Chapter 4
Will glanced down from their bedroom window to the street in front of their building and then walked out into the hallway.
“If you had any lingering doubts about this trip,” he said to Rachel, who was in the bathroom blow-drying her hair, “you can put those to rest.”
“What?” she asked, switching it off.
“I said if you were still unsure about doing this, the universe has given us a sign.”
“Really? I didn’t hear you say the word universe.”
“I thought you didn’t hear me say anything.”
“I would’ve heard something as cheesy as that,” she said with a smirk.
“Ha ha ha. Well, I guess you don’t want to know, then, that the spot right outside the front door is open.” They both parked in a lot behind the building, the limited street parking eluding them like sobriety at Mardi Gras. The space in question belonged to a 75-year-old man who never left his apartment and never moved his 1991 Mazda Miata.
“Wait—Filbert’s spot?”
“Uh-huh. Which means packing the car just got way easier. I know it’s only, like, three bags, but you gotta admit—”
“Will.”
“Yeah?”
“Filbert’s spot is open. Why the hell are you still here talking to me? Go!”
“Good point,” he said, turning and jogging toward the kitchen to grab his keys as the white noise of the hair dryer started up again. It was 9:30 a.m. on Saturday, and Filbert had probably run out for breakfast or coffee or maybe some Turtle Wax. The man’s car was parked outside 12 months a year and had lived through more than 30 Chicago winters, and yet it continued to sparkle like the middle-aged impulse purchase it surely once was.
Will descended the stairs and emerged from the building’s entryway, happy to confirm that Filbert had yet to return and no one else had grabbed the spot. They wouldn’t be using it for more than a few minutes, but he felt like he’d almost willed it into existence, not unlike the trip itself. When he’d gotten home the night before and launched into his pitch, even before removing the foil cover from his burrito bowl, Rachel had been skeptical. She’d been on the couch, already in her pajamas, wondering aloud whether she could rewatch all six seasons of Schitt’s Creek over the course of the coming week once they were caught up on Date Me Now!
“Not that I don’t think that would be an admirable pursuit,” Will had said, a nod to the fact that approximately 50 percent of their text exchanges involved at least one GIF from the show, “but when’s the next time we’ll have a chance to do something like this?”
He’d realized he’d come in too hot and hoped that if he could downshift into appearing playful, she wouldn’t pick up on just how invested he already was in her saying yes.
“When’s the next time we’ll have a chance to do something like this?” Rachel had said, stabbing her chocolate chip cookie dough with an oversize spoon. “I hate to say it, but Week of Nothing’s days are numbered with a baby. And it also feels a little too on the nose. Like we’d be trying to be spontaneous, you know?”
“Sometimes spontaneity needs a little bit of a nudge. Especially in the Midwest.”
“Not to mention we’re a little old for Date Me Now! cosplay. I like sleeping in our own bed. That memory foam has been the MVP of this pregnancy so far.”
“C’mon, who doesn’t want to walk around some fancy old house designed by an architect whose genius was an existential threat to the fragile male ego?”
At that, she’d laughed. And he’d known he had her.
“Let’s do something better than general admission for Summerfest,” she’d said after officially agreeing. “Just because it’s outdoors doesn’t mean I want to sit on a lawn chair the whole night.”
“I thought you and I could just channel my mom at Billy Joel,” he’d said with a wink, plopping down next to her on the couch.
“One, gross. Two, I did that once in college. It’s overrated.”
“What? Sex at a concert?”
“Yeah.”
“With who?”
“It was before I met you.”
“Who was it?”
“I don’t see how that’s relevant,” she’d teased. He’d gone quiet for a second, so she hit play on the remote.
“No way,” Will had finally said. “You’re messing with me.”
“Sure, I am, sweetie,” she’d said and patted him on his knee. “Sure, I am.” He’d stared at her, and she’d just arched her eyebrows.
“I’m both incredibly attracted to you and wildly insecure at the moment.”
She’d laughed over Date Me Now! “Perfect—just like the guys on the show. Now shh—this improv date has dumpster fire written all over it.”
After he’d finished eating his dinner and bearing witness to said dumpster fire—a joke that insinuates if you strike out with your date, then you’d like to sleep with her mom is never going to break in your favor—Will had opened up his laptop and begun researching and making some purchases. The week having been his idea, Rachel had been content to let him handle the planning, save for her thoughts on the concert tickets and a request regarding the somewhere stop between Ann Arbor and Nashville, which had become Lexington, Kentucky. Will had suggested it because of her history with horses—she’d always talked about how free she’d felt when riding—and she’d reminded him that while she did indeed love them, she didn’t necessarily have a high opinion of horse racing, so he should pick what they’d do there accordingly.
Thanks to the resale market, the concert piece had been easy enough to handle. At that time the next night, they would be seated in the pavilion venue, row X, seats one and two—which hadn’t sounded great at first but were surprisingly close to the stage—in real seats, under a roof, and right on the aisle. It wasn’t the festival’s main stage, and Will didn’t know Gretchen Grayson, the evening’s headliner, but Rachel did and liked her, informing him that Grayson had left her first label because she’d had limited creative freedom there.
