Chapter 30
Gonzo does his best to comfort me, but my tears confuse him. I’ve set up camp on the couch with a box of tissues, the comforter from my bed, a bevy of delivery menus, and Gonzo tucked under the covers, nestling in between my legs. Too lazy to get up, I keep a neat pile of dirty tissues on the coffee table until I’m forced up for the bathroom. Vincent would be proud.
I’ve put an old rom-com on, but not even the familiar story and satisfaction of their happily-ever-after comforts me. Once again, I’ve managed to fuck up something good. No, not good, amazing. I really should’ve known better than to fall for a hot dad. It feels like the ultimate rookie mistake, beyond naive. Maybe I’m just not able to love someone the way Olan deserves to be loved. Or maybe I’m not loveable. Fuck. My brain usually keeps me out of such trouble, so why did I let my dick take the lead this time? Getting involved with Olan was a monumental misstep on my part. My head knows that, but why does my heart feel as cold and empty as Elijah’s chair?
My phone vibrates on the coffee table and Gonzo stirs slightly. I contemplate grabbing it and throwing the damn thing against the wall because speaking to anyone right now feels like cruel and unusual punishment. As I reach to check the perpetrator, there’s a tinge of hope in my stomach. Maybe it’s him.
My head is dizzy, and a sudden chilly feeling starts in my belly and expands to my fingers and toes. It is him. Not him. Not Olan. Adam. Why the hell would he be calling in my hour of sorrow?
“Hello?” Why do I answer like I don’t know who’s on the other end?
“Vin, it’s Adam.” Hearing his old nickname for me makes my skin prickle.
“Adam, hey, um, how are you?”
I grab a tissue and pat my eyes, hoping he can’t somehow hear the puffiness of my face.
“Fantastic. Things are great. Mark and I are headed to a dinner party in a few, but I wanted to give you a quick call.”
At least I know it won’t be a long conversation.
“Cool, um, what’s up?” I ask because why the hell are you calling me now and interrupting my misery?
“I heard you were up for Teacher of the Year, and I wanted to congratulate you.”
Gulp. I’m not sure how he found out. There have been a few articles in local papers. Clearly, someone told him.
“I know how much teaching means to you, Vin. You’re so damn dedicated. I always knew you were a brilliant teacher. Your kids mean the world to you. I’m so proud of you.”
Olan’s words echo in my head. You give your job everything. You throw yourself into teaching. This damn award. I reach for another tissue and exhale sharply, away from the phone.
“Oh, um, thanks. Yeah, it was a big surprise. The nomination, I mean. Actually winning the county, I didn’t expect it, so it’s all a bit of a whirlwind.”
“Well, you deserve it.”
“Aw, thanks, Adam. That means a lot.”
He’s attempting to be nice, and I sort of hate him for it.
“How’s everything else? Gonzo? You seeing anyone?”
Has he found out? Who would have told him? Is that the real reason he’s calling?
“Gonzo’s great. He’s right here. Still as clingy as ever, but of course I love it. Jill’s pregnant. They’re elated, and I can’t wait to be a guncle.”
“Sweet. Please tell her congrats from me.”
“And, not seeing anyone. Just me and Gonzo.”
Tears well up in my eyes and I blink to bat them away.
“Well, someone will be lucky to snag you. You’ll find the right guy. Don’t give up.”
“Yeah, thanks. Um, well, I should be going.” I rush him off because blubbering feels imminent.
“Yeah, me too. But congratulations again, Vin, really. Great job. Okay, take care.”
“You too. Say hi to Mark for me,” I say because being the bigger person always feels correct.
Adam hangs up, and I smash my face into the throw pillow and sob like a trust-fund baby being cut off and forced to find a job.
* * *
“It’s getting harder to use your lap as a pillow,” I complain.
“You try growing a human being in your stomach and get back to me.”
“Touché.”
Jill lounges at the end of my couch, her legs propped up on the pile of books I leave on the coffee table to make people think I’m smarter than I actually am. My head rests on her lap. We create a perfect capital L in this configuration, allowing us both to have our feet up as we chat. Gonzo sprawls out on my legs, purring at being included as I stroke him behind his ears.
Between the phone call from Adam and a night of tossing and turning before switching from rom-coms to horribly sad movies – the kind where someone gets really sick and dies – a self-inflicted intervention was necessary. Jill answered my distress call with a half dozen donuts in tow.
“So that’s it? It’s over?”
“I think so. The moment he said it, I wondered if I was making a horrible mistake.”
“I mean, he’s incredibly hot.”
“Not helping. But also, not wrong,” I say with a little laugh. “But he’s also one of the best people I’ve ever met. He’s kind and loving; all he wants is for other people to be happy. He’s a good man.”
“Then what the fuck is your problem?” She smacks the top of my head.
“Ouch! Your baby will come out with a mouth like a sailor if you keep that up.”
“God, I fucking hope so. Now quit deflecting.”
“It’s the drinking. It messes with my head. Whenever I think about him drinking or relapsing, it… it triggers me. I don’t want it to, but I can’t help it.”
