Chapter 27. Seth
I wake up blessedly late, a little bleary from a night of Prohibition cocktails, and give thanks that my nephews are already in the pool with their parents, leaving the house relatively quiet.
I throw on clothes and go to the kitchen, where my parents are drinking coffee and reading the newspaper on their iPads.
“Good morning, honey,” my mom says. “Want some breakfast?”
“No, I’m okay.”
“Are you sure? We have bagels and lox and I can make eggs. Or grits? Or I have—”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m actually going out. Dad, do you mind if I use your car for a few hours?”
“But Seth!” my mother cries. “Why go out when we have so much food here?”
I knew it was a mistake not to rent my own car. But my parents always protest that I don’t need one, that I can always take one of theirs. “Why spend the money?” my mother beseeches.
They then proceed to monitor my comings and goings and insist on accompanying me on every five-minute journey to the grocery store.
Normally I find their clinginess endearing; in my family, hovering is a love language. But today I have sixteen-year-old jitters and don’t want to be observed or explain myself.
“I’m meeting a friend,” I say.
“Oh, who?” my mom asks.
I really, really don’t want to tell her.
Obviously she can instantly sense this, and is on me like a bloodhound.
“Is it someone we know?”
“Yep. Molly Marks,” I say as nonchalantly as possible.
My mom glances at my father, whose eyes are carefully trained on his newspaper. I can feel the excitement building in her as she says, with conspicuous calm, “Oh, that’s nice. I thought I saw you go outside with her last night.”
I cough. I hadn’t realized we’d been spotted. I’m shocked my mother has kept it in this long. And I hope and pray she didn’t see all the sexually charged embraces.
“We didn’t get much time to catch up, since I was squiring a certain mother around the dance floor all night,” I say. “We decided to grab brunch for old time’s sake.”
There’s no reason why a grown man can’t consume room-temperature eggs with an ex for perfectly friendly and casual reasons. But my cheeks are red.
I know that she knows.
“Ah. Why don’t you take my car?” she says. “It’s comfier than Daddy’s.”
Her sudden lack of interest in my plans doesn’t fool me. She always pretends to be bored when she thinks she’s got something good. I know exactly what’s going to happen. She’ll play it cool, and then scream-whisper to my dad that I’m going on a date as soon as she thinks I’m out of earshot.
I like this dynamic exactly as much now as I did when I was sixteen.
“Thanks,” I say pleasantly. “When do you need it back?”
She gives me a beneficent pat on the hand. “We’ll use Daddy’s if we need to leave. Take as long as you like.”
“Thanks.”
I grab her key off the hook, gather some supplies from the garage, and leave as fast as I can.
My parents live on a golf course on the inland side of town, and Molly’s mom is out on one of the islands, so it takes me thirty-five minutes to get to her behemoth waterfront house. (I will not call it a McMansion, because no McDonald’s franchise would ever spend so much money on fake-Spanish turrets.)
I stop and press the call button at the gated driveway.
“Hello?” a woman’s voice says. It has to be Molly’s mom. “Is that Seth?”
“Yep, hi there.”
“Come in.”
She doesn’t sound enthusiastic.
The gates open and I drive past an ornamental gatehouse to the main residence, which is perched on a massive lawn verdant enough to rival the golf course in my parents’ development.
I park my mom’s car next to a shiny rose-gold Mercedes G-Wagon that likely cost as much as the down payment on a home.
I am happy for Mrs. Marks that she’s done so well, but this place is so lavish it’s comical. I suspect it makes Molly cringe every time she looks at it.
Molly opens the (double-height, stained glass) doors before I have a chance to knock.
She’s wearing a short, fluttery dress and beige platform sandals with little straps that tie around her ankles. I immediately want to spend all day tying and untying those little straps.
“Hiya,” she says briskly. “Let’s go. Can you drive?”
I lean in and give her a kiss on the cheek. “Gladly.”
“Wait!” a voice cries. Molly’s mother comes rushing out of the house, barefoot in a floor-length hibiscus-patterned dressing gown.
“Seth,” she says in greeting, looking me up and down.
Molly audibly sighs. “Mom, I told you, we have to go. We have reservations.”
