Chapter 29. Seth
“Max, close the door,” I say, bolting up. He can’t hear me, because he’s screaming with a level of horror that would make you think an asteroid just hit the house.
“Max,” I yell. “Close the door.”
His eyes go wide and he freezes, then slams it shut. I hear him running down the hall, still shouting about the woman in my bed.
Said woman has buried herself completely under my tiny blanket, where she is currently laughing so hysterically the bed is shaking.
I lean back against the mini headboard and burst out laughing too.
From the living room, I can hear my sister-in-law trying to quiet her son’s hysteria. It doesn’t seem to be working, because I catch the sound of Jack joining in.
“So much for a clean escape,” I say. “Sorry. I don’t know how they’re back already.”
She reaches for my phone and checks the time. “Probably because your alarm didn’t go off. It’s nine forty-five.”
“Shit. Let me see that?”
Turns out I set the alarm for 8:30 a.m., not p.m.
“Admit it,” Molly says. “You did this on purpose so I would have to do a walk of shame in front of your entire family.”
“Okay. I admit it.”
She flicks me on the shoulder.
“So, what’s the move?” she asks.
“Uh, first we get dressed. Then we go out and act like absolutely nothing in the world is weird about this.”
“Great. That should be easy.”
She slips her sundress over her shoulders and I shimmy on my pants. We gather up all her belongings.
“You ready for this?” I ask her.
She takes a deep breath. “Yes. Can’t wait.”
I open the door and we walk to the kitchen.
My entire family is there. The boys are eating orange Popsicles, which I suspect they were bribed with to get them to stop yelling. But at the sight of us, Max’s eyes bug out of his head.
“That’s the girl!” he cries. “The one that was naked!”
“Guys, this is Molly,” I say, putting my arm around her. “You met her the other day. She’s my girlfriend.”
My mother drops the sponge she’s holding onto the kitchen island and puts her hand over her mouth. My dad inclines his head at me with a huge smile. Dave gapes at me like I’ve announced I’m quitting my job to become a professional hang glider. Max and Jack both squeal “Eeeeeeeeew, girlfriend!”
Only Clara seems to have her wits about her. “Hey, Molly,” she says pleasantly.
Molly smiles at my assembled family members. “Hi.”
Clara gathers her sons and corrals them out onto the lanai, from which their shrill protests of disgust are less deafening. I walk over to the refrigerator and fill two glasses of water.
“Sorry,” I say, handing one to Molly. “We were looking at old yearbooks and lost track of time.”
Dave snorts. “Sounds like they were pretty good yearbooks.”
“Very good,” Molly agrees.
“Did I hear you say ‘girlfriend’?” my mother asks, glancing across the kitchen at my father as if to say is this really happening?
“Yep,” I say.
“Seth!” she cries, beaming. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“Hot off the presses,” I say.
My mom rushes over and gives Molly a big hug. “I’m so happy for you two.”
“Seth is a lucky man,” my dad says.
Dave has politely wiped away his instinctive horror. “Welcome to the family, Molly,” he says.
Molly grins at him. “Honor to be nominated.”
My mom holds up an enormous bag of leftovers. “Would you two like some hush puppies?”
“No,” I say quickly. I’m sure Molly is dying to get out of here.
“Actually yes,” Molly says. “I’m starving.”
“Oh good,” my mom says. “We also have tri-tip and mahi and—here, I’ll make you a plate.”
“Thanks,” Molly says.
“Do you want a plate, Seth?” my mom asks.
“I’ll share Molly’s.”
“I was just about to open a bottle of pinot,” my dad says. “Care for a glass?”
“Sure,” Molly says.
And then my parents are dishing up food and pouring wine and leading us out to the patio.
Clara has managed to distract the boys by taking them for a night swim. The pool is lit up pink, and their splashes and cries of pleasure create a resort vibe, like we’re all on one big family vacation.
I try not to fixate on the idea that someday that could be a reality.
“So, Molly,” my dad says. “When are you heading back to La La Land?”
I realize I have not yet thought to ask this question myself.
“My flight is first thing in the morning,” she says.
“It is?” I ask, crestfallen.
I assumed she must be staying longer, seeing family.
“Yeah. I’ve been here all week.”
My parents and Dave are clearly picking up on my disappointment.
My mother stands up suddenly. “Kal, Dave, why don’t we grab our suits and join the boys for a family swim.”
My nephews hear this and immediately start screaming, “FAMILY SWIM! FAMILY SWIM!”
“All right, all right,” Dave yells at his children. “Let’s not wake up the astronauts on the moon.”
“I guess you need to get home to pack,” I say to Molly. I try not to show how bummed I am, but I am not at all successful.
“Sorry, I should have thought to say something. I just… got caught up in the moment.”
