Chapter 35. Seth
I’m giddy.
While Molly was cooking, I walked over to the other gate and let in the crew I hired. They’re silently setting up the lights in the front yard. I need to distract Molly until it’s time for dinner.
I go in the house, which smells amazing. “Damn,” I call. “Whatever you’re doing in there—”
But I see Molly and stop talking.
She’s slumped at the table, nursing a glass of wine and staring at something on her phone.
“Hey,” I say. “What’s wrong?”
She looks up at me. She seems hollowed out.
“Nothing,” she says. “Sorry. Dezzie called and I got distracted. She’s in pretty rough shape.”
That would explain why she’s upset.
Fuck.
I wonder if I made a mistake by not reconsidering this when there was still time to change course. It did cross my mind that the circumstances are less than ideal, given everything going on with Dezzie. But we were having such a beautiful day yesterday, and Molly seemed so happy to be together, and so excited about the possibility of me moving, that it seemed silly to second-guess myself.
In any case, it’s too late to change course now. There are already six men in the driveway erecting the set I designed.
And I have an idea to cheer Molly up.
“You know,” I say, “if you want, we can drive back early tomorrow and grab a flight to Chicago. You might feel better being with her. And I can help her prep for her meeting with the attorney.”
Molly looks up at me with sad eyes. “You would do that?”
“Of course.”
“What about your interviews on Monday?”
I shrug. “I’ll reschedule them.”
I know these firms want me, bad. They’ll wait.
“Wow,” Molly says. “It would be so nice to surprise her. Let’s do it.”
“I’ll look at flights after dinner.”
She smiles, and her whole face looks brighter—like she just got an extra four hours of sleep.
I relax. My plan is still fine.
“The food smells amazing,” I say. “I’m excited for your feast.”
“Thanks,” she says. “I have every intention of blowing your mind with my culinary prowess.”
“You can blow me anytime, babe.”
She groans.
“Hey, I saw a deck of cards in the dining room,” I say. “Want me to beat your ass at gin?” I want to keep her occupied so she doesn’t find a random reason to go out into the front yard for the next half an hour.
“I’m a little tired. Didn’t sleep well last night. Would you mind if I lie down for a bit before we eat?”
Even better. The bedroom is at the back of the house, where there’s no chance of her hearing anything.
“No,” I say, “of course not.”
“Okay. I just put the chicken in. The oven’s on a timer, so you don’t need to do anything.”
“Got it. Get some sleep. I’ll set the table.”
I text the event coordinator to let her know we’ll be starting a little later, but this is actually good, because it gives me time to make the table romantic as fuck. I’m grateful to my mother that she forced me to learn where all the forks go. I’m the George Clooney of tablescapes.
I rummage in the sideboard and get to work arranging place settings. I find some Jadeite candlesticks and set up long white taper candles for a perfect, flickering ambiance. We need a centerpiece, so I snatch a towel and some scissors from the kitchen and go outside. I cut a bunch of green limbs from a flowering creosote bush with pale yellow blooms, which I arrange around the candlesticks.
The effect is festive and pretty, and the creosote gives the room an earthy scent, like the aftermath of a rainstorm.
I change, to look nice for dinner, then pace around, jittery and excited. Molly sleeps longer than I was expecting, so I occupy myself with texting holiday wishes to everyone I know. When she finally emerges, she’s wearing a cozy sweater and her makeup is fresh. She’ll look so cute in our pictures.
“How was your nap?” I ask.
“Restorative. And I’m starving. Are you ready to eat?”
“Yep.”
“Okay. I just need to blanch the beans. Sit down. I’ll serve you like a proper little wifey.”
Wifey. Pleasure surges through me. I send a text to give the ten-minute warning, light the candles, and hope I don’t fall apart from nerves and give myself away.
Molly walks in holding a tray with two little golden hens surrounded by rosemary sprigs.
“Why Miss Molly Malone,” I say. “I can’t believe you’ve been hiding your poultry-cooking ability all this time.”
“A lady has to have her secrets.”
She carries out the rest of the food, and I snatch the bottle of pinot she opened and pour us each a glass. And that’s my cue.
Time to change our lives.
Let’s fucking do this.
“Before we begin,” I say, “let’s say what we’re grateful for.”
She smiles. “You and your gratitude lists.”
