Chapter Twelve
It’s Saturday, which has a new meaning now that I’m still getting used to.
In our old life, if I wasn’t scheduled to work we never spent Saturdays at home.
I’d go browse flea markets and thrift shops while Nicholas hung out with his friends: Derek, Seth, and Kara—the ex he’s “just friends” with and who loves to tell me I look tired.
I don’t care that she’s married and blissfully devoted to her husband. I’m never, ever going to like her.
Seth’s indifference toward me evolved into jealousy when Nicholas and I got engaged, as if I’m a usurper stealing Nicholas away from him.
One-on-one, he’s all right. Get him into a large group setting, and he tries to be a comedian.
When this happens, all of his jokes are about Nicholas.
He takes little jabs at him constantly, smiling while he does it, which disguises his put-downs as playful ragging.
Nicholas’s appearance takes a lot of hits.
Nice jacket. You stopping by the country club later?
Every time he makes fun of an item of Nicholas’s clothing, it vanishes from his wardrobe circulation.
He’s stopped wearing the Cartier watch his parents got him as a graduation present and leaves his Ray-Bans in the car.
If he uses a big word, Seth laughs and asks him if he thinks he’s smart.
You think you’re at a spelling bee or something?
Since I’m not allowed to rip Seth’s throat out and have been instructed to keep my mouth shut whenever he “jokes around” (Nicholas is in denial that the remarks bother him), I’ve stopped going to social events if I know Seth is going to be there.
I’ve asked numerous times why he puts up with this, and reading between the lines of his bullshit responses I got the true gist: Seth was the first guy who wanted to be his friend in college, and now he feels like he owes him eternal loyalty.
Since Nicholas wants to be the confrontational type but definitely isn’t, he’s let all the comments slide with an “Oh, c’mon” and an embarrassed laugh.
Offending people who treat him badly is not in his nature, so I’m proud of Nicholas for growing a backbone and ignoring Seth’s recent texts: Come over and help me move, asshole.
BYOB. Seth demanding that Nicholas help him move is pretty ballsy, considering he was nowhere to be seen when the shoe was on the other foot and Nicholas had to hire professional movers.
People always go to him when they need something because they know he can’t say no.
I’m stunned that he hasn’t given in to his guilt yet and skipped off to Seth’s with a case of beer and a large pizza.
Weirdly enough, Nicholas has met up with Leon of all people. To go hiking. Twice. He won’t tell me what they talk about and has called me conceited because he thinks I assume they’re talking about me (which is true, but I bet they do).
Besides getting a ride from Brandy to Blue Tulip Café to discuss her new boyfriend (an optometrist single dad named Vance who I am rooting for because he’s sweet and she deserves someone sweet), I haven’t felt like hanging out with anyone lately, either.
Today we’re feeling particularly antisocial.
Nicholas and I are too busy torturing each other to leave our little house of hatred.
It starts with the joke I can’t stand.
We’re on opposite ends of the couch, playing on our phones.
(He’s gotten a new one for himself.) I’m reading a news article because I need to stay on top of current affairs.
This way if Nicholas starts talking about a subject he just heard about, I can say, “Oh, I already heard that.” It’s an excellent thing to do to someone you despise when the object of your .
. . despisement? . . . is a pretentious know-it-all. 10/10, would recommend.
I mutter and murmur about the news article. When he doesn’t ask what I’m reading about, I just go for it with a gasped “Oh my god.”
“Yes?” He raises his eyebrows questioningly, like I just spoke his name. He often says this when I talk to a deity. He knows I hate it, and I think this gives him life. I’m adding minutes to his life span with my annoyance.
“I hate that joke.”
“Some people find it funny.”
“Nobody finds it funny.”
“Gets a laugh from Stacy every time.”
Dr. Stacy Mootispaw, crusader against khakis and accuser of him never going the extra mile.
With as often as Nicholas has mentioned her, I won’t lie to you, when I met her for the first time I was hoping she’d be a grandmotherly type, smelling of baby powder.
Twice his age, in self-knitted sweaters with cats on them.
A proud furbaby mom with a jolly old husband she loves so much she calls him on every break.
As you might guess, that’s not what Stacy’s like at all.
Her brain moves faster than Usain Bolt. She’s got a million college degrees and could basically do whatever she wanted.
The world is her oyster. If she ever gives up the dental game, she could easily model for J.Crew.
She’s got the shiniest black hair I’ve ever seen and a dazzling smile that must be half the reason she’s in this particular industry.
