Chapter 6
Evan
B oth Jane and I have taken the Monday after our wedding off. In the morning, we brave the traffic to drive Claudia to the airport. She playfully threatens me in the drop-off area.
“You better not screw this up,” she says, “or I will come for you.”
Despite her tone, I don’t think she’s joking, but that’s okay. I intend to be a good husband.
I might feel a bolt of longing when I witness a couple having an emotional goodbye, but then someone behind me honks, and I return to my senses.
That isn’t for you. You don’t deserve it.
I wince at the thought that pops into my head, unbidden. I didn’t get married to my friend because I don’t think I deserve love. It just wasn’t happening for me, and I wanted companionship and home ownership. So, I did what was practical.
As I get back on the highway, I try to focus on our plans for the day instead. We’re going to Canadian Tire to get a bunch of things we need for the house, including a lawn mower. We have a front flower garden and a back vegetable garden, though it’s a little late in the year to do a lot with those. But for next year…
“I want bisexual flowers,” I say.
“Flowers that produce both sperm and eggs?” Jane asks. “Isn’t that what the word means when you come to flowers?”
“Maybe that’s true. But I mean flowers that can turn both blue and pink, depending on the soil conditions. Sometimes clusters of them look like the bisexual flag. I forget what they’re called. It starts with an h .”
“Bisexual…flag…flowers,” she says. I think she’s typing that into her phone, but I can’t see because my eyes are focused on the road. “Okay. Yes. It’s a type of hydrangea. The color is related to the pH of the soil.”
“What do you want in the garden?” I ask.
“Cherry tomatoes and herbs. Maybe daffodils and tulips out front for early spring—we’ll have to look into that this fall.”
I picture our red-brick house with some cheerful yellow daffodils. I might not be getting romance out of this marriage, but having a place that’s ours is nice.
“I like double daffodils better than the regular ones,” Jane says.
“Sure.” I’m not sure what a double daffodil is, but I don’t have strong feelings on types of spring flowers, so I’m happy to do what she wants.
When we arrive at the Canadian Tire nearest to our house, Jane marches inside and leads me through the store. She seems to know what she’s doing. I guess she looked up the aisle numbers on her phone while I was driving. She puts a rake and a shovel into our cart, followed by some gloves and pruning shears. At least, I think that’s what those are.
And when we get to the lawn mowers, Jane knows exactly what she wants.
“We really need to cut our grass,” she says, “so we should buy one today. Is this model okay with you?”
“Um,” I say. “It’s a lawn mower. I don’t know much about them. Whatever you pick is fine with me.” Although I cut the grass on occasion when I lived with my parents, I’m far from an expert.
“I couldn’t sleep last night, and I did a deep dive into lawn mower reviews.”
“Why couldn’t you sleep?”
She shrugs. “It happens every now and then, no big deal. Anyway, I thought reading reviews of lawn mowers would be both useful and put me to sleep, but it was surprisingly entertaining. Well, maybe not so much entertaining as interesting. I didn’t know there were so many options. What?”
My mouth is hanging open. Somehow, this isn’t what I expected from Jane, even though I’ve known her for a long time.
But admittedly, neither of us had a lawn in all those years.
“You sure you’re okay with whatever I like?” she asks.
“Yeah.” The one she’s picked out isn’t the cheapest—and I’m sure there are good reasons for that. “You know more about this than I do.”
Once we get home and put all our stuff away, she decides to take the lawn mower out for a spin. She changes into shorts and a tank top, and while she gets to work in the backyard, I start on dinner.
Over the next few days, I learn many things about Jane that I didn’t know before.
Reading product reviews is a habit of hers when she can’t sleep. She particularly enjoys one-star reviews of both the Bible and laxatives.
I also learn that she likes to exercise first thing in the morning. She buys an elliptical machine for our basement, and we settle into a routine where she gets up and works out, and I have coffee ready for her by the time she’s finished her shower.
I give up my Netflix account and learn her password.
“This relationship feels real now,” I joke.
I meet our neighbors, too. To our left are the Rosenbaums: a man and woman in their late thirties and their little girl. To the right is a widowed man in his seventies who came over from Hong Kong a few years before my parents.
At the end of every workday, I go for a walk, and I soon find a route I like that takes me about half an hour.
The Friday after our wedding, I return home to find Jane having a snack in the kitchen.
“Are you okay?” She peers at me.
“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”
“You’re sweating a lot. I know it’s warm, but it’s still fairly pleasant for July.”
I hesitate. “A side effect of my antidepressant, which is one of the reasons I hope to go off it eventually. But it’s the only drug that worked, so I’m on it for now.”
The other irritating side effect of this antidepressant? It killed my libido. Not that it was particularly high when I was severely depressed, but the drug made it worse, even as it improved my mood, and my low sex drive caused problems in my last relationship.
However, there’s no reason Jane needs to know about that.
She nods and pours me a glass of water. “That’s annoying, but I’m glad you found something. I remember how long it took.”
Somehow, we smoothly move to discussing which K-drama we should watch in the evenings, and when we start the first episode after dinner, I pull her against me and she rests her head on my shoulder.
I really do appreciate having someone here, someone who will be a little affectionate with me, someone who will discuss mundane things like weather and lawncare and exercise equipment, even if we aren’t sharing a bed.
Even if the last time I kissed her on the lips, it was entirely performative.