Jill aggressively pushes my head off her lap, sending my arms and legs flying up to balance myself so I don’t tumble to the floor. My strawberry donut flies across the room, and Gonzo leaps from his resting spot on me and bolts into the bedroom, probably to hide under the bed. Part of me yearns to join him. Catching myself, I sit up and face her.
“What the hell?”
“Listen to me, Marvin, because you need to hear this. People are not perfect. Nick is not perfect. The man is a complete pig and a child. Do you know he forgets to flush the toilet? I’m not talking about pee either. Like a kindergartener. How is he going to remember to feed the baby if he can’t remember to flush the toilet? I’m not perfect – okay, I’m damn close, but I am bossy and needy, and well, that’s about it. So close. But not perfect.”
She drops her hibiscus salted chocolate donut on the coffee table, punctuating the seriousness of the situation before continuing.
“Olan is not perfect. He has a past, but everything you’ve told me says he’s doing the work to be better. He is better. Clearly. You talk about ‘the drinking’ but Marvin, is he drinking? Now? No. Your mother isn’t perfect. But Marvin, she was a single parent. And not of her own choosing. I’m not making excuses but try putting yourself in her shoes. She hasn’t had a drink in twelve years. I know she hurt you, but can you maybe entertain she’s trying to make amends? Your childhood wasn’t perfect, but buddy, show me someone’s whose was. Now get ready for the big one. Newsflash: You are not perfect. Olan’s right. You put way too much into work. Your anxiety can be crippling. You avoid life because you’re petrified. And you, too, have a past, and right now, it’s preventing you from your present. Nobody is perfect. But when you find someone whose imperfections complement yours and help you both be better versions of yourselves, you choose to make it work.”
As Jill lectures me, my hand travels up to my earlobe, my fingers rubbing it slowly. She doesn’t often raise her voice with me, but I don’t often go off the rails with a man like Olan.
“But, how am I supposed to…”
“Stop it. Stop making excuses. Meditate. Medicate. Go to therapy. Figure it out. Because if you blow it with a guy like Olan, you’ll have to live with that regret for the rest of your life.”
“What do I do?”
“Take some time. Not too much time. You need to tell him.”
“Tell him what?”
“How you feel, jackass.”
I sit with what she’s told me for a minute. My damn head keeps getting in the way of my heart. And fear, the worst of all emotions, keeps jutting itself in front of me, crafting obstacles to my happiness. I know Jill’s right. I need to figure this out, or I will lose this beautiful man.
“Thank you,” I say, and I lean over and do my best to scoop her up in my arms, squeezing her a little tighter and longer because she needs to know just how much I appreciate her.
Once Jill leaves, feeling brave and resolute, I text Olan. I know Isabella doesn’t leave until tomorrow, and with how I behaved, I probably should give him some space. But we need to talk. I need to talk.
Marvin: Can we talk Monday after school?
I set my phone down, scoop up Gonzo, and await his reply.
* * *
Sunday morning, Olan still hasn’t replied. It’s not like him to ignore texts from me, and I’m taking this as a sign I’ve blown it. I mean, I knew I blew it, but this confirms the magnitude of my blowing it. The Prince of Blowing It needs a crown.
I know staying in bed all day and checking my phone every two minutes won’t help, so – much to Gonzo’s chagrin – I pry myself out of bed to take a walk. With the ocean breeze and warm May sunshine on my face, the smell of the pine trees dotting the trail as I maneuver through the rocky path, my body revels in the release, and my mind begins to uncoil from the last few days.
This early on a Sunday, there aren’t many people out, only the occasional runner, and looking ahead on the trail, not seeing anyone, adds to the peacefulness. The path turns sharply and the dirt under me leads out of the woods and into full view of the bay. This part of the trail always takes my breath away. It literally brings you from undercover out into views of the open water, flecked with moored sailboats. The sight never fails to bring a lightness to my chest.
I head to the water, stretching my arms out wide, taking in the gift of living here. In the distance, a woman jogs toward me. As she approaches, the blur in front of her comes into focus. She pushes one of those strollers with three wheels, low to the ground, made for running. As we get closer to each other, I pause, turn and get a peek at the baby. Snuggled into a blanket, there’s a visor to protect them from the sun, and their adorable face stares up at their mom with the sweetest look of complete, unconditional love.
The mother gives me a kind smile as she whizzes past. Spotting a large rock near the water that’s perfect for roosting, I sit down and pull out my phone.
“Marvin, what a nice surprise.”
“Hey, Mom, how are you?”
Calling my mother unsolicited feels like some sort of personal growth in and of itself. It’s not part of our schtick. She calls, I ignore, and return the call eventually. I called her uninitiated right before the Peaks trip. Maybe it’s becoming a habit?
“I’m good, just came in from kibbitzing with Joanne over coffee. Her daughter is having another baby, which will be grandchild number three.”
Now, there’s a chance my mother simply wants to impart this information to me and isn’t being passive-aggressive. That chance is extremely slim, but today, I give her the benefit of the doubt.
“Well, that’s a simkah! Please tell her mazel tov from me.”
That wasn’t so hard.
