Chapter 12
A week later, I wake up on Tuesday morning with a hangover that I immediately resent.
My mother “stopped in” last night with two of her friends around 9:00 p.m. Supposedly they were going out for drinks in the neighborhood and they just happened to be walking by my place. So I somehow—despite probably knowing better—agreed to a quick hello and letting them up for a glass of wine for everyone.
Two hours later, every subtle hint at bedtime had been completely ignored and three bottles of my wine had been consumed. And I wasn’t going to suffer that experience without a drink. But as a result I had significantly more than I normally would, especially for a Monday night.
So today my apartment is in shambles, along with my head, and I now have to drag myself up and get ready for work.
At least I know I get to hear from J.
Even with all the texting, J hasn’t stopped leaving me notes in the comments of my articles on Tuesday mornings. For all our discussions of our daily lives, I still enjoy getting his thoughts on various relationship issues. Although now instead of just having notes in the article, we can also text about it after.
I get up, sit at my desk, and pull open my computer. This week’s column is about a woman who’s been with her partner for eight years, and he hasn’t proposed yet despite her saying it’s important to her. While J’s notes start with his usual grammar comments, I’m a bit floored as I continue reading.
I always marvel at your sensitivity amidst directness. I’m not sure I could’ve been as rational with this woman. It’s as clear as day to anyone that this person should leave their partner—I don’t know why, but it makes me think of that scene in Love Actually where the mother is explaining making the octopus costume to Hugh Grant and she says very firmly something like, “eight’s a lot of legs, David.” All I can picture now is this letter writer saying “eight’s a lot of years, David.” (Sorry for the Love Actually tangent, and I really hope you aren’t one of those people who’ve decided it’s actually the worst, since I still love it, inexplicable plot and all ... ). Anyway . As I was saying. You somehow manage to avoid judging her on her long-term bad choice while also nudging her toward freedom and self-respect. I hope your advice resonates with a lot of people in ruts.
People say actions speak louder than words, but as a person who finds words often having more impact than actions, I think using the right ones can have a profound impact on someone’s life.
I don’t know what’s happening to me—maybe it’s the hangover or lack of sleep or straight-up patheticness—but I can feel a tear rolling down my cheek. It’s so uncharacteristic that I lift up my hand to feel it and know that it’s real.
I never cry. Not at movies, not at frustration about my family, not when work turns personal. I’m just not someone who is incapable of controlling my emotions.
And yet.
This sentiment J has sent across the ocean ... it touches me in a way I can’t explain. Much like his comments about standing up to my neighbors the other night, the way he always sees my intentions, just through words, is uncanny. He takes the edge away with a joke or an aside, but he cuts through every time. His notion that words can speak louder than actions has never felt truer. Not because of me, but because of him . His words lately echo not just across my whole week, but throughout my days.
And maybe it makes me feel a little brave again.
So instead of writing back in the notes, I just text him directly.
Nora: Love Actually makes me happy and I reject all logical breakdowns of the plot (mostly because they are technically correct, but incorrect in that I still love it).
J: Thank goodness. I don’t know if we could stay friends if you were a true hater of cinema’s most delightfully deranged romance-adjacent holiday masterpiece.
Nora: I wouldn’t dream of it.
Nora: But seriously, thank you for your kind words. I might say the same about yours to me—they often do speak louder than any of the actions of the people I see in person. I appreciate the encouragement you always give.
J: I’m really glad.
J: I feel like you’re always giving me free therapy advice, so anytime I can just give one small smidgeon of that back, I feel grateful.
J: Need any terrible therapy today? I promise I’m unlicensed but extremely in your corner.
I laugh and wipe the last tear away. I take a deep breath to try and get my headache to go away. The thought of last night irritates me and spurs me to actually take him up on his offer.
Nora: You joke, but my mother and her friends came over last night uninvited, drank me out of house and home, left a mess, and caused me a particularly unwelcome hangover today.
J: So my advice the other day to take some things back for yourself really was taken into consideration, eh?
Nora: I know you’re teasing, but I did appreciate that.
Nora: It’s harder with parents.
J: Considering how many columns I’ve commented on with whiny things about my own parents over the last seven years, you already know you won’t get an argument on that from me.
Nora: Not whiny. Just normal I suppose. Everyone has tough positions with their parents.
J: Yeah, but you shouldn’t let your mum take advantage of you. It’s okay to say no. And if you ever need a bit of strength before doing so, just text me and I’ll remind you.
Nora: Thank you. I actually really appreciate that.
J: Anytime.
J: Actually, I know exactly what you should say to your mother. You should stand up and say, “I fear this has become a relationship where you take exactly what you want and casually ignore all the things that really matter.”
J: (to Britain)
Nora: First Churchill, and now you’re quoting the fictional Prime Minister Hugh Grant from Love Actually?
