Chapter 4
they were being as quiet as possible, huddled on the floor of her bedroom, blankets and pillows piled around and above them, in a fort made of Alice’s duvet and shams, a flashlight balanced on its end between them.
Jas held a glass of syrah. Alice cradled a bottle of tequila in her lap.
Their knees touched, and that point of contact was almost raw—the sensation of his body on hers so intense, so sharp, she felt as if they were made of nothing but nerves, small shocks travelling from one to the other.
Last weekend, Alice had told him that she’d never had friends over when she was little, that no one her own age ever seemed to like her.
“That can’t be true,” Jas said, shaking his head.
“Oh, it was. Maybe I was too sad or too weird. I learned young how to be by myself, but it didn’t make me happy. I would just make my pillow forts alone and be sad with my sad books.” Alice laughed, but that didn’t make the story any funnier.
Tonight, Jas had crept quietly into her room and began pulling the covers off her bed. “What are you doing? This is a mess!” She tried to pick up the pillows and replace them.
“We’re making a fort, beautiful, and then we’re going to sit inside, drink some wine, and make out. It’ll be the happiest fort of all time.” And he picked up the pillow she had just fluffed and threw it at her face. “Come on and help me.”
Now, he held her wrist in his hand, and she was stupidly, deliriously happy. All women ever want is for men to listen to them . And then we’re theirs forever . She laughed out loud. Not once in her life had she ever had such an earnest, romantic thought.
“What’s so funny?” Jas leaned forward and poured more wine into his glass.
“It’s nothing really. I just can’t believe you remembered and did this nice thing for me.”
He tapped his finger against his temple. “There’s more going on up here than you think.”
“I didn’t mean that I think you’re dumb. Oh god, I’m sorry.” Alice felt her face grow hot.
Jas laughed and kissed her on the lips. “It’s fine. I was just teasing.” He took another sip and sat up straighter. “I did want to talk to you about something though.”
“Sure, anything.”
“We work well together, don’t we?”
Alice smiled and tucked her hair behind her ear. “I think so. I think we’re brilliant together, actually.”
“I’m just wondering: how long do you want to keep going like this? I mean, I think I’d really like to take this a step or two further.” He rubbed his palms on the legs of his pants. His face was serious, not a trace of a smile.
“What kind of steps?”
“What if we solidified things a little more, made a commitment. Maybe we could start integrating our lives. You could meet my sister. I could meet your kids.”
Alice felt her breathing grow faster and faster. In and out, in and out. She couldn’t tell if she was going to throw up or pass out, or maybe one after the other. Jas sat back slightly and studied her face.
“This is too much, isn’t it? I can tell by your body language.”
“No! I mean, I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about us in that way yet.
Not because I don’t care, because I do, very much.
It’s just—” Alice paused, searching for the right words, the least harmful ones, the ones a person with empathy and a clear head might use.
“It’s just that my life is so complicated.
The idea of adding more is overwhelming. ”
“I’m overwhelming?”
“No, not you. Just the idea of a relationship that touches everything else in my life, especially my kids. What would that mean for them? What are the conversations I would have to have with them? How will any of it change our daily routines?” Alice’s breath was coming so quickly now that she had to stop talking for a moment, and she bent her head and closed her eyes.
How could she look at him, at his lovely, perfect face?
“Even when I couldn’t keep the nanny, I asked if she would stay in the basement suite for the stability. ”
“I don’t mean to overstep, but your kids aren’t babies. They’re ten and fourteen. They must know that it’s a possibility that you might move on from your ex-husband. That he might move on too.”
Alice nodded. He was making sense. Of course, he was.
Except it was harder than he realized. He didn’t know the hardness of Luna’s accusatory stare, the confusion and anger Alice always seemed to hear in her voice these days.
She just couldn’t shake the feeling that she was the source of all her daughter’s rage, and she was afraid that if she added another variable—a boyfriend at that—the tension they all lived with would explode.
“It doesn’t need to be hard. I’m just a guy who likes their mom. I’m not trying to replace their dad. I’m just…extra.” He placed his hand on her knee. “Is this really about your routines, or is it just that you don’t want me all that much?”
