Chapter Eleven
Eleven
What’s your last name?
EMMA HAD BEEN STARING AT WILL’S TEXT MESSAGE FOR multiple minutes while unintentionally holding her breath. She tried to think of a witty response that could evade the question without seeming suspicious. But so far all she’d come up with was “I don’t have one” and “You first,” which wouldn’t really solve the problem for more than a few seconds.
“Have you seen your mother?” Alan asked as he entered the industrially designed open concept living room and found Emma splayed out on the couch. Debbie and Alan had done a full renovation five years ago and Emma’s childhood home now felt like an edgy Architectural Digest spread filled with black doors and exposed brick. It was unlike any other house on their cookie-cutter, suburban-feeling street, and Debbie took a lot of pride in that.
“She went for a walk,” Emma shared while hiding her phone under a heavy woven throw—as if that would make her problems go away.
“Without me? What the hell.” Alan flopped himself on the armchair perpendicular to the couch. “I told her I wanted to go. The Millers got new landscaping and I hear it’s terrible.”
“I think she wanted to be alone, maybe.”
“What makes you say that?”
Emma wasn’t sure how to respond. From a family systems point of view, she should let her parents figure this stuff out on their own to avoid triangulation. But as a meddler since birth, she couldn’t resist telling her dad the truth.
“She might have said, ‘Don’t tell your father but I want to be alone,’ before racing out of the house.”
“Oh.” Alan sighed, dejected.
“I wouldn’t take it personally. She’s always needed a lot of alone time.”
“Why? I never need to be alone.”
Emma laughed, even though he wasn’t kidding. “You two are wired completely differently. You must know that by now.”
“I guess I’ll never understand her.”
“You’re in an adjustment period. For the last forty-four years of your marriage, you were at work every day. She got used to having a lot of space. Now she has to actively carve it out for herself.”
“Why does she need space from her own husband?”
Emma sighed. This conversation was quickly turning into a full-blown session and she needed to tread lightly. “I don’t think that’s what’s going on. But if it’s upsetting you, maybe you should ask her about it.”
Alan shook his head. Emma knew it was always easier to vent than communicate.
“Do you want to go look at the Millers’ terrible landscaping with me? I hear it’s full of hydrangeas.” Alan shuddered at the thought.
“I’d love to, but I’m in a bit of a pickle at the moment. That guy Will wants to know my last name.”
“How does he not know it already?”
“We met on an app. You don’t have to share it on your profile if you don’t want to.”
“That seems incredibly dangerous.”
“Definitely,” Emma conceded. “But it also means he hasn’t been able to google me and find out about my not-so-secret plan.”
“You haven’t told him about it yet?”
Emma squirmed. She had intended to bring it up from the outset to avoid wasting anyone’s time. If Will thought the whole idea was absolutely bonkers, Emma wanted to know sooner rather than later. But as the night had gone from painting to ice cream, Emma failed to find a good window to share. It was one of those dates where there wasn’t ever a chance to change the subject because the conversation just kept going. The only moment of silence had come right before Emma had gotten in her car and both of them were wondering if Will was going to kiss her or not. After what felt like an eternity, he decided to go for what Emma could only describe as a sensual hug.
While part of her had been disappointed, another part was relieved. Unlike her failed make-out with Rob, kissing someone she actually liked felt like it would be the final lock on a door she hadn’t wanted to close. Rationally, Emma knew Ryan was never coming back whether she slept with the entire city or not. But for now, it felt safer to remain unkissed and delusional.
“It hasn’t come up yet,” Emma explained. “I just want to make sure he hears about it from me and not the internet.”
“Why not give him a fake name then? Like Bond. Emma Bond.”
Emma smiled at one of her father’s favorite jokes. She couldn’t count how many times Alan had approached a hostess stand at a restaurant and given his requested name as “Bond. Alan Bond.” Nine out of ten times the host had no reaction, but that didn’t stop him from continuing the bit.
“I think he might see through that.”
“Smart guy. Well,” Alan said while standing up, “as the monks say, honesty is always the best policy. Just tell him you don’t like to be googled before you get to know someone in real life.” And with that incredible piece of advice, Alan left to call his wife for the fourth time.
“Do you want to get a few things to split?” Will asked as they each perused the extensive menu at Genghis Cohen. The restaurant was an LA fixture that inexplicably combined Chinese food with a Jewish last name. Emma had grown up going every few months with her family but Will had never been.
“I have to tell you something,” Emma confessed. Will put his menu down and looked at her expectantly. “I am not good at sharing food.”
Will breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s all? I thought you were going to tell me you were married or only had ten months to live.”
“Which would have been worse?”
“Great question. Probably married. You can get a lot done in ten months.”
Will was clearly joking but his take on time was promising. Maybe he wouldn’t think five months was too rushed to get married after all. Or maybe Emma was grasping at straws to calm her nerves.
“I know in comparison being a bad food sharer doesn’t seem like a big deal. But I want to warn you now, it will grate on you.”
Will laughed, clearly unconvinced. “How so?”
“A myriad of ways, really. Group dinners? I’m a nightmare at those. Have to order my own separate thing that always confuses the waiter. New restaurant where you want to try a bunch of different things? Too bad. You have no one to share them with.”
“Sounds pretty rough.”
“It is. So feel free to get out now.” Emma said this part lightly, like she couldn’t care either way, but her insides proved otherwise. Every muscle from her toes to her shoulders tensed up as she waited for Will’s reply. It was a clear signal of how much she already liked him.
