Chapter 23
This is the first time I’ve had an official, scheduled date begin in the morning.
I assure him that it’s never too early for wine.
“This is one of maybe five things I know how to cook,” he says, stirring a bowl of batter. “I should really expand my repertoire, but Kira’s picky about food, so it’s more efficient to master the five things she eats.”
“You choose your meals according to a nine-year-old’s palate?” I was expected to eat whatever my parents put in front of me. But of course as an only child, I was always outnumbered.
“Have you ever tried to reason with a third-grader who refuses to eat?” he asks. “I do my best, but I’m not going to engage in a battle of wills every night.”
I wonder how Kira’s mom decides what they’re going to eat—and who made dinner when they were married. Having never been romantically involved with a divorced person—let alone a parent—I don’t know how to broach an honest discussion about that relationship on a first “official” date.
Nick pours the batter onto the griddle. I wander around the living room, which has fewer boxes than it did last time, but more toys and art supplies strewn across every surface.
“Where’s your stuff?” I ask. “All those collectibles you were unpacking?”
He nods toward his bedroom. “Why do you think I installed all those shelves in there?”
“To drive me crazy with the drilling and hammering?”
“Exactly.”
“I know why I confine my stuff to one room.” I lean against the kitchen counter. “But this is your apartment. You could put some of your things out here, too.”
Nick scans his living room. “You think Kira’s taken over the apartment.”
“I didn’t say ‘taken over.’ But it’s your space, too, right?”
“I can live anywhere,” he says. “I spent years living out of one duffel bag and sleeping on a bus. Kids need space. And I don’t want my home to feel like…some crash pad. Especially since her mom lives in ‘our’ house. That’s always going to feel like the default.”
“Sometimes I slept on my dad’s couch because he didn’t have an extra bedroom. I didn’t mind because it meant I could stay up late and watch TV.”
Nick shakes his head. “Kids need their own space. And it shouldn’t feel like an extra bedroom.”
Not that I believed my dad to be a paragon of fatherhood. But every time I have a conversation with Nick about single parenting, I feel like my memories get distorted. Like I’m playing them back through a lens that gives them a grittier aesthetic.
Nick grabs a plate from his cabinet and carefully opens the lid of the waffle iron to reveal a golden-brown waffle shaped like the starship Enterprise.
“It’s really good,” I say after I bite into what he explains are the warp engines.
“I’ve been tweaking the recipe,” he says. I wonder if he made waffles for his ex on Sunday mornings or if it’s a new culinary development.
“I bet you really get creative with all those tiny condiment packets in your fridge,” I say.
“You’re probably mocking me, but just wait until you experience how I use all three Taco Bell hot sauces in my mac and cheese.”
While the next Enterprise cooks, I venture a question.
“What happened with Kira’s mom?”
“Besides the fact that our names are Nick and Nora?”
“Seriously.” I put the glass down and rearrange my sitting position. “Was it…acrimonious?”
“I don’t think any divorce is…what’s the opposite of acrimonious?”
“Harmonious?”
“Definitely not harmonious at the time. Raising a child…it exposes cracks in a relationship that you can paper over more easily when it’s just the two of you.
Things that worked for us as a couple stopped working when we became parents.
There’s more stress, less sleep, less sex.
You don’t have as much time for your old hobbies and friends.
You’re both going through this huge life change together, but that doesn’t mean you’re experiencing the same things.
” He takes a deep breath. “And I know this isn’t going to paint me in the best light, but I know she feels that she took on more of the parenting duties than I did while we were together. ”
“Do you think that, too?”
He’s quiet for a few seconds. “I didn’t see it at the time, but now that we’re in a different kind of structure, I think there’s truth to it, yeah.
I was worried about letting things slide at my job, and maybe part of me felt like it was my duty to keep pushing on that front, even if it meant that Kira’s mom was picking up more of the slack at home. ”
“I think that happens to a lot of women.” To put it mildly. “My dad is exhibit A.”
“I never wanted to be the kind of father who calls it ‘babysitting’ when my kid is with me. I work harder on that now. I’m more conscious of times when I start slipping.
That’s why I’m grateful for the stability of my job, even when it’s awful.
That’s why I moved to this place even though it’s a little smaller than my last apartment.
I’m closer to the house, in a nicer unit, better neighborhood.
My old complex didn’t have a pool and…well, you’ve seen Kira in the pool. ”
“When did you split up?” I ask. I’m being blunt now, but I want to have all the facts.
He squints, like he’s trying to remember. “Maybe two and a half years ago?”
“Oh.” I can’t hide the surprise in my voice. I had thought it had been more recent, for some reason.
“So, do you want to watch a movie?” Nick asks as he sits next to me with his plate.
The thought of scrolling some streaming service’s interface reminds me too much of meandering evenings at Hal’s place—at least the times when we kept up the pretense of actually watching a film.
I look around his half-unpacked apartment for inspiration: the coffee table, cluttered with Popsicle sticks, wrappers, and colored pencils; stuffed animals and small ankle socks wedged behind the cushions; a fleece blanket covered in drawings of horses.
There’s not a whole lot of Nick in this space.
Then I look down at my starship-shaped meal.
Huh.
“Can we watch an episode of Star Trek?” I ask.
“Now I’m positive you’re mocking me.”
“Hear me out: I’ve never actually seen this show, and it seems kind of important to you.” I gesture at our plates. “I want to understand why. So pick out an episode and walk me through it.”
“One episode?” he asks, raking his hand through his hair. “Okay,” he says after a long, thoughtful pause. “I think I know exactly which episode you need to see.”
