Grace
“Look, I get it, you’re not ready for a—a situationship. That couldn’t be more understandable.”
Ruth pauses, sips her wine, and I await the “but.”
“But sex wouldn’t be such a terrible thing, right?”
And there it is. “Ugh,” I say.
We’re in the backyard at the firepit sharing a bottle of cabernet.
It’s just the two of us—the hurricane of my extended family has left.
Another Thanksgiving in the books. Ian, Bella, and Harry Styles are in the kitchen playing Uno with my parents.
Nick was out here with us for a while but went inside to fall asleep to football.
I’m bloated and tired and sweating because it’s too warm for a fire, but we’re here for the ambiance.
“Point taken,” says Ruth. “I’m pretty ugh when it comes to sex, too. I’ve grown bored of Nick’s penis.”
Ruth and Nick are a few months in to trying to get pregnant. I remember that stage—ovulation calendars and sex appointments.
“A new penis, though?” she says. “Well, that’s a different story.”
“Gross,” I say. “And stop saying ‘penis.’ You’re killing the vibe.”
“I’m talking about the conceptual penis.”
“Oh, well, in that case.”
“I’m just saying. We’re complex creatures, Grace. We can be sad and have occasional orgasms.”
“I believe Gloria Steinem said that.”
My sister laughs and drinks. “I’m a little drunk, by the way.”
“Noooo.”
“Shut up. I need to get my drinking in now. Once I’m pregnant, I’ll have to switch to hard drugs.”
I fill her glass and tell her to keep at it. I’m driving the kids and Harry Styles home later, so I’m just sipping.
“The guy I was telling you about at dinner,” she says.
“Nick’s co-worker. Chris something. He’s an ideal no-strings-attached kind of guy.
Good-looking. Kinda dumb, but in that golden retriever way that means he’s probably good in bed.
I could set the whole thing up with a single text. That’s how powerful I am.”
I say “Ugh” again, my word for the evening. Then our dad pokes his head out of the sliding door. “You girls want another log on there?”
“Thanks, Dad, we got it,” I say.
Ruth giggles. “Log.”
I grab a piece of wood from a neatly stacked pile and drop it into the flames.
“Fine,” Ruth says. “Maybe it’s not kinda-dumb Chris. Maybe it’s Chef Dom who loves you. Maybe it’s the Wi-Fi guy—what’s-his-face. I’m just saying, you might be underestimating the healing powers of being wanted.”
I’ve noticed a phenomenon with Ruth and some of the other women in my life.
At first, they were as devastated as I was.
They grieved beside me, answered whenever I called.
As the year has lurched on, though, I get the sense that they’ve started looking at my situation as a possible adventure, as if the flipside of sadness is a newfound freedom that they can have vicariously through me.
I shouldn’t blame them. After all, they have no idea what this is like.
An ember floats up from the fire and vanishes. From here, I can see Harry Styles watching me from behind the sliding door like I’m one of his sheep and I’ve wandered off.
“Look, a girl’s got needs, right?” my sister asks.
“That’s the thing, though,” I say. “I don’t.”
Ruth has been slumping, but she sits up now. “You don’t what?”
“Have needs.”
“What do you mean?”
“My vagina,” I say. “She’s gone into hibernation.”
My visits to GriefUnited have taught me that sex drives often take a hit when you’re grieving. Nearly a year in, though, this feels like something permanent.
“Well, maybe you just need someone to wake her up,” says Ruth. Then she wiggles her tongue at me between her fingers, and I tell her that she’s a child.