“What’s five minutes? I just want to say hello.”
She stares at me expectantly, like she’s waiting for me to do the honors.
“Hello, ma’am,” I say obediently. “How are you?”
Molly groans. “Don’t call her ma’am.”
I can’t help it. It’s an instinct left over from my terrified high school boyfriend days.
“I’m very well, Seth. Thank you for asking. And you?”
“Also very well.”
We all stand in uncomfortable silence.
“You satisfied he’s not a serial killer, Mom?” Molly finally says.
“Molly tells me you’re a lawyer in Chicago,” Mrs. Marks says, ignoring her daughter.
“Yes, for going on ten years now,” I say nervously.
“A divorce lawyer,” she adds, glaring. I feel like an undeserving boy sniffing around for more of her too-good-for-me daughter’s attention. A familiar feeling.
“Uh,” I say, hoping to change the subject. “My parents mentioned your business is thriving—they see your signs all over.”
Her face softens slightly.
“Oh don’t say that in front of Molly. She hates my signs.”
“Well you do put them on city buses,” Molly retorts.
“Anything to increase your inheritance, dear daughter,” Mrs. Marks says. “Who knows if your father will leave you anything.”
She glares at me, like Roger Marks being an asshole is my fault.
“So morbid,” Molly groans. “Anyway, we have to go.”
“When will you have her back, Seth?” Mrs. Marks asks.
Molly barks out a laugh. “Enough, Mom!”
“It was absolutely lovely to see you, Mrs. Marks,” I say. “But Molly’s right. We’re running a little late, and you know how Roberta’s is at brunch.”
“Have fun,” she says, clearly hoping we won’t.
She stands in the driveway glowering as Molly and I get into the car.
“Jesus,” Molly says under her breath. “Sorry about that. You’d think she’d never seen a person before.”
“Good to know she still hates me,” I say through my smile.
“It’s not you. She hates all lawyers. You know, because of what happened with my dad.”
She clears her throat, suddenly seeming uncomfortable. “You kind of dodged a bullet though. Ever since she got a boyfriend she’s been obsessed with me dating. Usually if any man comes within four feet of her washed-up spinster daughter she’s offering to pay for an engagement ring before she even gets his name.”
“You aren’t a washed-up spinster.”
She pulls down the passenger-side mirror to inspect her face. “I suppose I’m a moderately well-preserved spinster.”
I reach over and snap the mirror shut. “Come on, Molly. You’re beautiful.”
She seems surprised.
“I live in a city of twenty-year-old sylphs and people spending all their money attempting to pass for twenty-year-old sylphs,” she says. “I’m an old maid comparatively.”
“Then maybe you should leave that devil city,” I say. “Go somewhere where your good looks are appreciated.”
“Where, like Chicago?”
I blush at the realization she thought I was suggesting she move to my city. (Not that I would mind if she did.)
“Nothing wrong with Chicago,” I say. “You could be near Dezzie.”
She smiles. “It would be nice to be near Dezzie. And closer to Alyssa. I sometimes feel very far away on the West Coast.”
“Would you really move?”
“Well, now that everything’s gone virtual it would be easier. But I do like LA. I’ve been there so long that it feels like home.”
This is completely understandable, but I won’t lie that I wish she was itching to move.
“Would you ever leave Chicago?” she asks.
“Maybe. If I had a good reason. I’m a member of the New York State bar. And I guess it wouldn’t be that hard to qualify somewhere else.” Like California, I don’t add.
“Wouldn’t it be difficult to leave your firm?”
Suddenly I wonder if we are talking about us, without directly talking about it. The potential viability of our relationship. So I give it serious thought.
“I have a good reputation as an attorney in Chicago, and that brings in a lot of business. But I’ve been thinking lately that I might want a change. I could make a lateral move and build up a practice somewhere else, or maybe start my own firm. People get divorced all across the globe.”
“Yeah, at an alarming rate. Makes me wonder why anyone gets married.”
“Because getting married is romantic when you’re in love,” I say.
She’s quiet for a moment.
“Huh,” she says. “I’ve genuinely never thought about it like that. I think I almost agree with you.”
Good.