“I think I’ll take the risk. But I do need to know why you are so antisharing before I make my final decision.”
“Fair. I guess it’s a combination of being a picky eater and not liking to be surprised. My anxiety makes me have all these weird fears around food and I do better when I know exactly what I am going to eat. Otherwise, I spend the whole meal worried I’m not going to take the right amount of brussels sprouts or whatever is being split. If I order my own thing, I don’t have to go outside my food comfort zone and I don’t have to worry about portion control.”
Will stared at her with an indiscernible expression. “I take it you’re one of those therapists who also goes to therapy?”
Emma laughed, thrilled that he had poked fun at her instead of clamming up or taking it all too seriously. “Oh, absolutely. Almost since birth.”
“Really? What do babies have to talk about?”
“Not enough milk. Difficulty communicating. Separation anxiety.”
“Touché.”
“Thank you. Although I was actually closer to eight when I started. It’s sort of been on and off ever since.”
Emma knew plenty of dating coaches and women’s magazines would advise against sharing one’s mental health struggles on the second date, but she always encouraged her clients to be open about the things that mattered to them—it was a good test to see how the other person received information. Like the time she told a college hookup she was on antidepressants and he tried to convince her to sell him some. This showed not only a lack of empathy for her psychiatric needs but also a fundamental misunderstanding on how antidepressants work. He was clearly thinking of Adderall.
“Why’d you go?” Will asked, looking genuinely curious and not at all judgmental. It made Emma want to tell him her entire mental health history, complete with a full list of medication side effects, but she restrained herself.
“I was having trouble sleeping because all I could think about was death.”
Will nearly choked on his water. “I’m sorry. I just did not expect that to be the reason for an eight-year-old.”
“It’s okay. It wasn’t normal for an eight-year-old, which is why I needed help. I’m lucky my parents took it seriously.”
“That’s awesome. I grew up with parents who think therapy is for quacks and drug dealers.”
“Not sure I see the connection there.”
“Neither do I. But Fox News isn’t known for evidence-based theories.” Will saw the look of concern on Emma’s face and quickly clarified, “ I don’t watch Fox News, by the way, which is one of the many reasons my father doesn’t talk to me. Apparently unintentionally raising a progressive son with a liberal arts degree wasn’t on his to-do list.”
“Having different politics than your family is hard. Especially right now.”
“It actually makes it easier. At least for me. I can just tell people my dad is a Trumper and no one questions why we’re estranged.”
“I’m assuming you don’t want me to question it either?”
“Maybe after a few drinks,” Will said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Emma used all her restraint not to push. She felt strangely confident that he would tell her more when he was ready.
“So you’ve never been to therapy? And you live in Los Angeles?”
“I actually went a few times in college. My school offered some free sessions so my parents never found out.”
“Did you like it?” Emma was always curious how other people felt about therapy since her own relationship with it had fluctuated so much over the years. As a kid, it had felt like punishment for being broken in some way. As a teenager, it had often felt like her only lifeline. And as a young adult, it felt like a professional calling that could help save the world. Now that she was usually the licensed expert in the room instead of the client, Emma was more aware of its limitations. Talking about feelings couldn’t solve systemic issues like poverty or racism or completely change a family’s dynamic. But, for some people, it did make a big difference.
“It was helpful. My girlfriend had just broken up with me and I was a wreck. My friends wanted to help me through it but twenty-year-old college radio DJs don’t always give the best advice. So I went to a professional. He helped me realize my entire life wasn’t over just because Cassey Richards didn’t want to sleep with me on my twin bed anymore.” Emma laughed as Will blushed. “I can’t believe I just admitted I went to therapy over my college girlfriend.”
“Hey, breakups are brutal. There’s even a diagnosis in the DSM called Adjustment Disorder that’s used when people go through a rough time following something like a breakup or a death and need some help getting back to baseline.”
“That makes me feel better,” Will said with a real smile this time. Emma loved that he was someone who openly wore his feelings on his face, unlike other men who had what she referred to as resting-nothing-face. Those guys always seemed more like moving statues than red-blooded humans. “What about you? Any therapy-inducing breakups in your past?”
Emma was keenly aware that this was the exact opening she’d been looking for. Will had just given her a chance to explain not just her humiliating broken engagement but her reasoning behind Operation: Save My Date. But just as she was bracing herself to potentially ruin everything that was growing between them, the waitress appeared, giving Emma the perfect opportunity to be a total coward.
After they ordered their separate appetizers and entrées, Emma deftly navigated the conversation away from breakups and into embarrassing stories about interactions with customer service people. Emma shared how she had once threatened to never return to a nail salon only to have to awkwardly sit there for another thirty minutes as they finished her manicure. Will confessed he had once spent two hours on the phone with an insurance agent because he seemed like a cool guy.
“How is that embarrassing for you? That seems lovely.”
“At the end of the conversation I invited him to my birthday party.”
“Did he go?” Emma asked, excited at the prospect of being able to make new friends through random phone calls.
“No. He laughed at the offer and quickly hung up.”
“Wow,” Emma exclaimed. “That’s really embarrassing for you.”
“I know! I had to change insurance.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I would have gone to your birthday party.”
Will grinned and she felt her stomach do a flip. He was a combination of all her teenage crushes come to life. If Teen Beat was still a thing, he could have been on the cover. She couldn’t believe her luck, that in all the Jewish/Chinese restaurants in all the world, he was here with her.
Now if only she could figure out a way to legally keep him until one of them died. Then she could really relax.