“Not that I can relate or anything,” she’d added, only reconfirming how stifled she was feeling at work.
They’d gotten that show plus the ability to check out most of the other stages, all for only about 20 dollars over face. Lexington had taken a little more work, but with some searching, he’d found a farm that was part of a racehorse-adoption program and that was hosting a charity horse show the following week.
“That actually sounds awesome,” Rachel had said when he showed her the website.
He’d clicked and bought those tickets, checking them off his list along with the Milwaukee to-dos, which also included the reservations for a Clemens house tour and a Milwaukee hotel within walking distance of the Summerfest grounds. He’d then turned his attention to the hotel for Mackinac Island, stop number two, and had let out an audible “Nooo” upon seeing the prices for the Grand Hotel, which was apparently the island’s flagship resort.
“What?” Rachel had asked.
“Huh? Oh. I ... uh ... I just can’t believe Brandt brought up his ex this soon. Episode two? C’mon, dude.”
“Um, it’s because he’s totally there for a noble purpose, Will.” They’d both laughed, and he’d gone back to his computer, more vigilant about working in silence. And despite the Mackinac complication, by the time he’d crawled into bed next to Rachel around midnight, he’d had their full itinerary more or less booked and locked into place. When they’d woken up Saturday morning, Rachel hadn’t shown any hints that she was just humoring him and had seemed legitimately excited about the week ahead—so much so that she was waiting for him on the sidewalk, a large smile across her face, when he pulled up to the front of the building and parked in Filbert’s spot. She looked like someone fully ready to embark on a road trip, except her hair was still damp, and only one of her two bags was over her shoulder.
“I have to go back up,” she clarified when she saw the confusion on his face as she opened the passenger door and tossed the bag into the back. “I just wasn’t about to lose this spot.”
“What were you going to do if he came back, arm wrestle for it?”
“No, I was going to tell him you were moving the car here so your pregnant wife wouldn’t have to walk so far.”
“You don’t think carrying your own bag down three flights of stairs undercuts that argument?”
“Doesn’t matter. Arguing with a pregnant woman isn’t allowed in this country. It’s a real plot twist from the rest of our lives.”
She winked at him, and a spark passed through Will’s body. This was not the Rachel who’d come home from work crying the night before. This was his wife, the woman who had gone straight up to Rochelle Simmons after that lecture and made such a strong impression in their 20 minutes together that Rochelle was now recruiting her from the other side of the country. This Rachel, she was optimistic. Unflappable. A powerhouse.
And they hadn’t even gotten on the road yet.
They walked back up the front sidewalk, hands linked loosely together.
“You know,” she said, letting go and moving ahead of him at the base of the stairs, “it occurs to me that we’re doing pretty good on time this morning, and that maybe we have time to do something else before we leave. We are on vacay, after all.”
Will stared at her from behind, five feet of curves in a dark-blue tank top and a pair of lightweight joggers with just a hint of cling to them, and he hoped she meant what he thought she did.
“You mean . . . ?” he asked.
“Yes. But before you get too excited”—she stopped on the landing and looked back at him—“I was kinda hoping this one could be about me.” She ran her fingers through his hair and exaggeratedly pursed her lips, and his heart beat faster. “On account of me having such a rough day yesterday and everything. Is that okay?”
“Well, I don’t want you to feel sad,” he said, his voice barely escaping his throat. He was transfixed by the way she wanted him. In some ways, it was more of a turn-on than sex—which was why he was working so hard not to imagine his mom saying how proud she was of him.
Too late.
Fortunately, the way Rachel grabbed his hand again and led him the rest of the way up to their door and into the apartment made everything else obsolete. They never even made it into the bedroom.
When they were done, Will crawled back up and lay next to her while her breathing returned to normal.
“I’d say this trip is off to a promising start,” he said.
“I’d say so. And please know that your generosity will not go unrewarded.”
“Does that mean sex at the concert is back on the table?”
“Ha. No. But I haven’t entirely ruled out the botanical gardens when we’re in Ann Arbor.” He’d made sure a return to the site of their memorable second date was on their list.
Will’s whole body felt tingly. “I know you’re joking, but I’m still not sure what I did to deserve you.”
“Considering what you just did without expecting anything in return,” she said, sitting on the area rug in front of the TV and retying the drawstring on her pants, “I think you may have that backwards.”
Rachel’s phone dinged from the kitchen table. She kissed him on the cheek and then got up to retrieve it. Will stood, too, ready to go grab her other bag and his own oversize duffel, but when he saw how intently she was reading her screen, he lingered by the couch.
“Something going on?” he asked after a few more seconds had passed.
“No. Just an email back from Rochelle.”
“What did she say?”
“You know, ‘Too bad, thanks for letting me know,’ et cetera.”
“That’s it?”