“Don’t apologize. I’m just sad we have to say goodbye already.”
She nods. “I know. When are you leaving?”
“Friday.”
Today is Sunday. I’d been looking forward to a week of family time, but after the day we’ve just had—very possibly the best day of my life—the idea of being here without her is as appealing a prospect as swallowing sand.
Molly’s phone buzzes. She grabs her bag and glances at it. “Shit. It’s my mom. Passive aggressively asking if you abducted and killed me.”
“Not yet. But I plan to on the way home.”
“Oh good. I’m tired of this mortal coil.”
“Well, shall we call it a night?”
She nods. “Yeah, I should spend a little time with her before I pack up. Let me say goodbye to your fam.”
We wave goodbye at Clara and the boys and intercept Dave and my parents in the living room. Molly hugs them all, which is somewhat amusing to watch as they are all in their bathing suits.
And then we are back in my mother’s Volvo, cruising down dark suburban streets, trying to get Molly home before curfew, just like we’re sixteen again.
I put on Elliot Smith, because it evokes sadness and Los Angeles and I wish she wasn’t going there.
“Jesus, Seth,” Molly says, flicking the volume down. “Let’s not wallow in misery.”
“I’m going to miss you. I’m still reconciling what to do about how much I’m going to miss you.”
She strokes my neck. “It’s going to be awful,” she says.
That she agrees makes me feel better. Until she adds, “Maybe this isn’t a good idea.”
I tense up.
“What?”
“Trying to be… something. Maybe it’s better as a dream than an emotionally wrenching logistical nightmare.”
“How would that be better?” My voice is too loud, too appalled. She leans away from me, closer to the door, like she’s startled.
“It’s just that we’ve had this one perfect day. Maybe we should—”
I pull the car over, put on my hazards, and turn to face her.
“Molly, why are you saying this?”
She takes a shallow, ragged breath, and I know she is on the cusp of a panic attack. I want to hold her, to physically squeeze the anxiety out of her, but we’re separated by a console and both wearing seat belts.
“I am going to ruin this, Seth,” she says. “I know myself and I will freak out and hurt you, and then you’ll realize you can’t be with me and I’ll miss you for the rest of my life.”
“Baby,” I say gently. “Is that what you really think?”
“Yes! I’m so fucking squirrelly, Seth. You have no idea.”
I laugh hoarsely through the knot in my throat. “Actually I do have an idea. I want you anyway.”
She’s quiet.
“I’ve wanted you for twenty years. You know that, right?”
She sniffles. “Yeah. Me too.”
“And I know you have your issues, and so do I, and I know this won’t be easy to do long-distance. But we have to try. Otherwise, what a waste.”
“Okay,” she whispers. It’s almost a sob. It guts me.
I reach out for her and crush her hard against my side. She puts her head on my shoulder. In the rearview mirror I can see silver tearstains on her cheeks.
I must fix those tears. We’ve been through too much for this day to be sad. The matter is not up for debate.
“I have an idea,” I say.
“Yeah?”
“What if you don’t go to LA tomorrow?”
“I can’t stay, Seth. I’m already on the verge of killing my mother.”
“Then what if we both leave? We could get a flight to Chicago and drive out to my lake house. Just the two of us. Spend the week together. Make plans. Figure out how to do this for real.”
“You’re serious?”
“So serious.”
“What about your family?”
“I’ll tell them I have to go see about a girl.”
I hold my breath.
“I’d have to be back in LA by Saturday afternoon,” she says slowly. “But you know what? Fuck it. It’s better than nothing. I’ll look up tickets.”
“Hell yeah.”
I pull back onto the road and she grabs her phone and runs through departure times. She’s purchased our tickets before we even make it to the bridge to the island. She has to remind me not to speed because I’m so high on joy and adrenaline that I accidentally go fifty in a twenty-five.
I make out with her in the car in her mom’s driveway.
When she gets out, I jump out of the car after her and make out with her again in front of her mom’s door.
I sing at the top of my lungs to the radio on the way home.
I dance a little as I inform my parents I’ll be leaving early.
And by eight thirty in the morning, I’m meeting Molly on the curb of the departures terminal of the airport.
“You sure this is a good idea?” Dave asks me as he stops the car. “I know you’re happy but this is…” He pauses and I know he’s searching for a diplomatic word. “Sudden.”
I see my girl, hair glinting in the morning light, and wonder how he could think this is anything but the beginning of a fairy tale.
Still, his concern for me is touching. He was never a particularly doting older brother when we were kids, but no one is there faster or feistier when I need him. I love with my heart on my sleeve. He loves with his fists out.
“I’m positive,” I tell him. “Don’t worry about me.”
He nods and claps me on the shoulder. “All right. Well, call Mom when you get there. She’ll worry.”