“You’re saying I’m the emotionless, overly cerebral character with a bad haircut?”
“No,” Nick says. “I said that you both have bangs. Just wait until we get to the part where Spock has a hormonal breakdown.”
“Pardon me?”
“Spock does have emotions; he just believes he’s mastered them. When he undergoes pon farr—the Vulcan hormone imbalance—it proves that no one can suppress emotions indefinitely. Everyone needs some kind of outlet, some way to express themselves. Otherwise, sooner or later, you’ll explode.”
I’m not sure I have an outlet anymore. No more therapist, not that she was unlocking much.
Academic stuff was probably some kind of conduit—writing about other creators’ big feelings.
But when’s the last time I’ve engaged with art like that?
When’s the last time I tried sketching? When’s the last time I grabbed something that’s floating around like a wispy ghost inside my head and pulled it out into the real world and confronted it?
I’ve had so much time for a creative endeavor and I haven’t once picked up a pencil.
“I’m not saying that you’re proving my point,” Nick says gently. “But you’re staring into the middle distance with a concerned look on your face. What are you thinking about?”
I shake it off. “No, no. This was supposed to help me understand you.”
“Oh, that’s easy,” he says, pointing at William Shatner on the screen. “I’m a Kirk. Loyal to a fault, sometimes too impulsive, lead with my heart, not my head. In too deep, too fast.”
“And kind of a slut?” I say.
“I’ve had my moments.”
“I’m still waiting for the wild stories from the Nickelback tour.”
“I’ve mellowed out since Kira was born. Sometime during the pandemic, I realized that I like staying in. I got really comfortable not meeting people. Too comfortable.” He gestures at the TV. “I’ve been in this sort of…coma.”
“You’ve been in a coma? Wait till you experience my riveting lifestyle. Oh, that’s right, you’ve already heard the most enthralling part of my day.”
Nick looks down for a moment, like he’s debating what to say next. “I don’t do this—I never have a reason to do this—but I looked at your Instagram.”
“You stalked me?” I feel myself beaming.
“I quickly glanced at your profile,” he says. “And you obviously had this full life, and you went out and had these friends.”
“In New York. In 2019.” The operative word there is had.
I’ve barely posted since then. When I do, the posts are kind of vague and existential.
I guess I’m operating under the delusion that if I create a veil of mystery around my whereabouts, my internet acquaintances will assume that I’ve been building a real life for the last five years instead of posting selfies.
Most of my grad school friends don’t even know that I’m still living in Columbus.
“I get that things have changed,” he says. “I mean, my life used to be so spontaneous. I traveled, I followed jam bands, got my nose broken. I did every kind of mushroom. Fell in lust with every kind of woman.”
“You are a Kirk!”
“I used to meditate all the time,” he says. “I really thought I was this, like, spiritual guy. I’d do yoga. I went to Burning Man.”
A wild laugh escapes my mouth. “That’s kind of hilarious.”
“Years ago. When it was completely different.”
“Sure.” I nod, fake seriously.
“And now I kind of see all that as pointless bullshit.” He rubs at his shoulder. “Because despite my claims of righteousness, from what I barely remember, I mostly did that stuff to meet girls and do drugs—”
“To be fair, that is the Dream for most people.”
“—and now I’m looking at myself and my life and my gut—”
“I like your dad bod.”
“—and I’m literally this very different person now. I’m afraid to even show you photos of me in my twenties.”
I’m so used to being the mildly self-conscious one I can’t really process this.
“Can I look up that guy’s Instagram? Or did you have MySpace at that point in history?”
He ignores my dig. “You’ll be, like, ‘What happened? Why did I get the version of this guy with the back that’s always hurting?’ ”
“For some reason, I’m picturing a darker-haired Thor.”
“I’ll let you believe that.”
“Would you rather remain in the coma?” I ask. “Because I can try the Vulcan nerve pinch.”
I reach for the base of his neck and he grabs my pincher hand, yanking me on top of him. I hold my head up just an inch above his.
He moves his head to kiss me, catching me midlaugh, and we both taste like red wine even though it’s 11:05 a.m. I love the way his hands feel on my back—how I know, no matter how much I squirm around trying to give him the nerve pinch, he won’t let me roll off the couch.
“You’ll regret it if you do the Vulcan nerve pinch and put me back in the coma before I get to make you come at least three times,” he says. I lift my head a little bit. “If we’re at that point. It’s okay if we’re not.”
He sits up, I guess sensing the mood evolving into a conversation rather than an escalation.
It’s not that I don’t want to escalate. I just don’t need to right now.
Because I’m enjoying this stage. I like knowing that my feelings are going somewhere, even if there’s a countdown timer ticking away in the background of all of this.
And yes, maybe I’m a little apprehensive about sinking deeper into a relationship that’s destined to be a dead end. Not that I have my own clear path forward.
But also, I’m horny.
“I do want to,” I say. “But we’re in that phase where it’s, like…you discover a song that’s so awesome and you just play it on repeat and you know that you’re gorging on it and you’re getting too sick of it too fast. But you can’t help indulging yourself because it’s so good in that moment.”
“I’m confused.” He narrows his eyes a bit. “Are you planning to gorge on me?” He pats his belly. “Is that why you’re not interested in the lean and muscular version?”
“What I was saying was…I like this. I haven’t done this part in a long time.” I squeeze his hand. “No gorging. I’m saying we should savor.”
“I’m all for savoring,” he says. “I can savor for a very, very long time. We can savor, then at some point in the future—”
“Near future.”
“—near future, I get to make you come, and then I get the nerve pinch and return to my coma. Sounds perfect.”