Chapter 4
It’s not what it sounds like.
Unless what it sounds like is that I had sex with my high school teacher. Because technically, that is what happened. But as an adult !
This is why I don’t like talking about it. People immediately get the wrong idea. I get it, it sounds bad. But it wasn’t bad. Or maybe it was, and that’s why it had to end.
I was twenty-five, and Alex—Mr. Edelman, our sophomore-year history teacher—was thirty-six.
Our paths crossed virtually, on Jdate. It was during the height of dating apps, so it seemed like half the world’s population was actively swiping and chatting.
Including me. I came across his profile one night and felt a shit-eating grin spread across my face.
I had absolutely had a major crush on him in high school (and so had most of my friends).
He’d been married for a while but had gotten divorced.
And his profile was so endearing, so earnest. Plus he was still smoking hot.
I read and re-read his bio, pacing around my apartment with hot-girl anthems blaring, drinking more Pinot than I’d normally drink at home alone.
“Oh, what the hell,” I finally said to myself. “He probably won’t respond.” So I sent him a “like” and then messaged him: Fancy seeing you here, Mr. E! Remember me?
He replied almost immediately.
Of course I remember you, Mallory. How are you?
I had to sit down after that; my limbs had turned to jelly. Of course he remembered me? Was there a hint in there? Or was he just being polite?
Things are great! What about you? Still working at North Lake?
I am. Still teaching history. I’m one of the old-timers there now.
You are definitely not old, Mr. E.
There was a pause, and I thought that might be the end of our conversation. But then he wrote: Call me Alex.
I did a little silent shimmy-scream. I could not believe I was actually flirting with Alex Edelman . Holy crap. I took another gulp of wine, my fingers shaking as I tried to think of something suitably cool and funny to say in response.
So you’re working in tech? He messaged me before I could reply—showing that he’d read my profile.
Yep. I’m a project manager.
Awesome. I knew you would be successful. You always had potential.
At this, I had to sit down. I curled my legs under me on the couch and read his message four or five times. It did something to me. I felt floaty, like my blood was shimmering. I felt like a teenager again, before my dreams were crushed. I felt proud.
It’s just a job, but I’m pretty good at it , I wrote. So tell me, Alex, have you had any luck on this app so far?
There was a long, long pause. I wondered if he’d gone to sleep or maybe just decided that this was a bad idea.
Not until tonight.
I threw myself back on the couch and kicked my legs in the air. This was happening !
We had long conversations on the app for the next week, and then we moved on to video chats.
There was something so intimate about having this virtual tête-à-tête with him, I could feel the sexual tension through the screen.
It got to the point where we were texting each other all day and having video calls multiple nights each week.
Finally, that summer, we went on our first date.
We met at San Fermo, an Italian restaurant in Ballard, where they had set up cozy outdoor tables under strands of string lights.
I wore a floral sundress I’d had since college that I worried was too short, subtly tugging at the hem with shaking hands as I walked up to him and said hello.
But what started as something that made me feel good about myself—He saw my potential!
He liked me!—devolved into something that made me insecure.
We dated for over a year, and it got pretty serious—we stayed over at each other’s places frequently, we talked about the future. But we never met each other’s families.
At first, it was easy to justify why our relationship was so isolated.
People were staying home and social distancing.
The world was in and out of quarantine. But after the first vaccines came out, we started running out of excuses.
So we just stopped talking about meeting each other’s families, about going out with friends.
Because deep down we knew that they would think it was wrong. That we shouldn’t be together.
One rainy fall night, we ran into a mutual acquaintance at the movie theater.
It was a girl from my high school class, Tessa Jordan.
We said a quick hello, and the look on her face was like…
it was like she was on a gossip-only diet and she’d been starving in the desert for weeks and we were the juiciest gossip steak she’d ever seen.
I could practically see a thought bubble over her head with the messages she was about to send to everyone she still knew from school.
That was when I started thinking seriously about ending it.
I didn’t want to retroactively tarnish my own reputation, but more than that, I didn’t want Alex to lose his job.
Maybe that wouldn’t happen, but how could we be sure?
If a single person claimed that we’d had an inappropriate relationship when I was sixteen, he might never work again.
He understood my concerns, but he didn’t think it was as big a deal.
“We’re both adults. You were twenty-five when we started dating” was his typical argument.
“If it’s so fine, then why haven’t I met your parents?”
He never had a good answer for that.
I loved the time we spent together. But I didn’t love the way being with him made me feel. There was a little voice in my head that kept getting stronger that said I didn’t want to hide. I didn’t want to be hidden from his family, to have a secret relationship, to never move forward.
So I ended it. Out of the blue, out of nowhere.
I took the coward’s way out and I texted him that it was over.
I didn’t even tell him in person. I’m not proud of the way I did it, but I know that ending it was inevitable.
We weren’t meant to be. No matter how many times I’ve sobbed alone on my couch, wishing that I could curl up against him and feel the weight of his arm around me as we Netflix-surfed together.
But I’ve been strong enough to resist him whenever he’s reached out.
I wonder when he’ll give up for good. A part of me that simply yearns to feel wanted hopes that he doesn’t.
On Wednesday afternoon when I’m fully immersed in a planning meeting with a team of engineers, I’m annoyed by the insistent buzzing of my phone.
Probably a spam call. I glance at it and see the name Eddy Gilberstein flashing on the screen. What? Why is my great-uncle calling me? And why can’t boomers learn how to send a text message?
