XXII CJ
XXII
CJ
I’m cutting pizzas into kid-size half slices when I hear the door open. Watching Garrett walk into the room and approach me, it’s hard to imagine that there was a time when I felt something more for him.
“Do you need any help?” he asks.
I open my mouth, my stock response already prepared, but Garrett beats me to the punch.
“No, no, I got it,” he mimics jovially.
We both laugh as he makes his way over to my side of the kitchen counter.
“This thing with Jack... it seems like it’s going well.”
I stop myself from giving a perfunctory answer—I owe that much to Agnes’s dad—and let myself actually contemplate the truth. I would never have imagined that the Jack I met five years ago or the one I re-met on set would be the Jack setting up for Agnes’s party today. “It is,” I say simply. Garrett knows me well enough to extrapolate.
“It’s good you’re letting him help out a little bit. Or more than you ever let me.”
I nod. Garrett and I both acknowledge that my stubborn independence was one of our relationship’s many stumbling blocks.
“Nice,” he continues. “ A right proper bloke ,” he adds, trying for an accent.
“How many Bond films have you seen, and that’s the best you’ve got?” I tease, grateful to him for being this kind of ex. I don’t need Garrett to like Jack—it had barely occurred to me to wonder if he would—but it doesn’t hurt.
“Alright, alright. Listen, he let me talk to him about the Lakers for like twenty minutes. He’s good by me.”
I shake my head. “He would.” I look at Garrett and set down the knife. “OK, you want to slice the rest of these pizzas while I start bringing them out?”
When it’s time for cupcakes, Agnes sits in my lap, a gigantic pink butterfly painted on one of her cheeks.
About twenty kids—most with basketballs, unicorns, and Blueys now painted on their faces—sit impatiently in front of their decorated cupcakes, most of them half eaten already. Jack emerges from the house holding a rainbow-shaped mini cake I made for Agnes, five candles stuck on top, and passes it to Garrett, who holds it in front of Agnes.
At the conclusion of a rousing rendition of “Happy Birthday,” I tell Agnes, “Make a wish!” my voice shaky with emotion, as Garrett tilts the candles toward her. She inhales and blows hard . Jack stands a few feet back, beaming, and Stuart bellows, “Brava!”
It’s Agnes’s birthday, but it might as well be my own. The guilt and worry of feeling like I’m not doing enough or that I’m doing it wrong will never go away. But in this moment, looking at these faces is enough to quiet my mind for now. Agnes probably won’t remember this day in ten years, but I will.
The sugar highs come fast, and the come-downs even faster. At the first sign of a tantrum, guests start to pack up. I feel exhausted but accomplished, like I do after my team and I execute a particularly intricate set or a long day of filming.
“Thank you for having us,” Tom’s wife, Molly, tells me, their daughter conked out in her arms. “Yes, this was inspired,” Tom adds at her side. “So well-executed Sabrina is bound to demand one just like it.” I laugh as I take in what’s left of it: Jack putting cupcake wrappers into a garbage bag, Garrett breaking down pizza boxes, Agnes running around animatedly with her few lingering friends.
“It’s not the right moment, I know,” I say as I lean in to hug Molly. “But Jack said you’re working on a new novel—I want to hear about it next time.”
“You say that now,” she jokes. “You two will have to come over for dinner soon.”
“What about you, CJ? Any upcoming projects?” Tom asks.
“I’ve been doing some smaller shoots for commercials, branded work, that sort of thing. Feels more manageable than going straight into another movie.”
“Hear, hear,” he says.
“I’ll probably look for something more substantial in the New Year.”
“And what about Jack?” Tom asks.
“ Tom ,” Molly tsk s.
“What about him?” Is he asking about my intentions ?
“Well, you managed to do the one thing the rest of us couldn’t: convince him there is more to life than work.”
I adjust my hair, flummoxed, trying to come up with what to say when I’m rescued by Jack appearing at my side, doling out hugs and goodbyes.
When everyone but Stuart is finally gone, Jack and I pull my green metal patio furniture back into its rightful place in front of the desert willow tree and slump into the chairs. Jack interlaces his hands in his lap, and his thumbs dart one over the other, like he’s playing a game of thumb war against himself. He bites the inside of his cheek, and I can tell he’s on the precipice of saying something of consequence.
“So.” He pulls my leg across his knees. “What’s the full story with Garrett?”
I let out a heavy sigh. “We broke up twice—I told you that, right?”
He nods.
“The first time was right when my mom first got sick. You know, I was running around, trying to figure out her health insurance, picking up her medications, taking her to appointments. When he finally asked if there was anything he could do to help, I gave him a grocery list—like an actual grocery list, eggs and stuff. He spent the entire time at the store calling and texting me, just absolutely lost.” I move my other leg to Jack’s knees as well. “I think, looking back, that he was probably so desperate not to do it wrong because he knew how that would go over, but at the time, I didn’t have the capacity to see that, and I only half accept it now.”
He bobs his head, playing at a hole in the knee of my jeans.
“And after I started passing up film work so I could bartend, I’d text him updates about what was going on, and I wouldn’t hear back for hours. It just felt like, what was the point of having a partner if they weren’t there to support me? So, when we got back together after she died, it was really in a moment of grief. It was over by the time I found out I was pregnant with Agnes. I told him that he could be involved—that I was happy for him to be—but I wasn’t going to expect anything from him. He said he wanted to help financially and see her on nights and weekends when he wasn’t filming. We have a very friendly custody agreement. I trust him, and I know he loves her. But I think he loves to move around too much to settle down and do it for real.” Letting this all out, I feel the release of pressure I didn’t know I was still holding. Like my ears finally popping after a long flight.
“I’m sorry you went through all of that feeling alone.” He reaches toward me and encircles one of my hands with his own.
“Yeah, well, I learned a lot about how people show up,” I say, perhaps more sardonic than I feel.
He looks me square, a serious expression on his face.
“Hey. I promise to show up. But also—you were both young. Maybe Garrett didn’t know how to show up then, in a way he seems to now? You know, in an Agnes’s dad way.”
I crawl into Jack’s lap. “Maybe.” I sigh, relenting. “You might be right.” Little by little, Jack is sanding down the edges of my petulance. I’ve tried to be less hard on Garrett over the years, but today is the easiest I’ve been on him, by far. My arms move around Jack’s neck; his hands go to my waist.
“Hey, I was thinking if you don’t feel like going back to London for the holidays... I was wondering if you’d stay here. And spend them with us.”
Jack’s smile is wide, and we both know it’s an acknowledgment of his excitement but also of what it means for me to ask. “We can do Christmas crackers.”
At the confused expression on my face, he shakes his head and pulls me closer. “Getting ahead of myself. Yes, I would like that a lot.”
I curl into him and tug the sleeve of his chambray shirt.
“Mommy?” I hear from the back door, and Jack and I immediately spring apart.
“Jack can borrow Kristy if he wants,” she says, holding out her favorite stuffed animal, a well-loved giraffe. “To help him sleep.” Last night, I’d told Agnes Jack would be staying over after the party. She hadn’t reacted, just went on arranging her stuffies on her bed. Now I see that she was processing this milestone not for herself but for him.
Jack recognizes the gesture for what it is. “Agnes, Kristy—it would be my great honor.”