7. Zelda
ZELDA
Jeremiah is eight minutes early.
I see him through the library doors while I’m putting books on the returns cart. He’s in his work clothes, holding a paper cup in each hand, looking past the desk for me.
For once I get to see him looking before he sees me.
I lift my hand. He smiles and comes over.
“Hot chocolate?”
“From the corner?”
“Where else?”
I take it from him. He has folded the cardboard sleeve back where it catches under my thumb. He remembers that I always tear it.
“I’m not finished.”
“I know. Eight minutes.”
He sits opposite the desk. A boy asks me for a book about ships, and Jeremiah moves his knee so the child can get past. When I find the book, I look over without thinking. He gives the boy a solemn thumbs-up.
I have missed having someone to look at when something small goes well.
Outside he opens the car door and takes the cup while I get in. My coat catches under me. I pull it free, laughing at myself, and he waits instead of asking whether we’re ready. I’m still smiling when we turn into traffic.
The Christmas market fills the old square. Lights hang between the stalls, and the cold makes the smoke from the food stands smell wonderfully sharp. I stop at the painted ornaments before I mean to.
“Another house?” Jeremiah asks.
I’m holding a tiny blue one. “The first one hasn’t been paid off emotionally.”
He groans. “That’s terrible.”
“You liked it.”
“I did.”
I smile at the ornament. We bought one like it our first December together. It still has a chip in the chimney. Jeremiah glued it because I’d looked so upset at the thought of throwing it away.
“We’ve already got the right one,” I say, putting this one down.
He takes my hand and tucks it into his coat pocket with his. I walk nearer so our shoulders keep knocking. It makes us clumsy, and neither of us lets go.
We buy a soft pretzel and eat from the same paper sleeve. He lets me have the half with more salt. When a grain sticks to my lip, I see him notice. He rubs it away with his thumb, then kisses the place he touched.
I forget what I was about to say.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
He looks pleased with himself. I elbow him and take the rest of the pretzel.
At the knitted hats, I lift a yellow one small enough to cup in my hand. Our baby will have a head to put in this. A damp, warm, unreasonable little person. I look up and find Jeremiah watching the hat too.
“Hedy thinks he’ll have your serious eyebrows.”
“At birth?”
“Apparently.”
“Warn the delivery staff. He’ll disapprove of their methods.”
I laugh. He puts his palm over my hand, making the tiny hat smaller still.
“Have you added any names?” he asks.
My notebook is in my bag. I have a page at the back with a list I’ve been pretending is only for practical consideration. I’ve said some of the names in the bathroom mirror.
“Perhaps.”
“You have.”
“There are rules.”
“Of course there are.”
I begin to take out the notebook, then hesitate. I’ve saved up so many things to tell him that I don’t know which I can safely spend tonight.
He reaches for the edge of the page. “Show me.”
I do.
He reads slowly, making a face at one of the names I’d already crossed out. “This one sounds as though he’ll send us an invoice for being born.”
“I crossed it out.”
“Good.” He takes a folded scrap from his pocket. There’s a name on it in his handwriting. “What about Otto?”
I look at him.
“In that book I found at the library,” he says. “I liked it.”
“Did you read the book?”
“Enough to find a name.”
“You have to read it. What if he turns out to be awful?”
“Then we’ll tell our son we named him after somebody else.”
I laugh so loudly the stallholder looks over. Jeremiah is grinning at me. I want to stand here until they turn out the lights.
I take the scrap and write Otto below the others, without crossing anything out. I tuck his suggestion between the pages before putting the notebook away.
“Green,” he says, touching another hat.
“A decision at last.”
“A firm one.”
The green hat has ears. I turn it toward him and his whole face changes. I buy it before either of us can make another joke. He puts the bag inside his coat, carefully, as if there is already someone in it.
The arcade has the same red carpet and the same aggressive music as on our second date.
“One race,” I tell him.
“That’s what you said last time.”
“Last time you refused to leave until you won.”
He feeds the machines. “A terrible accusation.”
We run four. On the last one I take a turn too fast and almost spin out. I make a noise I will later deny making. Jeremiah glances over.
“Come on—yes!”
I catch the turn. He cheers before he remembers he is supposed to be beating me, and I pass him on the straight.
For a second I can’t look at the screen because I’m looking at him. At how pleased he is for me. Then I hit a barrier and nearly lose the whole thing.
“Eyes on the road, reckless woman.”
“You distracted me.”
“With superior driving?”
I beat him by enough to stand up and bow.
He pays for a photograph of my victory and insists on being in it with an expression of tragic injustice. I lean against him while the machine counts down. Just before it flashes, he turns his face toward mine.
When the picture comes out, I look happy. I put it inside my bag before I can spoil that by examining it.
At home he takes the green hat upstairs and sets it on the dresser. I follow him, warm from the car and the whole foolish, lovely evening. He unfastens my coat. His fingers catch in the buttonhole and I help him, impatient for it to be off.
He laughs against my mouth.
I have missed this. His hands at my waist, the weight of him leaning into me, the little breath he takes when I pull his tie loose. I want to push him toward the bed and keep kissing him until neither of us has anything clever left to say.
I put my hand behind his neck.
Then I remember that hand against the mug at Suri’s. His eyes on it as if it had hurt somebody.
I try to kiss him past the thought. For one more second I nearly manage it.
“Jeremiah.”
His mouth moves to my jaw. “Mm?”
If I ask, he may stop. I know that before I ask. I hold the end of his tie so he can feel I’m still here, still wanting him.
“Tell me you believe I didn’t touch Candace.”
He lifts his head. “Now? You want to talk now?”
The room cools around my bare arms.
“I’ve been asking you to talk for six days.”
“We had a good evening.”
“I know.” I move nearer, absurdly, as if he might hear me better if we’re touching. “I loved it. I want this too.”
“Then why are you starting again?”
His hand is still at my waist. It has stopped moving.
“I need to know you don’t think that of me.”
“I saw her crying. I heard you apologize.”
“I told you why.”
“And I took you out because I wanted one evening without this mess.”
I look at the knot I’ve loosened. A few minutes ago I wanted it undone so badly. Now I don’t know how to let go without showing him exactly what he has done to the night.
“I wanted that too.”
“So why ruin it?”
I drop the tie.
He lets me step away. I am grateful for that, and the gratitude makes my eyes burn. He ought to be able to let me go. I shouldn’t have to be relieved.
“Zelda.”
I pick up my coat. “I’m washing my face.”
In the bathroom I turn on the tap too hard. Water splashes the front of my dress. I press a washcloth against my mouth, where I can still feel his, and wait for my breathing to settle.
He comes in for his toothbrush. We move around each other without colliding, the practiced little turn we’ve done for years. I leave room at the sink. He hands me my night cream because he’s standing in front of it.
“Thanks,” I say.
When he goes, I sit on the closed toilet with the jar in my hand.
I want him to come back. I want him to say the sentence. I’m ashamed of the small part of me that would take the kiss first and ask again tomorrow.
In bed he leaves space between us. I turn toward it before I remember to stop myself. Then I lie facing him in the dark, with one hand folded under my cheek so I won’t reach across.