“Here, you can read it if you want,” she said, extending the phone toward him on her way back to the bathroom. “I’m gonna finish drying my hair.”
Will started reading as she flipped the blow-dryer back on. She and Rochelle had gotten to know each other well enough that Rochelle didn’t even bother with a salutation.
Damn. I understand. But I’m not going to pretend like I’m not disappointed. For what it’s worth, I really do believe you’re ready for a new challenge, even if it’s not with us. They don’t know what they have in you there.
Alright. I’m headed offline for a week. We’ll see how long that lasts. —RS
He read it again. In his experience, a potential employer didn’t talk like that to just anyone. Or to anyone, period.
When she’d handed him the phone, Rachel hadn’t said anything about Will also reading her email declining the interview, but she hadn’t said anything about him not doing it, either. Now the header line was staring him in the face. And with his curiosity too much to resist, the scales tipped in favor of him telling himself she wouldn’t care. This required him to ignore that that opinion had at least a little to do with the continued noisy static from the hair dryer ensuring she wouldn’t be appearing next to him unexpectedly.
Hey Rochelle—
First off: Wow. This sounds like an INCREDIBLE opportunity, and I’m so flattered that you thought of me for it. Your faith in my abilities, not to mention your continued mentorship, mean a lot.
Unfortunately—and reluctantly—I’m going to have to pass on the interview. This isn’t the kind of thing we as women are supposed to admit, but here goes the brutal honesty: I’m just having a hard time wrapping my mind around making such a huge change while also being pregnant.
I know you haven’t actually offered me the job at this point, but I don’t want to waste your and your team’s time interviewing me, etc., if I feel like I wouldn’t take it even if you did.
Thank you again, and best of luck with the search. Anyone would be lucky to work with you.
—Rachel
Now Will’s eyes scanned back over his wife’s words, several of which popped out like neon signs. Unfortunately. Reluctantly. Incredible (in all caps).
Coming from somebody else, this email would be exactly what Rachel had said it was: an artful way of saying no to someone you respect. But he knew Rachel. She was not an all-caps typer, and a phrase like “Anyone would be lucky to work with you” was not one she’d throw out just to be polite. Although she’d cried telling him about it, it was possible she wanted this job even more than she was letting on but was too nervous to put herself out there.
He felt like he’d seen this movie before. The procrastination on the tattoo. The fleeting image of her own business. The art gallery, which had been coloring her perception of her job for over a decade.
Will pictured a couple of years in the future, Rachel trudging off to campus in a foot of snow to go to a job she’d long since outgrown, her creative ambitions limited to admiring the scribblings of their two-year-old.
He had no doubt that she would love that baby madly and be an amazing mom. He was positive she would never blame him for her career not taking shape how she’d envisioned. They’d settled near her family, not his, and he’d tried in the very limited amount of time before she’d had to reply to Rochelle to convince her to take the Creative Vices interview. But Rachel had been adamant, and there was only so much you could do in one conversation.
Even so, standing there in their little two-bedroom apartment, on a sleepy side street thousands of miles away from the Southern California sun and the type of job she’d dreamed of, he couldn’t help but worry that a life with him would start to feel small to her. Not that she would ever say that or maybe even consciously think it. Rachel’s commitment to him was the tightest bond he’d ever known.
He just never wanted it to start to feel like an obligation.
But you feel what you feel. And Will was unsure whether a future in the Chicago suburbs would feel like enough for her.
Whether he would feel like enough for her.
The hair dryer stopped, and he instinctively turned the phone screen off and walked it back to her in the bathroom, setting it on the counter next to the dish where she kept her rings.
“It’s a nice note,” he said.
“Yup,” she said, putting her toothbrush in her toiletry bag.
“But it still doesn’t change anything for you?”
“Nope.” She picked the phone up. “People say all kinds of stuff at the interview stage. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“I don’t know. Last night at least, it sounded like you felt like she’d done everything but officially offer it to you.”
“I was upset, so it’s possible I was exaggerating a bit for dramatic effect.”
Will didn’t entirely buy that answer. “I think you may be exaggerating now. Like, in downplaying how interested she is in you.”
Rachel looked like she was about to say one thing but then pivoted to another.
“What does it matter? Even if I had changed my mind—which I haven’t—I already turned it down. Rochelle’s on vacation. I’m on vacation. It’s a done deal.”
“I’m sure it’s not done, done.”
“Yes, it is,” she said, an edge entering her voice before her face softened again. “And that’s already more work talk than I wanted this week. In fact, I’m taking my mail app off my phone entirely for the next seven days. I’m all yours, baby.”
She smiled at him, and he thought for approximately the millionth time in his life that there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for her.
“Okay,” he said, dropping it. “I’m going to get the rest of our stuff. Meet me down at the car?”
“Be there in five.”
Will went to their bedroom, grabbed the bags off their bed, and headed to their front door, something from Rochelle’s email back to Rachel now stuck in his mind.
There was someone else cc’d on it.
He didn’t know who [email protected] was. But five minutes felt like enough time to figure it out.