“Will do. Thanks for the ride.”
I grab my suitcase from the trunk, wave goodbye at Dave, and all but run to Molly.
“Morning, beautiful,” I say, pulling her into my arms and smelling her delicious hair.
“Good morning to you,” she says. She lets me stand there and nuzzle her for longer than I expect.
I bury my face against her cheek to hide the pure glee of my smile. Because what I know from her standing here in public, snuggling me, is that she likes me.
I know she said she loved me, which is perhaps the highlight of my adult life, but sometimes affection is just as hard to earn as ardor. So it floods me with warmth that I can tell she’s happy to see me. That she enjoys my nearness and my company.
I have forgotten so many times in my string of relationships that like is just as necessary as love.
We check in for our flight and drop off our bags. We’re just past security, walking to our gate hand in hand, when Molly stops short. I almost trip.
I glance back at her, and she’s pale. Devoid of any of the lightness she exuded thirty-five seconds ago.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Oh. Nothing. Just…” She points to the line at the coffee kiosk.
There, standing with a very pretty redheaded woman, who looks to be about twenty-five, is Molly’s dad.
Roger Marks was always a striking man—tall and lanky with hollow cheeks and pale blue eyes. In his golden years, his thick snarl of hair has gone white, his face is craggier, and he’s cultivated a suntan so deep and leathery he looks like a Cuban cigar. You could imagine him robbing tombs in Egypt, or filming culinary adventure shows in Thailand—or, what he actually does, I imagine—writing lowbrow detective thrillers on a sailboat in Florida while drinking aged rum on the rocks.
He must sense our eyes on him, because he looks up and scans the terminal.
Molly waves. He squints, like he’s trying to place her.
In his defense there’s a glare from the skylights, but it still takes him a startling amount of time to clock that the Molly-size person walking toward him calling “Dad!” is his daughter.
You can tell the moment he recognizes her because his face goes totally slack. He looks pained. No. He looks caught.
He lifts up a hand but does not sacrifice his place in the line to greet her. Which tracks. He never inconvenienced himself to see her when she was a traumatized teenager. Why should he start now?
I hate him.
I’ve always hated him.
But I hate him more because I see the eagerness in her walk, and I see him just standing there with dread on his face.
I rush to catch up with Molly, clenching the handle of my bag like it’s a baseball bat. I will beat Roger Marks senseless in this airport if he is not kind to his daughter, my precious TSA-Pre status be damned.
“Well hi,” Molly says to her father. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Hey, toots,” he says, because he’s the kind of man who calls women “toots.” He leans forward to accept a kiss on the cheek, which he doesn’t reciprocate. “What a coincidence.”
“Yeah,” Molly says. “I thought you were out of town. Just getting back?”
“Just leaving, actually,” he says. “Quick jaunt to Barbados. Golf tournament.”
“Ah,” Molly says slowly. “And, um, who’s this?”
The young woman is staring down at the floor with wide, horrified eyes, as though she has just noticed a roach walking over her foot and can’t look away.
“Savannah,” Roger says to her, “this is my daughter, Molly.”
The girl looks up and very briefly glances at Molly’s eyes. “Nice to meet you, Molly.” She has a slight southern accent and a tremulous voice. She is either quite shy or quite terrified.
“Nice to meet you, too,” Molly says.
There is a very, very long pause.
“And who might you be?” Molly’s dad asks, offering me his hand with a jovial, back-slapping energy that has appeared out of nowhere. He seems very eager to turn the conversation away from his trip and his travel companion.
“Seth Rubenstein,” I say. I wait for him to register that I dated his daughter for most of her teenage years, but he evinces no recognition.
“Pleasure to meet you, Seth. Roger Marks.” He says this like he knows I will recognize his name from the entire shelf of neon-covered hardbacks emblazoned with it at the newsstand fifteen feet away, and is pleased to give me a chance to meet a celebrity.
“You’ve actually met,” Molly says. “Seth was my boyfriend in high school. Remember?”
“Ah, of course,” he says, though he is very obviously lying. “Nice to see you again, Seth. Where are you two headed?”
“Chicago,” Molly says, in a timbre I have never before heard her use except when she’s trying not to sound upset. “On our way to Wisconsin.”
This would be a natural point for Roger to ask his daughter why she is going to the Midwest with her high school boyfriend, but he is not moved to inquire.
“Looks like we’re next in line,” he says. “Can I get either of you a coffee?”
I want to ask for an iced quad dirty chai coconut-milk latte just to make him spend ten minutes waiting around for it, but this interaction is clearly excruciating for all involved, so I restrain myself.
“No, we’re good,” Molly says.
“Well it’s great to run into you, tootsie,” her dad says with forced warmth. “I’ll see you in Los Angeles.”