“I will. She’s overjoyed.” Her voice gets quiet. “But, between you and me, her son-in-law is a complete putz.” And there you have it. “Rebekah, the daughter, does everything. All the shopping, cooking, and cleaning. She works full-time as a dental hygienist, and, well, you know, that’s a hard job, Marvin. Cleaning people’s teeth. Who wants to do that? The husband needs to help too.”
“He does.”
“This is why you gays have it figured out. Two husbands, easy to split the work.”
I laugh at her comment and take a deep breath, preparing to change subjects.
“So, Mom, I want to ask you something.”
My heartbeat quickens. Difficult conversations with Sarah are never simple. I have to find a path toward honesty without upsetting her too much.
“Of course, honey. What is it?”
“Remember I told you I was seeing someone?”
“Yes, of course, I remember, the engineer, right? With the daughter. How are things with him? What’s his name again?”
Now I never told her his name, and I love that what she remembers first about Olan is his job.
“His name’s Olan.”
“Olan? What kind of name is that? That doesn’t sound Jewish.”
“That’s because he’s not Jewish.” A sailboat breezes by and I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
“Oh. Well, nobody’s perfect. How are things going?”
“That’s why I’m calling. Things were going well. Very well. He’s a good man, and he cares about me, and well, I think I might have messed everything up.”
“You messed things up? What did you do?”
My forehead begins to sweat, and I reach up to brush my hair out of my face. “I didn’t do anything. Not really. I asked for some time.”
“Time? Time for what? What do you need time for? You’re not getting any younger.”
“Mom, I’m only twenty-nine.”
“I know how old you are. I was there when you were born, remember?”
“Anyway, Olan’s in recovery.”
The line goes silent.
“He’s been sober almost twelve years.”
“Okay, that’s good. And he has a sponsor and goes to meetings?”
“Yeah, both. But he had a relapse last year.”
She pauses a moment. “What happened?”
“I don’t know all the details. It had to do with his work, I think. He was also in the middle of a divorce. The pressure was too much, I guess.”
“It’s hard when you don’t have other ways to cope.”
“The thing is, every time his drinking comes up, it triggers me.”
I don’t need to say more. She knows what I’m talking about. While she’s not speaking, her breathing gently rumbles into the phone. I close my eyes and begin to pick at the loose skin on my thumb.
“Marvin, I know it was hard for you. What you have to understand is I wasn’t in control. I was doing my best. I know it wasn’t good enough. Not for you and certainly not for myself. I needed help, and it took me too long to realize it, but eventually, I got it. You know that. It sounds like your friend has realized he needed help way sooner than I did. That’s a good thing. And relapses happen. It’s part of recovery. One relapse in almost twelve years is actually not so bad. It’s how you move forward from it. How you learn and grow. You might be part of what helps him stay sober.”
And now the tears begin to well up because, contrary to what I expected, Sarah did not become defensive. No raised voice. She’s actually listening and trying to help. The thought of Olan needing me pushes salty drops from my eyes, and now I’m sitting on a giant rock, looking out over the Atlantic Ocean, talking to my mother, and crying.
“Why am I so afraid of…” I’m unsure how to finish because I’m not sure I can name it.
“Of being happy? Of letting someone love you?”
I swallow hard. “Yeah, why?”
“Marvin, you are my precious boy. I love you so much, and I hate if I’ve hurt you in any way. After your dad left, I… I was lost. I know he abandoned you, but honey, he abandoned me too. Being a single parent wasn’t the path I saw for myself, and well, you know what happened. I had no clue what I was doing, and the booze numbed the pain. At the time, I was alone. I didn’t realize I had a problem until it was too late. I’m not making excuses.”
“I know, Mom.”
“You are so loved, Marvy, and you, my boychik, are worthy of love.”
Her voice breaks a little, and I know this is hard for her. I let out a sob, and I’m fairly certain snot has left my nose. I reach for the tissue in my pocket.
“If I could go back,” she continues, “I would do things differently. But that’s not how things work. We have to live with our mistakes and try to learn from them and move forward. It sounds like Olan wants that too.”
“He does. He has, from what I can tell. He’s, he’s an amazing guy, Mom. A complete mensch.”
“It sounds like you actually like him.”
“I do. I like him so much.”
With those words, I realize my feelings for Olan have cultivated beyond hanging out, beyond liking him. There’s love there.
“I think I love him, Mom.”
“Oh honey, that makes my heart so happy. Have you told him?”
“No.”
“Why not? Marvin, I love you, but don’t be a shmendrik.”
I laugh because only Sarah Block can call me stupid and get away with it. Because, in this instance, she’s absolutely correct.
“Thanks, Mom. I will. Okay, I should probably get going. I love you, Mom.”
“I love you, too.”
My mother, for all her faults, loves me. She’s come so far, and I need to find a way to begin letting go of my hurt. Giving my mom a piece of my heart and not knowing what she’ll do with it scares me, but I can forgive without forgetting. My heart feels full as I watch the ferry chug by. There are two versions of me. The one whose anxiety rules and whose childhood trauma still impacts him as a grown man. And there’s the version when I’m with Olan. Which one do I want to be? I love Olan. I’ve actually said it. Now, I have to find a way to tell him.