talking about things I hadn’t even thought about in years. “But really, it was all the little things. Added up together, it was just too much.”
Gary had his Freud face on again. “Little things? Like what?”
“Well, like we never watched T.V. together.”
“So blenders and T.V.?” Gary and his Freud face didn’t look so sure. He must have thought I was an idiot for throwing away my love life for something so petty and so small. Or maybe he was just trying to wrap his head around my claim that I was capable of loving someone. Or maybe, probably, he just couldn’t understand why anyone would love me.
I tried my best to explain it. “We liked different shows so we would watch T.V. in different rooms. And when we went out to dinner, we could never agree on what we wanted to eat, so we’d end up ordering takeout from different places and then just bringing it home.” I started to get emotional. Not because of Greg, of course. No way. On that topic, I never second guessed my decision once. It was because talking about Greg and thinking about everything that had happened was making me confront and acknowledge how sad and pathetic my life had become. I was almost forty years old. Single. Alone. Not a single prospect in sight.
Somehow, I pulled myself out of my sorry spiral. “The bottom line was, we just didn’t belong together. We both knew it, but we kept going anyway. Kept trying. Hammering the round pegs into the square holes. The truth was, we never should have been together from the start.”
Gary finished drying the last dish, then hung the towel over the sink. “Well, just so you know, I would never buy you a blender.” He quickly added, “If it was our painting your house anniversary or something, I mean. Assuming we were still hanging out a year from now. Which, of course, we probably won’t. Since I’m just painting your aunt’s house. And you’re actively working to set me up with your best friend. Even though you’re not doing an outstanding job of it.”
I punched him in the arm.
“Ouch.” Gary smiled when he said it.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll play along. If it were our painting my aunt’s house anniversary, and by some miracle, I reluctantly agreed to meet you somewhere, for the sole purpose of you giving me an anniversary present, what would you get me?”
Gary thought for a moment, rubbing reflectively at his chin. “It would be a toaster.”
“A toaster?” I may have inadvertently snorted.
“Then the next year would be an air fryer. Then, if you played your cards right, someday you might even get a microwave.”
“Wow, a microwave. How many anniversaries would that take?”
“A lot. But I’m still not connecting the dots on what any of this has to do with your grudge against Justin Bieber.”
“We were supposed to play As Long as You Love Me at the wedding. Ever since I called off the engagement, well, let’s just say Justin Bieber songs don’t quite sound the same.”
Once again, my eyes wandered over the dimple in Gary’s left cheek. Then the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed. Whirlpool eyes. I had to remind myself to stop staring. But not before I caught his eyes drifting back over me.
Obviously Gary and I would have nothing to do with each other a year from now, let alone two years or ten years or however long it took to get a new microwave. That whole conversation, of course, we were just playing around. Unless, maybe, I was successful in setting him up with Janet. Who knows, then maybe Gary and Janet and Jack and I could all hang out. Go on couple’s dates. Grow old together. We could all play bridge on Wednesday nights.
“I suppose I should thank you.”
“For helping with the dishes? It’s the least I could do.”
“No,” I said, wandering across the kitchen. “For the wallpaper.” I traced the pencil markings with my hand. “If you had torn it all down, like I asked you to, I wouldn’t have seen these.”
Gary walked over to stand beside me. “Sometimes there’s more there than you see at first,” he said. “If you look a little closer.”
“You win.” I said.
“I win?”
“You’re right, the wallpaper would make a nice accent. Just this wall, though.”
“We’re negotiating?”
“Not really. Deal?”
“Deal,” Gary agreed, smiling right back.
There was that damn dimple again. Along with a very familiar warm feeling in my chest, a feeling which started sinking lower. And lower. And lower still.
“Now what do you say we go jump in the pool?” asked Gary.
“We?”