Perfect figure. Glowing skin so blemish-free, it’s like she’s been airbrushed.
She doesn’t wear a stitch of makeup but looks amazing anyway and I hate her for it.
People who wake up looking glamorous can’t be trusted.
Rolling my eyes, I go throw a load of clothes from the washer into the dryer, then end up doing a bit of vacuuming and organizing. I guess I’m a housewife now. Or house-fiancée.
“Whew, it’s warm in here. Let’s turn down the heat.”
“You’re just warm because you’re up and moving around.”
“No, it’s definitely warm in here.” I fiddle with the thermostat. It says it’s seventy-two degrees, but there’s no way it’s not at least seventy-five. This thing is broken.
I sit back down and he stares at me, an irritable bear. “Speaking of Stacy,” he begins, and I quash a rumble in my chest. “I got her for Secret Santa. Any suggestions?”
“Toothpaste.”
He gives me a dry look. “Just because we’re dentists doesn’t mean we’re in love with toothpaste.”
“A gift card, then.”
“Mmm, is that too impersonal?”
“Who cares? You’re giving it to your coworker, not your best friend.”
“I want to put some thought into it, though.”
“If you want to put some thought into it, then why’d you ask me for ideas? I barely know this chick.”
“I thought you might be helpful,” he huffs. “You’re both women!”
“Right, and we’re all the same. We all like the same stuff, just like all men like the same stuff.
I suppose I’ll take the present I had in mind for my dad and give it to you for Christmas instead.
Surprise, it’s a model of the Brady Bunch house!
” My dad’s super into collecting memorabilia of older shows like The Brady Bunch and The Partridge Family.
“You know what I meant.”
“I know you’re sexist.” I pull a throw blanket over me. “It’s cold in here.”
Nicholas glares. “That’s it.”
“That’s what?” I ask as he gets off the couch and goes to find his coat and shoes. “What’re you doing?”
“What I’m meant to be doing!”
What he’s “meant to be doing” better not be Stacy Mootispaw. I follow him to the door and watch him march out to his car. Getting rid of the Maserati was a solid choice. It doesn’t belong out here at all, whereas the Jeep looks like it was manufactured by nature. “Where are you going?”
He doesn’t respond, peeling out without another word. I spend the next twenty minutes texting him. If he’s in a dingy motel room with Dr. Sultry, the persistent vibration of his phone is going to be a real mood-killer.
Hey
Hey
Where are you
Nicholas
Nicky
Nickster
Nickelodeon
Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy
Acknowledge me or I’m telling your mom you didn’t come home last night and you might be missing
Really? Not even for that?
I’m bowled over that my threat produced no reaction from him, and starting to worry that he’s incapacitated somewhere when the Jeep comes clattering up the drive again.
He gets out without glancing at the house, which means he knows I’m watching him through the window. What he hefts out of the back of his car and lifts high above his head nearly makes me faint.
It’s. A. Canoe.
–
I’m in a lawn chair on the bank of our pond, snapping pictures of Nicholas.
He’s maybe fifty feet out, in his plaid earflap hat and Ghostbuster coveralls, trying to put a bobber on his fishing line.
If Freud were sitting next to me, he’d probably deduce that stressors (i.e.
, me) have caused Nicholas to backslide into childhood to re-create his brightest moment in the sun.
He’s going to catch that bluegill again and hold it up proudly for the camera. Everyone will clap.
I call his phone.
He looks over at me in my chair, like, You are ruining this.
We could be ten thousand miles apart and I’d still know what he’s doing with his face.
Telepathic waves beam at me, rippling the water like a helicopter’s taking off.
He’s thinking loud and clear: Go away. I’m becoming Who I’m Meant To Be.
It’s a touch prissy and so familiar that I think I’m starting to love it on him.
This guy. Seriously.
I call him again. This time he answers. “What?” he snaps.
“Whatcha doin’?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?”
It looks like he doesn’t know what he’s doing.
But I can’t say that or he’ll hang up. I need to monitor this situation as closely as he’ll let me, for the sake of psychology.
Science. America’s Funniest Home Videos, possibly.
He’s still struggling to get his line baited because he doesn’t want to remove his gloves.
“Aren’t fish hibernating at this time of year?”
He pauses. “That’s not . . . fish don’t hibernate.”
“I think I’ve heard they do.”
“Shh. You’re making me talk and I’m going to scare all the fish away.”