J: Paraphrasing. Quoting is entirely nerdier. Paraphrasing is much more casual.
J: And look, it’s not my fault that your presidents don’t really have any quotable oration and even our fictional ones give us a lot of inspiring stuff to work with.
Nora: I think when I’m in London I’m going to bring you a few books about American Presidents. It seems that your education system has failed you on that one.
J: I look forward to it.
The thought of seeing him in person makes my stomach lurch with some mix of fear and excitement. But before I can dwell on that too fully, George is giving me a growl to get me moving. So I shake it all off and get up, trying to find my swishiest skirt to give me armor against the headache-infused day ahead.
And it is indeed a long day. I have a full roster of clients and then a session with Ari, where she also doesn’t let me off the hook for indulging my mother. I tell her what J said, and she agrees wholeheartedly. But then she also makes me discuss how I’m feeling about the impending trip, and that all just makes the nerves come back again.
My day finally starts to feel like I’m going to be able to relax as I’m walking home from Ari’s office. My phone pings, and I pull it out, hoping it’s a response from J, but instead, it’s from Dane. ??Want to join me at pool tonight? I need to distract Arbus and he always chokes when you’re around.??
I roll my eyes.
Nora: What a nice invitation that makes me feel so loved and appreciated.
Dane: I’m saying I appreciate your presence.
Nora: Because I theoretically ruin someone else’s game.
Dane: Right? And what could possibly be more imperative to my appreciation than helping me crush others at pool?
I get home and set my purse on the counter, shaking my head. How can I explain to Dane that there’s absolutely 1,000 percent no chance of me leaving my home this evening?
But before I can write her back and let her down gently, I notice that George hasn’t run up to greet me, and I start looking around. I know he can be a moody little worm sometimes, but he’s always at the ready when I get home.
And then I hear it. It’s a hammering that might actually be a hammer? Pounding over and over, coming through the ceiling like it’s right on top of us.
Shit. It probably is right on top of us.
I go into my room and crouch to see under the bed. George is lying on the floor, looking exceptionally irritated on the surface but with a shaky layer of distress underneath. The pounding stops, and I coax him out.
“Sorry, sweet boy,” I say, patting him and pulling him onto the bed so he’s at least comfortable. His Prozac helps with his anxiety generally, but when something is disturbing his peace, I know it’s particularly triggering. He normally projects such a tough exterior that whenever he’s like this, it breaks my heart a little. I rub his back to try and give him something grounded and familiar to soothe him. “I’m sure that was just the worst of it.”
But no sooner is the sentence out of my mouth than the pounding begins again. George crawls onto my lap and curls into a ball so tight I wonder if he’s suddenly become spring-loaded.
I know exactly who’s responsible for this, and it’s making me all the more irritated. With George still glued to my lap, I gingerly reach into my pocket to get my phone and text Dane back.
Nora: I’m trying to be the bigger person with Eli, but if he’s literally hammering something on the roof I’m allowed to be pissed about that, right?
Dane: Actually?
Nora: Yeah, and I came in and George was under the bed and very keyed up, so it’s obviously not like a quick thing that just began. It keeps starting and stopping and George is a mess.
Dane: Fuck that guy.
Nora: It’s too bad you’re so reserved. I wish you’d just tell me how you feel.
Dane: You joke, but if I was there I’d go up with a hammer of my own and tell him to knock it off before I knock him off.
Nora: Normally I’d say that was extreme, but when it comes to Eli, I’m pretty sure he’d only respond to direct calls to violence.
Dane: So go tell him off.
The pounding stops for a brief moment, and I have a wave of relief, but then almost immediately it starts again. I figure I’ll give it a minute before doing anything rash. I set my phone down to charge next to my bed. I tidy up and keep checking in on George, trying to calm him with soothing words. I’m about to pull out the ingredients for dinner when the hammering gets louder.
That’s it. Eli can’t play some game where he jovially spins me around one day and then expects carte blanche to jackhammer on top of my head.
I need to take J’s advice and stand up for myself.
I storm upstairs.
“Eli!” I shout, bounding through the door onto the roof. In my rising annoyance, I fling it from its propped-open position so hard that it bounces off the wall and slams shut. “You can’t just hammer random shit on the roof at all hours. You’ve been driving my dog insane, clearly for quite some time, and now you’re driving me insane by hammering so hard that I can hear every single movement inside my house.”
He’s looked up from his position on his knees, his white T-shirt sweaty as he nails together what looks like flower beds or some other wooden structure intended for potting plants. He’s staring at me, a look of horror and embarrassment crossing his face. I take a step back, wondering if maybe I went too far. Was he confused about the noise he was making? Does he not even realize how loud it is when he does that stuff?
But I could never have anticipated what he says next.
“Nora, I don’t have my keys on me. The door was propped. You just locked us out.”