37. Zelda
ZELDA
Suri forwards the message on the first Monday in September, while I am standing in my kitchen with a bowl of cereal.
She’s put you both down for Saturday. I didn’t know you were coming.
Below it is a note from the friend who helped Suri and Dax find their first apartment. She is giving a party, and apparently Jeremiah and I will be there together.
I set the bowl down. Milk spills over the rim onto my thumb.
He stayed here at the end of August. We woke up laughing. Yesterday, when I found his handkerchief behind a cushion, I put it on my bedside table instead of into the laundry because it smelled of him.
I have been looking forward to Wednesday.
I have not said yes to Saturday.
I start typing a pleasant answer for Suri. Something about having forgotten to mention it. My thumb gets as far as Yes, we before I stop.
I delete it and call him.
“I said we’d be there,” he tells me. “We both liked her last summer.”
“You said I would be there.”
“I thought you’d enjoy it.”
“I might have. I still needed to be asked.”
A car door closes at his end. Then nothing.
“You’re right. I should have checked.”
I rub the milk off my thumb with a dishcloth. I want his quick answer to make me feel better. Instead I am angrier that it sounds so simple now, when my Saturday already belongs to a roomful of other people.
“I nearly told Suri I’d forgotten to mention it.”
“Zelda—”
“I nearly pretended you’d asked me, covered for you again.”
He goes quiet again. I can hear a truck reversing somewhere near him.
“Did you think staying here meant we were going everywhere together now?”
“I liked waking up with you,” he says. “When she asked, I pictured us arriving together. I didn’t stop to ask whether you wanted that.”
I close my eyes. I liked it too. I have been keeping his stupid handkerchief beside my bed.
“Those people watched me lie to make you feel better. Some of them still look at me as if they’re waiting to find out what we are. I don’t know if I want a whole evening of it.”
“I’ll correct the reply.”
“Please copy me. I want to see what you say.”
“I will.”
It leaves nothing practical to argue about. My chest is still tight. I pick up my spoon and put it down again.
“I don’t even know whether I would have gone. I wanted to get to decide before anyone started being glad about it.”
“I’m sorry.”
Neither of us ends the call.
“Do you still want me to come on Wednesday?” he asks at last.
I hate that I have to think for a second. Then I hate the thought of not seeing him.
“Yes. Come on Wednesday.”
Before lunch he copies me on his message to the host, with Suri included because she has already been told.
I answered for Zelda without asking her. Please count only me for Saturday. I’m sorry for the change.
Suri sends a separate apology for assuming I knew. I tell her she wasn’t the person who answered for me. It is the easiest exchange we have had since July, and even that makes me tired. I put my phone away and go to work.
By Wednesday I have decided to stay home on Saturday. I have also spent an absurd amount of time deciding whether to leave the handkerchief where it is. In the end I put it in the laundry because it needs washing, and I am irritated with myself for giving a square of cloth this much thought.
Jeremiah brings lasagna. When he leans in to kiss me hello, I turn my face toward him a little late. His mouth catches the edge of mine. We both notice.
“Come in,” I say.
Otto is awake. Jeremiah takes him while I put the lasagna in the oven to warm, and for a few minutes the kitchen is full of careful conversation about where things go. I know that he knows where the plates are. He knows I know it.
Then Otto makes his new noise.
Jeremiah looks down at him. “Was that for me?”
Otto works his lips and does it again, spraying a little milk onto Jeremiah’s shirt.
“That appears to be your answer,” I say.
Jeremiah tries the noise back. Otto watches with a grave, disappointed expression. Jeremiah tries harder.
“You’re overdoing it.”
“He’s a demanding teacher.”
I laugh before I mean to. Otto turns toward me, startled, and then smiles so widely that both of us stop talking.
“There,” Jeremiah whispers.
“I saw.”
We grin at our son until the oven timer interrupts us.
Later, after Otto is asleep, I tell Jeremiah about Saturday. He puts down his fork to listen.
“I’m staying here. I want you to go if you want to.”
“I’d like to see her. I’ll go.”
“And I want you here next week.”
He looks at me then, properly, with the relief he has been trying not to ask me for all evening.
“I’d like that too.”
I reach across the table. His hand is warm, and there is a small splash of dried milk near his cuff. I rub it with my thumb while he tells me about a ridiculous argument over the new plant sign.
I am still annoyed about Saturday. When he goes, I kiss him at the door anyway. This time neither of us misses.