Phoebe Berman's Gonna Lose It(22)
And so I do. I tell her about the list, my attempts at flirting with Teacher Rob, and my big future plans involving Finn.
Jamie’s reception becomes spotty as she walks through an underpass, but I can still make out a scrunched nose and a furrowed brow through the pixelated screen.
“What’s that look for?” I ask.
As her features come back into focus, I can see her exhale clearly.
“I still don’t get it,” she says.
“Get what?”
“How you could have a crush on someone else when you basically already have a perfect live-in boyfriend.”
Ever since my family first met Jonathan, they’ve been fixated on the status of our relationship.
My sister on a daily basis: “Your kids would be so cute. Imagine the curls on them! And the eyes!”
My mother in the middle of my cousin’s bar mitzvah service: “Do you think he’d be willing to convert?”
“Who?” I had asked.
She’d stared back at me blankly, as if my question insulted her. “Jonathan.”
My dad at my college graduation: “My firstborn daughter.” He dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief. “I can’t believe I’m the father of a college graduate. And before you know it, I’ll be giving you away at your wedding.”
He dissolved into hysterics while turning around to grab Jonathan, who was in the middle of taking photos with his parents, and quite surprised to find himself in the arms of my father.
“You’ll take such good care of her.” And then, in between sniffles, “Get together, you two.”
He reached into his front shirt pocket to grab his phone, using it to take a photo in, of course, landscape mode.
“This one’s for the grandkids,” he said while snapping the photo, his finger covering the corner of the camera lens.
While I can’t defend my dad’s behavior, I do have that picture taped to our freezer. Half of it is obscured by a thumb, but in the other half, Jonathan and I are mid-laugh, our eyes crinkled and mouths wide open. All things considered, my dad was right. It will definitely be one that I show my grandkids.
Desperate to change the subject, I have a question about Jamie’s wedding playlist on the tip of my tongue when I hear Jonathan’s key turn in the lock.
“I gotta go,” I tell her. “I love you and I can’t wait to see you.”
“Twelve days!” she sings as I press the end call button.
The door swings open, and the smell of grease and cheese coming from the pizza box in Jonathan’s hands fills up the whole room. The sleeves of his light blue collared shirt are rolled halfway up his arms, and a few buttons toward the top are undone, revealing a patch of chest hair I can’t help but stare at.
My mouth starts to water as I walk over to greet him.
Because of the pizza.
“Hey!” I give him a quick hug hello. “How was work?”
“Oh, you know. The same as it was yesterday. And the day before that. And all the days before that.”
Jonathan’s been working in medical device sales for the past five years in an effort to please his parents, even though he hates it and it makes him miserable. The Coopers had expected Jonathan to stay in their small West Virginia town to take over their family business, and could barely look him in the eye after he announced his decision to study film at UCLA. They pretty much refuse to leave their Southern bubble (West Virginia is technically part of the South, right? I still don’t totally get it), with the exception of the one trip they made to LA for graduation, where they spent the whole weekend pointing out “druggies” (men in Birkenstocks) and “lesbians” (women in Birkenstocks). I know Jonathan feels guilty for defying his parents’ expectations, so he continues to work at what they consider a “real job” as a way to keep the peace.
“What about advertising?” I ask for the millionth time. “Or publishing? You could talk to Jamie! Those are both jobs where you still get to be creative.”
I can’t stop myself from making suggestions every time he complains about work.
Over the summer, I made him a color-coded, alphabetized binder that includes a list of professions, their descriptions, and a detailed analysis of why they would be a good fit for him and please his parents. It’s sat unopened on his desk for months.
“I know,” he sighs, and because I know this conversation is going nowhere and I desperately need his assistance, I have no choice but to stop him before he gets too comfortable on the couch.
“Can you help me with something really quick?” I try to keep it vague, but my hand reflexively shoots to the back of my pajama pants.
Jonathan raises his eyebrows.
“Of course. What is it?” he asks. “I just reattached your mirror, by the way. You really need to start locking your car.”
“Oh!” In all the day’s excitement, I forgot about my detached side-view mirror resting in my passenger seat. “Thank you. You’re the best. I need help with something else, though.”
He waits for me to elaborate, but I begin making my way toward the stairs. “Follow me, please.”
He groans, but I hear his footsteps behind me.
“Is it another roach? We need to call the exterminator, Pheebs.”
We head up the stairs and into my room, where I hand him the Band-Aid that I already placed carefully on my nightstand.