My heart is pounding and you love me. You said it. Everyone around me is oblivious, but Van Morrison is egging us on from the speakers—this seems like a brand-new night and this feels like a brand-new night—and what the fuck am I doing?
You want me. I want you. Fuck it.
I’m outside, en route to Eleven Winery, closer as in Closer, but then I stop short.
Yes, you told me where you are but you didn’t invite me to join you. And let’s say I did interrupt your women’s night. Is this really the way for us to start our love story? Deep down, I know that good guy island etiquette requires that I give you your fucking “space.” The walls of Eleven are thin and I hear laughter in “your bar.” You’re not just with your best friend. You know a lot of flannel-vested townies inside and I want to rescue you from that noisy tedium that can’t possibly compare to our lovebird lunches in the garden.
But I can’t save you, Mary Kay. Tonight we made progress—you texted me, you started it—and I want that to be what you think about when you wake up tomorrow. It’s not easy, but I walk into the alley, away from the sound of your voice. Before I get home, I’m smiling again because hey, this was still a big night for us. You had all those people to talk to, your best fucking friend, but that wasn’t enough for you, was it? You picked up your phone and texted me. Rude. Obsessed. Sassy. And of course you couldn’t help it.
After all, you love me.
And you can tell me that you didn’t mean it that way. You can point to the fact that you were drinking. You can say that you were sloppy. But anyone with a phone knows that there are very few actual mistakes when it comes to the things we put in writing, especially after a few drinks. You said it and on some level, you meant it and your words are mine now, glowing in the dark in my phone.
I sleep well for a change, as if your love is already working its magic on me.
3
Everybody working for the weekend can bite me. I hate the weekends on this island, the flabby, brunchy vats of time where families and couples convene and revel in their togetherness with no regard for me, alone, missing you so much that I walk to the Town & Country grocery store—your grocery store—just hoping to bump into you at some point this weekend while your I-Love-You is still fresh, still new.
Sadly, we miss each other on Saturday and again on Sunday. But fuck you, weekend warriors, because Monday’s finally come. I look good even though I didn’t sleep last night—There’s no doubt, I’m in deep—and I pull a bright orange sweater over my head. This will make it easier for you to spot me in the stacks and I check Instagram. Last night, I posted some yearning Richard Yates. Did you touch the white empty heart beneath my Young Hearts Crying and turn it red?
No, you didn’t. But that’s okay.
@LadyMaryKay did not like your photo because she likes YOU, Joe.
I lock my door even though the Mothballs tell me I don’t have to lock my door and I walk by the movie theater on Madison—I want to go down on you in the dark—and I go to Love’s Instagram and watch my son tear up Good Night, Los Angeles. I know better than to walk into Love’s online family museum when I need to be at my best and I see your Subaru in the parking lot—you’re here!—and I quicken my pace and then I slow down—Gently, Joseph—and I walk inside but you’re not on the floor and you’re not in your den. Grrr. I shuffle off to the break room, where a married old Mothball tells me about his wife harping on him to take Advil for his lower back pain and I want that to be us in thirty years, but that will never be us if we don’t seal the fucking deal.
I fill Dolly Carton and push her into the stacks and boom. It’s you. You put your hands on Dolly and your eyes on me. “Hey.”
I fight the urge to do what you want me to do, to grab you right here, right now. “Hey.”
“Do you want to go get lunch in town or are you attached to your Cedar Cove special?”
YES I WANT TO GO TO LUNCH. “Sure.”
Your cheeks are Red Bed red and you want to eat food with me and there is a zipper in the center of your skirt and it’s a skirt I’ve never seen, a skirt you broke out today, for me, for our lunch date. You fiddle with the zipper. You want me to fiddle with it. “You wanna go now?”
We are putting on our jackets and we are lovebirds in a movie, strolling on Madison Avenue under a classical score. You want to know if Fecal Eyes introduced herself yet and I tell you she didn’t and you sigh. “Unbelievable,” you say. “See, if this were Cedar Cove, Nancy and her husband would have baked you a pie by now.”
I don’t want a pity party so I ask about your weekend—code for: remember when you told me you love me?—and you tell me that you and the Meerkat went to Seattle. I am bright, interested. “That sounds fun. What’d you do?”
“Oh you know how it is. She’s at that age where she walks ten feet ahead of me and if I want Italian, she wants Chinese and if I say that sounds good…”
“She wants Italian.”
“And she was freezing, she refused to bring a jacket. We popped by to visit some old friends who have a guitar store, they’re like family…” Your voice trails off. And you shrug. “And lunch was just Danishes on the ferry. Another proud mom moment, you know?” You laugh. “So, Joe, did you… do you want kids?”
It’s a trick question. Nomi’s a senior in high school and if I say I want kids and you don’t want more kids then you have a reason to push me away. But if I say I don’t want kids, then you might think I don’t want to be a stepfather. “I’ve always felt like, if it happens, it happens.”
“It’s the difference between men and women. For all you know, some kid could show up and knock on your door, 23andMe style, like ‘Hi, Dad!’？”
If only you knew, and I smile. “What about you? Do you want more kids?”
“Well… Nomi was the surprise of my life, you know? Lately, it’s hitting me that there’s this whole new chapter ahead. I don’t know about another kid, but opening a bookshop, that I can see.” Your voice trails off—you’re picturing us in our Bordello—and you dig your hands into your pockets. “So,” you say, your voice shaky with first-date nerves. “How was the rest of guys’ night?”
I like this new side of you, Mary Kay. Jealous. Frisky. And I am sarcastic. “Oh you know, beer… nachos… babes.”
“Ah, so does that mean you met someone?”
God, you have it bad for me and I smile. “Well, I thought I did…” I have to tease you a little. “But then this woman I work with texted me and I guess I kinda blew it.”
You know that you are this woman and you shrug, slightly demure, and it’s a reminder that as much as we are soulmates, we don’t know each other, not like this, on a sidewalk in motion. “Oh come on,” I say. “You know I’m kidding… I don’t go out on the prowl at bars and I’m certainly never, you know, looking for babes…” RIP Beck walked into my bookstore same way you happen to work at my library. “For me it’s always intangible. It’s not about looks… it’s about chemistry.”