I pull into the parking lot of Roberta’s. It’s a little out of the way, a few miles down the island from the public beaches, in an older, 1960s-era building with wall-to-wall glass windows. My parents used to take me and Dave here for birthday brunches. And when Molly first agreed to go out with me in high school, I wanted to take her somewhere special. This, to my teenage boy’s mind, was as special as it got.
As we walk in, I’m tempted to put my hand on Molly’s back, but I don’t. All the attraction and intensity of our conversation last night feels distant, because I’m so nervous about the conversation I want to have with her now.
The ma?tre d’ is wearing a three-piece suit, and the tables are decked out in stuffy white cloths and crystal wineglasses. The room is populated primarily with groups of older couples drinking mimosas, and families with hyper children running around with plates of Mickey Mouse–shaped pancakes heaped with chocolate sauce and whipped cream.
It’s a little like a retirement home, and it’s making me question my choices.
At least we get a table near the windows, with a view of the lagoon behind the restaurant. If you’re going to dine in an assisted-living facility, you should be able to do it while looking at swans.
“This place is insane,” Molly whispers as soon as the ma?tre d’ is gone. “Like, I remember it had the elaborate buffet and the omelet and pancake stations. But were there always ice sculptures?”
“No. And I think the chocolate fountain is new.”
Our server comes to take our drink orders—an oat milk cappuccino for her and a lemon ginger tea for me. (I’m too jittery with nerves for caffeine.)
“We don’t have oat milk,” the server says apologetically.
“Oh. Almond milk?” Molly asks.
“We only have, you know, milk milk,” the girl says.
“Right. Okay, milk milk it is.”
We opt to order off the à la carte menu rather than risking the buffet. “I don’t want to catch Covid from a sausage link,” Molly says.
Once ordering is out of the way, there is nothing to do but… talk.
I’m so nervous I could throw up.
And so I just plunge in.
“Well, thank you for agreeing to come here with me today,” I say. I immediately cringe at this bizarrely formal choice of words.
Molly nods gravely. “Why, it’s my pleasure, sir. Thank you for your kind invitation.”
Her mockery actually puts me a bit more at ease. Gentle ridicule has always been her way of expressing affection.
“I wanted to apologize that I haven’t been in touch this past year.”
“You already did that last night. It’s fine.”
I shake my head. “No, it was shitty. And I should tell you a bit about why.”
She frowns. “Okay then. I’m all ears.”
“Right. Good.”
She looks at me expectantly. I feel awkward and clumsy talking about this. I’m so used to being the positive, optimistic, everything-all-figured-out guy. It’s hard to admit being adrift.
I dive in anyway.
“Well, after Sarah Louise left, I had, um, a bit of an existential crisis.” I glance up at Molly to see if she’s recoiling at this admission, but her face is neutral. She nods at me to go on.
“It wasn’t because of the relationship ending or anything like that,” I say quickly, “but because I realized I have this pattern of plunging into relationships one after the other, with no time in between to breathe or reflect, because I want that fairy-tale love story. The wife, the kids, the white picket fence.”
She nods again, listening intently. She does not seem surprised or horrified to hear any of this. It shores me up a bit.
“And honestly,” I go on, “it was late coming, because Dave has been pointing this out to me for years. But I guess it can take a while to understand your own patterns, even if you’re aware of them on some level, you know?”
“Yeah,” she says. “I do.”
She says this emphatically, like she identifies with it. I haven’t articulated this thought to anyone before, and it’s a huge relief to be taken so seriously.
“I realized I set this arbitrary timeline for myself that was meant to be motivating but was actually causing me to sabotage myself. Because I kept pursuing people who weren’t right for me but who fit the model in my head. And it’s almost like I’ve been talking myself into loving them, to speed things along.
“And what I realized is I’ve been choosing women based on a set of criteria. And consequently, I keep cultivating relationships that disappoint me, and then wondering why I always end up alone. And then I get that antsy feeling and the cycle repeats.” I look into her eyes. “And I’m so, so tired of it.”
“So what do you want?” she asks softly.
“I want to stop planning and obsessing about everything being perfect and just be with the person I adore. And that person…”
She stares back into my eyes, waiting for me to finish.
“Molly, that person is you.”