“Maybe,” she whispered, but as soon as she said it, she knew it wasn’t true.
She had been falling in love with him for weeks, could hardly stop thinking about him.
If she could, she would fit him inside her pocket and take him with her wherever she went.
She could just tell him the truth: that this relationship could potentially drive a wedge between her and her daughter, that it might do even worse to her son, that she loved him but didn’t know what the solution was, didn’t know how to reshape the four of them so that they were some kind of family.
It was easier to let him believe it was him.
The problem was him. Yes, that would be a cleaner cut.
Jas pushed the duvet above their heads and stood up.
“I think I need some time to myself.” He crept around the room, looking for his shoes and jacket, while Alice stayed silent, measuring words in her head that all fell short of the million things she wanted to say.
When he was ready, he reached for the doorknob, but then turned around.
“It’s funny to me that you’re so worried about routines and disruptions.
There are no routines here, even if you do a good job of hiding how fucked up you are.
And take it from me, Alice: you drink too much.
I serve alcoholics every single night and you are well, well on your way.
” He gently turned the knob and left, walking so softly in his socks that Alice smiled.
Even in his rage, he was respecting her rules.
She would laugh, if she didn’t also feel like crying.
She brought the tequila bottle to her mouth and drank. As if she even cared if she was an alcoholic. Every morning, the day stretched out before her, time broken up by chores and tasks that she hated. Without the drinking, without the numbness, she couldn’t do it all and not want to die.
the truth about single motherhood was that after the kids went to bed, the house fell into silence.
No one else moved the water glass from your nightstand.
Your hair ties stayed where you left them: on the table by the front door, on top of the toilet tank, in the cup holder of your car.
Alice had tried to explain this to her neighbourhood mom friends—all still married, all still tied to their husbands and their joint incomes—and they thought this was brilliant, the most convenient thing about living without a partner.
But they had missed the point. What Alice was trying to say, while the noise from the busy pub swelled and crashed, was that she was the only one who walked the house at night, whose fingers touched dishes or handrails or the locks on windows, and this ordered loneliness—so quiet, so still—was crazy-making.
It was easy, too easy, for Alice to scroll through her phone and see reminders of Jas everywhere: in her photo gallery, in her frequent contact list, in the long series of texts from him that she never deleted, never even tried to edit.
Their last exchange was cursory, about the time he would arrive the last time he snuck into the house, just words and numbers, no hearts or cute GIFs.
If Alice could write the last text, what would she say?
I’m in love with you and I don’t know what to do with that.
If I fall silent, it’s because I’m scared.
What if I ruin you?
What if you’ve already ruined me?
She deleted all of these and stuffed the phone under a pillow.
Tonight, Alice could hear the quick step beat of Doja Cat through the closed door of Luna’s room. She paused and knocked, lightly, so Luna would know she wasn’t trying to be nosy or invasive. The music stopped and a beat of silence stood still in the air.
“Yes?” Luna’s voice was quiet through the door, but with an annoyed edge.
“Can I come in?” Alice’s hand was already on the doorknob, the other in the pocket of her bathrobe.
“Sure, I guess.”
When Luna was born, Grant had painted her room a soft buttery yellow and applied daisy and tulip decals on the walls, positioning them so it seemed as if her bedroom was growing extravagant flower gardens in every corner.
The curtains had been a pale green gingham, diffusing the light in tiny squares of brightness and shadow.
But two years ago, Luna had picked off all the decals and repainted the walls herself, using a mossy dark green that made Alice think of swamp water or, more benignly, Oscar the Grouch.
The window was now hidden by a bead curtain Luna had bought at a store on Commercial Drive, and it still smelled like sandalwood and patchouli.
As Alice sat down on the bed, Luna shrank further into the corner, pressing her back into the headboard. Alice pretended not to notice. “How are you, honey? How was the weekend with your dad?”
Luna shrugged. “It was fine. Boring.”
“Have you made any plans with your friends for spring break?”
“No. I don’t know.” Luna picked up a magazine and flipped through its thin glossy pages.