Chapter 44 An Experiment in Testing Simone’s Famously Short Patience
After a triple bypass, a few weeks of touch-and-go, some downtime, and several dramatic weeping sessions on my part, Dad was much better. They told us that before we knew it, he’d be playing tennis again. It wasn’t long before we found ourselves back to our old, comfortable routines.
Over the next couple of months, I listened to all the interviews I had recorded in Ireland, all of those loved-up couples telling me their stories all over again.
Simone would do most of the editing, but I wanted to listen closer, to hear the message in each one, the angle, to discuss on the podcast, to make a story map for the season, a journey that we could all go on together.
But each interview I listened to was so full of love and admiration, so full of comfortable conversation and playful teasing—the clockwork of many years of togetherness. And it made my insides churn.
It hurt. I felt emotional and uneasy. I felt like someone had reached into my chest and removed a vital part.
The most disconcerting part of the whole thing—my instinct was to run to Tadhg. If only his fingers could hook around mine, I knew the ache would ebb.
I had to train my reflexes not to look for him.
I would read a great line in a book, and I’d instantly think to tell him.
I considered what to make for dinner and thought, But Tadhg doesn’t like broccoli, before the realization hit that he wouldn’t be there to eat it.
My lizard brain was struggling to remember that I wasn’t in Ireland anymore.
That he was gone. That he wasn’t coming back.
It felt like some primal, animalistic thing that I couldn’t control.
There wasn’t any contact. I called. I knew I shouldn’t have, but I called anyway.
More than once. Straight to voicemail. I emailed Jackie a little, and asked him some questions about the show and checked in on him, and he always answered in his usual jolly tone, but he wasn’t forthcoming about Tadhg, and I punished myself with the worry that he was disappointed in me for how I’d treated his son.
I was disappointed in me. I’d expected more from myself, but I’d been wrong.
I had learned that I was a coward, and it had been a bitter revelation.
I didn’t feel great swells of emotion often, and when I did, I really didn’t handle them well.
I was confused. Even months later, I was so confused.
Being with Tadhg had been something akin to internal sensory overload.
I didn’t know how to compute that sort of emotion.
I didn’t know what it meant for me, or what it meant for my life, and I didn’t know what I was supposed to do with it.
I felt like there was something wrong with me.
It reminded me of those times when I’d gone on birth control pills and they’d flooded my system with synthetic hormones that weren’t mine and left me hungry and short-tempered, blue and teary.
I’d tried four different types and then I’d stopped cold turkey and never gone back.
A few weeks later, I was myself again. But this was different.
I didn’t know how to quit this. I didn’t know how to get it out of my system.
I didn’t like the feeling of being off balance, of not feeling at home in my own skin, of not being in control.
Tadhg had forced himself to talk about his feelings for me, and it had been difficult for him, and I had responded in the worst possible way I could have.
Emotion had risen up my throat and choked me, and all I knew for sure was that it hadn’t felt good, it had been painful, and I was afraid of it.
I was angry at him for throwing this at me when we had agreed that nothing like it would ever happen.
If I could turn back time, I would go back and do it over and over until I got it right.
I would stay calm. I wouldn’t just blurt out a reaction without thinking about how it would make him feel.
I would take the time I needed to figure out my head and my heart and my gut and have an honest discussion with him.
Because how could I speak honestly about something that I didn’t understand myself?
But I’d fucked it up. I’d been an unforgivable asshole. And I didn’t have a time machine. I didn’t even have a way to apologize. I knew there wasn’t anything to do about it but move on and try to learn from my mistakes. Only—the moving-on part was proving difficult.
One day I got an email from Jackie. It was a picture forwarded from his daughter Blánaid.
The photo was of Jackie and Tadhg having a drink on the pretty pink bench in the flower garden, side by side, laughing at something with the same exact smile—a similarity I hadn’t noticed before.
The accompanying note, all in caps, was from Jackie: THANK YOU, MAYA.
I stared at Tadhg’s smile until tears blurred my eyes.
When Simone’s birthday rolled around, I didn’t want to leave the house. It was hard to leave the house. It was even difficult to get out of bed some days. But it was her birthday, so I sucked it up.
I made homemade ramen broth, one of her favorites, and arrived ready to cook with veggies, seaweed, jammy eggs, the fattest udon noodles I could find (inauthentic but her favorite), and a drumstick each from KFC. It was a thing. Or at least I was going to make it a thing.