“Mallory, what’s the latest on the executive review of the last build?”
Shoot. I have not been paying attention and have no idea what this person just asked me.
It takes me a second to refocus, but I manage to stammer out a BS answer.
I get caught up in work details for the next few hours and forget about the phone call entirely.
It’s only when I’m heading out the door for my walk, opening my podcast app, that I realize I have a voicemail.
I play the voicemail and start my trek up the hill, the cool evening air riffling my long hair out behind me.
“Mallory, it’s your uncle Eddy here,” comes a deep voice tinged with the American Jewish accent all my older relatives seem to have. “Gimme a call back, would you? Been tryin’ to reach you. Thanks.”
I raise my arms in exasperation. That’s it? Honestly, doesn’t he know people these days need more information? A phone call is sort of a big commitment. Anyway, it’s already past eight P.M. in Florida. I’ll call him back tomorrow.
But I don’t get the chance. In the morning, when there are five minutes left in my yoga class, my phone rings again. I sigh. The final Savasana is my favorite part of class. Oh well.
“Hello?” I answer the phone, mopping my hairline with a clean towel.
“Mallory, it’s Eddy here.”
I know. But I’m not going to explain caller ID to him right now.
“Yes, hi, how are you?” I cross the kitchen and start pulling smoothie ingredients out of the fridge. “Sorry I missed your call yesterday.”
“Fine, fine.”
“What’s going on?” I plunk a tub of yogurt and a carton of oat milk on the counter.
“Well, listen.” He pauses, somewhat hesitantly. “You probably know I’ve been handling some of Lottie’s affairs. Helping Leonard out.”
“That’s nice of you.” I peel a banana and add it to the blender.
“Yeah, well. So here’s the thing. Lottie left you something.”
I stop, clutching a handful of spinach leaves. “She did?”
“Mallory, she left you a house. Pebble Cottage. Down in Reina Beach.”
I’m silent for so long that Uncle Eddy clears his throat.
“Mallory? You know Pebble Cottage, right? The house your mom and Trish grew up in?”
My brain whirs like an overheated computer. “Uh… yeah? I mean, why—why me? Lottie had five grandkids.”
“Well… As I understand it, it’s because your sister, Maeve, is married and settled, and the other kids are still in school.”
“Ellie’s in college, and she already lives in Florida. Why not leave it to her? Or to Mom or Trish?” I take a deep breath and realize I need to sit down, so I do, on the kitchen floor. “Uncle Eddy… are you sure she meant to leave it to me specifically?”
He lets out a booming laugh. “Of course! She left Pebble Cottage to Mallory Rosen. Clear as day.”
As I sit cross-legged on the floor, my gaze lingers on the floating shelf above the microwave.
That shelf is the extent of my home maintenance experience.
It took me a month to decide what to put in that spot, two weeks to commit to buying the shelf, and countless hours of YouTube tutorials before I felt confident enough to drill into the wall.
And then I accidentally drilled a hole the size of a quarter and had to call my dad to come and help me fix it.
That shelf is currently telling me that I am in no way qualified to be the owner of Pebble Cottage.
“But, Eddy, a house is…” I trail off. A house is a lot of things. A huge responsibility. An even bigger surprise. A windfall. And, now that I’m wrapping my brain around it, it’s an honor that Lottie chose me . “Well, I’m honored,” I say finally.
“Of course, there are some stipulations,” Eddy says.
Wait, what?
I’m wary of whatever he’s going to say next. Lottie had her own particular way of doing things. It was always her way or the highway.
“In exchange for the house, Lottie has requested that you look after Leonard. And that you not sell the house, uh, while Leonard is still alive.”
A ringing silence follows these words. I don’t know what to say. This is so Lottie.
“I see,” I say slowly. “But… what does that mean exactly, look after Gramps? Doesn’t he live in a senior community? Aren’t there people to look after him?”
“It’s an independent living community. There are staff, like house cleaners and nurses, but I think Lottie wanted to make sure someone would see that he’s doing okay. That he’s not too lonely, that he’s taking care of himself. That kind of thing.”
“That makes sense.” But what doesn’t make sense is, again, why me ? I’m starting to get heart palpitations. If one single, solitary shelf is the extent of my homeowner qualifications, my qualifications as the caretaker of a grandpa are nonexistent. I don’t even own a plant.
I say the first thing that occurs to me next: “But I live in Seattle.”
“I know. I’m just the messenger here. Maybe she was hoping you would live in the house.”
This is so unexpected, it takes me a second to articulate a response. I settle on “The house has tenants, doesn’t it?”
“Well, she had tenants. Their lease is ending next week, and they’re not renewing. Maybe they were only staying for Lottie. But the mortgage was paid off ages ago.”
I have so many questions, I don’t know which ones to ask first.
“Does Gramps know about this arrangement?”
“He knows Lottie left the house to you. That’s it. But your folks know about it and all. I’ll send over some documents with all the particulars.”
“Okay.” Details. Suddenly my mind floods with all the details I’m going to have to think about. Insurance. Maintenance. Taxes.
“All right, so if you have any questions, call me up. Okay, Mal?”
“Yeah. Thanks, Eddy.”
A few minutes later, I sit down with my smoothie and my oat milk latte and read through the documents from Eddy. There are a couple of things I’m supposed to sign. It’s all in legalese. I don’t understand a word of it.
Luckily, I know some lawyers.