Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Ivy
"How are the lessons in love going?" Even though it's past quiet hours in New York, Meredith's voice is bright and loud. Even though we’re three-thousand miles apart, I hear her clearly. The magic of technology. She’s in a rustic cabin in the woods and I’m in my guest bedroom in my pajamas, but it feels like we’re hanging out at the office, sipping drinks.
"Aren't you supposed to be meditating?" I ask.
"A deflection. That means you don't want to answer." Her laugh is easy and full, like she really has thought her problems away.
Or maybe it's more the not thinking that does it. After all, thinking about relationships is typically overthinking about relationships. Too much introspection can turn even the best relationship into a source of pain. The same goes for relationships, vacations, life goals.
Obsessing over how we feel is a quick way to feel crappy. But ignoring it doesn't work either. We have to find a middle ground.
Maybe she knows something I don't. She and Romeo. Maybe we should do more and think less.
"I could say the same about you," I say.
"Ah, but I'm not a therapist. No one expects me to have my shit figured out."
As if. "Mer--"
"I know, I know. You're a hot mess." She pauses and takes a deep breath.
Considering how to say something to me, maybe.
That's not like her. "I know you've felt that way since your divorce.
I know you felt that way when things were falling apart.
But you never really showed it… I won't push you, either.
You're a private person. And that's cool.
Sharing secrets isn't the only way to deepen friendships, but it is hard…
hearing how you're such a mess when I'm waking up in a different apartment every weekend. "
"You're sexually liberated," I say.
"Yeah, sure, like Samantha Jones. That's how everyone remembers her. But she's using sex to cope, you know. She always goes for sex to avoid intimacy." There's a frustration in her voice. One I don't recognize.
"Is that why you're on a break?"
"Why else would I be on a break? Because I'm tired of having such great orgasms?" she asks.
I take a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Mer. I didn't realize."
"Because I didn't tell you. I get it. Neither of us is really great at sharing this way.
But I wish we were. That we could. Because I love you and I want to be there for you.
I do. And, fuck, I didn't want to go hard on the trials of the poor traveling upper middle-class woman. This isn't Eat, Pray, Fuck."
That’s the same joke Romeo made. Is my life really that much of a cliché or is it just that fun to reveal the subtext of the word love? "You always say Eat, Pray, Love is a really insightful book," I say.
"It is." She lets out a deep sigh. "It's so annoying how good it is. And how much it inspired me to go to this retreat."
"Hey, I'm the one loving after a divorce," I say. "You know. We actually talked about that."
"Love?"
"The book," I say. "He's read it."
"Really?" she asks. "No. I guess that would make sense. He's probably got a lot of women looking to reclaim their independence."
"Widows and divorcees," I say.
"You fit right in. But you're not distracting me." She perks. "Is it really good? The sex?"
"So good."
"Details!"
I give her the play by play of the afternoon. The words pour out of me. I don't feel embarrassed or shy. I want to share too much.
"Are you ready to record? We can do it now? Or… in the morning. But it will be ass-o-clock there, so maybe now."
"I don't know." It feels different, now that I'm here, now that his family is trusting me. "I don't have that long tonight. Can we do this tomorrow?"
"Okay. I'll text you my availability and set it up. Trust me, Ives. We need this. I need this. I don't have a book advance to pay for the rest of this trip."
Right.
She's counting on me.
And that comes first.
After we finish out chit-chat, I find the crew in the living room. For a moment, I watch all four of the Galantes, and soon to be Galantes, from my spot at the top of the stairs. The house is beautiful. Made for this kind of spying.
For someone to stay off, on the sidelines, while someone else delivers the action.
That's what I've done forever, isn't it?
I could step into things now. I could get messy, instead of stepping back, and asking how that makes people feel.
Instead of hiding behind my ability to help other people figure their shit out.
My best friend is right. I am hiding. But, hey, right now I have a reason. This family thinks I'm someone I'm not.
Cynthia and Daniel aren't cozy, exactly, but they're not wearing the awkwardness of the afternoon either.
Maybe that's what Romeo is really good at. He keeps the peace with his family. He keeps the mood light. He keeps his cards close to the vest.
The way I do. The way I've done. But I don't want that anymore. Not with him. Not the same way.
I like him.
I really do.
And that's scary. Because the last person I liked was my ex-husband. And look how that turned out.