“Hey, you.” She gave me a brief, hard squeeze. “Where have you been? I’ve been missing your constant jabs. Everyone else is just way too nice to me.”
“That’s because . . .” I tried to make a snappy joke, but I gave up. “Yeah. I know. Sorry.”
She gave me a quizzical look but didn’t press me. “What’s all this?”
“We’re having homemade ramen, and a bespoke cake from the place around the corner with the incredible icing, and sake cocktails, and KFC drumsticks. From KFC. Because you’re obsessed with KFC.”
She put her hands on her hips, and I felt just a little bit lighter. “I’m not. It was just the challenge! I also do other copycat recipes! How many times do I have to explain this?”
“A good few more, if I had to guess.”
“What’s that?”
“Presents. Keep out. I should have bought a rattrap to keep your sneaky little fingers off.”
“Well, if you want me to be patient, then you’d better distract me with a cocktail.”
“Done.”
Simone brought out her fancy stemware, and we chopped and stirred together as we sipped fresh raspberry-thyme sake cocktails. We had our ramen at the table like sophisticated adults and talked podcasts, because when you’re passionate about work, it doesn’t feel like work.
“Okay. Sooo. You’ve had two cocktails, and I’ve been easy on you, which I should be canonized for, honestly. Now it’s time to tell me what’s happening with Tadhg.”
“What do you mean what’s happening? Nothing.” I stood up to start cleaning the table, but she grabbed my wrist and pulled me back into my chair.
“Come on, Maya. You’re not usually secretive.”
“I’m not being secretive, there are no secrets to tell.” My chest squeezed.
“Do you keep in touch?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“I have tried to call several times, and it went straight to voicemail.”
“And did you leave a voicemail?”
“That would have been clingy and embarrassing. Yes. Yes, I did.”
“And nothing?”
“Nothing.
“Really?”
“Crickets.”
“Wow.” She scanned my eyes for an extra beat until I looked away. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, sure. ’Course I am.”
“So we’ve moved on?”
“Nothing to move on from. Not one thing. Who were we talking about again?”
She made a suspicious face but let it drop. Then we put on two ridiculous glittery top hats, sat on the sofa, and I pulled the specially ordered cake from the box, lit a candle, and put it right in the middle of Colonel Sanders’s nose.
“No. Maya. Tell me you fucking didn’t, you twat waffle!” But she was already laughing, and by the time she blew out the candle, we were nearly in tears.
Then I handed her another gift. It was the Tender Wings of Desire poster I’d had made, showing an illustrated brawny Colonel Sanders carrying a woman to a castle, like a bodice-ripper cover. “I thought you could put it above your bed.”
It felt so good to laugh. But then I remembered that the last time I’d laughed so hard was when Tadhg had taught me what “gee-eyed” really meant, and the unshed tears in my eyes started to sting.
“All right, you, what’s up? And if you say ‘nothing’ again, I’m going to smash that entire Colonel Sanders cake in your face until you stop kicking.”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time!”
She crossed her arms and waited. I sighed.
“I think I’m coming down with something. Or maybe it’s hormones. I don’t know.”
“Why? What’s the matter with you?”
“I don’t know. Nothing. Everything? I’ve just been blue and delicate lately.”
“Delicate?” She narrowed her eyes. “You’re about as delicate as a jackhammer.”
“Right? But not anymore. I’m a mess. I can’t sleep. I’m distracted.”
“Perimenopause?”
“Say that again and this’ll be your last birthday.”
“Sorry.”
“But maybe you’re right. Who knows? I’ve been snappy with my parents for no reason. I called my dad a Tupperware fascist the other day because he had the audacity to put my leftovers in the fridge before I was done picking at them. He was only trying to help.”
She laughed. “That’s not so bad. You’ve called me a lot worse.”
“Yeah, but that’s you. I actually like my dad. Also, I’ve got this, like . . . a little bit of soreness here, like pressure in my rib cage or something, pretty much all the time.”
“Have you asked the doctor?”
“No.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“Since I got back from Ireland.”
She studied me, lips pursed. Then she sucked a breath through her teeth. “When you say ‘distracted,’ what do you mean?”
“I just. I can’t stop thinking about my trip, I mean. Every time I do anything, it’s on my mind.”
“Your trip? Or Tadhg?”
I looked away and took a big swallow of my cocktail. “No.”
“You sure?”
“No.”
“Could it be . . . a broken heart?”