“Yeah. Sounds good,” Molly says, with the same unconvincing brightness. “Have fun on your trip.”
She steps in for a hug just as he turns to the cashier to start ordering.
It’s like watching a kitten be hit by a car.
“Oh, whoops,” she says, nearly colliding with Savannah. I can hear humiliation in her voice, but Roger is too busy giving a teenager instructions on how long to brew his espresso to notice.
I want to grab him by his big stupid hair and bash his face into the plexiglass counter.
She begins to walk away, but I remain planted.
“Asshole,” I say under my breath.
Roger turns around. “Excuse me?” he says.
I shake my head in disgust. “That’s your fucking daughter.”
“Seth, come on,” Molly says, tugging at my hand. “It’s fine.”
“You can’t give your own daughter a hug? Maybe act like you’re halfway happy to see her?”
“Enough,” Molly hisses. “Don’t do this.”
“Sorry, Dad,” she says over her shoulder. “See you in a week.”
She pulls me away and doesn’t look back as she walks quickly in the direction of our gate.
I put an arm around her but she shrugs it off. “That was humiliating,” she whispers. I assume she means her father’s profound apathy at seeing her, but she whirls around to face me head-on. “Don’t ever do anything like that again, do you understand?”
Oh, shit. She’s mad at me.
“I’m sorry,” I say immediately. “You’re right. It wasn’t my place to step in.”
“No. It wasn’t.”
I can tell by her tone she wants me to drop it, but I can’t let it go.
“It’s just that I can’t believe him,” I say. “He lied to you about being out of town? And who was that girl?”
She shakes her head, stone-faced. “Who knows. Not his wife. It doesn’t matter. It’s not worth getting into it with him.”
But it is. I want her to be as incensed as I am. To flay into that bastard with her poison dagger tongue. To storm over to Hudson News, grab the latest Mack Fontaine book, and whale on him with it.
“Baby,” I say at a much quieter volume. “Why should you protect his feelings?”
“Because he’s my father,” she says flatly. “At the end of the day, I want a relationship with him. And we’ve been getting along. I’m writing the next Mack Fontaine movie.”
I’m astounded that she would trust him enough to work with him on anything, let alone on one of his sleazy PI movies, but I know that isn’t my business.
“Okay. I get that. But you can still be angry with him for how he treated you.”
“That’s just what he’s like. I’m used to it. I have my mom. It’s fine.”
But it’s not. I can see in her complete lack of affect that she has disappeared somewhere inside herself. I despise it.
I pull her into my arms, but she stays rigid. It’s like hugging a piece of driftwood.
“Listen to me,” I say. “I pity him. Because his daughter is one of the most extraordinary people I’ve ever met. And he blew it. And he knows it. That’s why he’s like that. Because he failed you, and he’s ashamed.”
She takes a deep breath.
“Yeah? Well, he’s where I get it from.”
“Get what?”
“Being a selfish remote asshole with a cruel streak.”
I’m taken aback. “Molly, you are none of those things.”
“Yes, I am,” she says flatly. “I’m built just like him. I’m cold and cynical and I hurt people.”
Before this moment, I have never truly understood the meaning of the word aghast.
“You are absolutely not,” I say, wanting to sear it into her brain. “I’m not even entertaining—”
“No? Sarcastic writer throws away great guy, ghosts him for fifteen years? Sound like anyone we know? Remember when you said I’m a bolter? Well bingo. Learned it from the best.”
“Molly, I was awful to say that. No one is only their past. No one is just one thing.”
“Yes, I’m sure I’m all the colors of the goddamn rainbow, but I get my shitty parts from my dad. Relationships freak me out, and I check out and run away and hurt people who care about me. And I know how that feels, because he fucking did it to me, okay? He still fucking does. And if you are wondering how you fit into this, as a nice person with feelings who loves me, so am I.”
Her pupils are dilated, and I can tell she’s catastrophizing. Condemning herself to a character trope that I’m partly responsible for casting her in.
She’s writing the end of our story before it even begins.
“Molly?” I say. “We all make mistakes, and we all have baggage. It doesn’t make you a bad person. It makes you human.”
Tears well in her eyes. “Thank you for saying that. But I’m not sure this trip is a good idea. I’m not going to be good for you.”
I shake my head. “No. Sorry, kid. You are exactly what’s good for me.”
“I don’t want to treat you like that. I don’t want to hurt you. I’m so afraid of myself.” She’s not crying, but her whole body is clenched, like she’s using every muscle she possesses to hold it together. “I don’t want to lose you again.”
“Baby,” I say, squeezing her with my entire life force, “I won’t fucking let you.”
And I know, when she goes limp and starts to cry into my neck, that she’s willing to try to believe me.