I know I shouldn't obsess over what happened or why. That's my brain, trying to pattern recognize, thinking If I just solve WHY this went bad, I'll never get hurt again. But it's not true.
Things changed. We changed. And we didn't change too.
Some of it was his, ahem, issues.
But not all of it.
And all of those things meant we didn't fit together anymore. If we'd realized it sooner, things wouldn't have gotten so ugly. If I'd been able to hold onto some part of him, maybe it would be easier to let go. But this…
Ugh. No wonder Amara doesn't want me as Romeo's future wife. I fell down on the job once, at least from her point of view.
Right on cue, she waves hello to me. As I descend the stairs, I wave back. I study the matriarch again.
She's a lot like my mom, actually. Friendly, sturdy, stylish. With that undercurrent of judgment.
Am I projecting?
No, it's there, in her eyes. A subtle difference in the way she looks at me and Cynthia. Cynthia is marriage material. I'm not.
Is it a judgement of my job, my time with Romeo, or some other aspect of my personality? Maybe it’s nothing so sinister. Maybe she’s a mother who wants the best for her son and she simply isn’t sure if this new person is it.
Even that is strange, though. I grew up as the proverbial good girl.
I had the interest in sex, but I kept it to myself.
Since I got good grades, and won races at swim meets, I fit the role of stellar Orange County student well.
Parents liked me. My ex’s parents liked me so much they didn’t bat an eye at my decision to specialize in sex therapy.
Back then, I really slipped into my role as good girl.
When I met my ex, I fell into the role so thoroughly I believed it.
But I'm not here to find myself. Not during the day anyway. Tonight, after the family is asleep, and it's just me and Romeo…
Absolutely tonight. I just need to think about that. Play my role here so I can enjoy the fruits there.
I force my lips into the smile as I step off the stairs. Amara stands and motions for Cynthia to follow.
"Do we have a new game?" Cynthia asks. There's no dread in her voice but there's no excitement either. She's tired, I think. It's been a long day already.
"The boys made breakfast this morning. It's our turn to make dinner. I'm going to finally teach you their favorite," Amara says.
"I think Ivy knows how to make a grilled cheese sandwich," Romeo teases. He looks to me with affection in his dark eyes. Pride. Mischief.
My knees threaten to crumble. He still has that look that says I dare you. The look that promises all sorts of erotic delights. But then maybe this is all part of the ruse.
Maybe he's not as into the sex as I am. That is his job. And I…
I hate the idea, I do. But I want to enjoy the fruits of my labor too. I'm paying for this my way. I'm going to get my "money's worth."
"Their childhood favorite," Amara corrects. "Cacio e pepe."
At the same time, Cynthia and Romeo let out a knowing laugh.
Daniel frowns and folds his arms over his chest. For the first time, he takes on the posture of a child, or maybe a petulant teen. He's been teased about this before, and he's used to it.
Then something shifts. He almost smiles. The annoyance is a put-on.
"Daniel thinks he's more sophisticated than he is," Romeo says. "Or he did, as a kid."
"He sneezed every time he helped me make the dish," Amara says.
"And every time we ate it." Her voice takes on a wistful tone.
"But I still remember the first time they had a babysitter, who made a box of Kraft.
The kids called us at the restaurant. We thought they were in the hospital.
But it was Daniel, panicking about dinner. "
"He said, ‘Mama, the cheese the babysitter made is no good. It's yellow!’" Romeo laughs. "’Where are the black flakes?’"
"It was neon orange," Daniel says.
Romeo's laugh gets lower, deeper. "Do you remember that beautiful blonde you had a massive crush on—" He looks to Cynthia, to check how he's doing.
She nods along, unbothered by the image of childhood Daniel with a crush.
"The baby looked at the Tupperware Mom left with horror and Daniel proudly explained this is macaroni and cheese.
Just look at the pasta! And the cheese! A simple recipe.
Three ingredients." Romeo looks to Amara.
"Cynthia knows how to make it. I'm not sure if Ivy does. I'm too used to fixing it for her."
What a nice fiction. My fake boyfriend cooking me a fancy version of a comfort food for dinner.
Or the two of us, in the kitchen, working together to make something fantastic.
I did that with my ex, once upon a time. We laughed over over-cooked noodles and oddly chopped pieces of peppers.
Then one day, we didn't.
How do things change that way? So quickly?