“Hey! It’s Thanksgiving! If ever there was a day for gratitude lists—”
“Okay, okay, you start.”
“Well, first and foremost, I’m grateful for airplanes, because they take me to see you,” I say.
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “Very creative.”
“Gratitude is not a creative writing assignment. It’s a mindfulness practice.”
She nods like yeah yeah.
“May I go on?”
“Please.”
“I’m grateful to N95 masks for keeping us safe when we travel to meet each other. I’m grateful for frequent flier miles, which keep us from going broke. I’m grateful for beds, perfect for—”
“Okay, Casanova. I get it. You’re grateful for sex and travel.”
“Sex and travel with you,” I clarify.
“Are you done?” she asks.
“I’m just getting started.”
“Of course you are.”
“I’m grateful for the national park system,” I say, “for giving me an adventure with my woman. I’m grateful for cholla cacti, for making her eyes light up like a kid’s. I’m grateful for sauvignon blanc, because of the way it makes you agree to dance with me, even though, I will admit, you are terrible at it.”
“Is this a roast?”
“Only a little bit. To keep you honest.”
“Is it my turn now?”
“Nope. I’m grateful for cabins in little lake towns, where I spent some of the happiest days of my life. For high school reunions, for giving me a second chance with you. For all the wrong relationships that made me see this is the right one.” My voice cracks a little. I’m getting emotional, but I’m determined to get through this without crying.
Molly’s face has grown tense. She’s watching me intently.
“Seth,” she says, “I love you, but the food is going to get cold. Let’s eat.”
But I’m in it now. I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to.
And I don’t want to. I only want her.
I take a deep breath. “I’m grateful for all the years we spent apart, because they helped us become the people that could be together.”
In the distance, I can hear the music starting, right on time. She hears it too. She looks at me with this terrible expression. “Okay,” she says. “What’s going on? Seriously.”
There is flight in her eyes. Like she knows exactly what’s going on and is frantically running through her options for making it stop.
My stomach turns over. I have never prayed harder than I am in this moment, hoping this will turn out okay.
“I think it’s coming from outside,” I say in a voice much calmer than I feel. “Let’s go look.”
Molly stays planted. “What are you doing, Seth?”
“Come on,” I say, forcing a grin and taking her hand. “There’s something I want you to see.”
She doesn’t move. There’s a wild look in her eyes, like she’s a cornered animal.
“Baby,” I say. “Just trust me. Come on.”
She lets me lead her through the living room and out onto the front porch. In the yard, in a clearing among the Joshua trees and ocotillos, a string quartet is seated in front of a ten-foot-high screen projecting a starry night’s sky. At the sight of us, they break into “I Found a Love” by Etta James.
It’s one of our songs. One we played over and over at my cabin that first week we spent together.
Lights that I had brought in from LA go on all around us, projecting vertical beams into the sky.
Molly covers her mouth with her hand. Her eyes are filled with tears. In the darkness, I can’t tell if they’re happy ones. All I can see is the sheen.
I rummage in my pocket for the ring I bought her at Roman Roman. It’s an antique Georgian-era cluster of diamonds forming a flower on a delicate gold band. It reminds me of the charms on the many strands of necklaces she always wears.
“Baby,” I say raggedly, “I’m so grateful I get to share this holiday with you. For the chance to make new traditions with you. And for the chance to honor old ones. Like this one.”
I bend down on one knee.
At that cue, the lights begin to change colors, projecting a swirl of beams into the sky. Behind the musicians, the projector lights up with images of fireworks. (The real thing is illegal in Joshua Tree; this is the best I could do.)
“Molly Marks,” I say. “I’m so grateful I found my soul mate. Will you marry me?”
The music swells and tears stream down Molly’s face.
I reach out for her left hand. It’s limp, and clammy.
She pulls it away.
I pause, the ring dangling in midair.
She puts the back of her hand to her cheek, like she’s guarding her fingers from me.
Her eyes are wide and focused just beyond me, on the lights.
My body is growing cold, because I know this isn’t good, this isn’t happy, this isn’t the way things like this are supposed to go. But my dumb smile is still on my lips, and my dumb lights are still going nuts, and a question I thought I knew the answer to is still in my eyes.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she says. There’s true anguish in her voice. “Please, don’t ask me. I can’t. I just can’t.”
She turns around and runs inside.