We parked on the wharf, Brad grumbling about the price as usual, got out and weaved our way down the street through the other pedestrians. When was the last time I’d been to P-town just to stroll? Too long ago. I linked my arm through Brad’s, but we had to part ways when the sidewalk narrowed （or stopped altogether）。
At Pepe’s, our table was waiting, a snug little booth toward the front of the restaurant. “Can we have a table with a water view?” I asked the server.
“I requested this one,” Brad said. “It’s more private, and it’ll get chilly when the sun goes down.”
“True. This is great. Thanks, honey.”
We looked at the menus and ordered. Brad got a martini, which was new for him . . . he’d started being interested in “mixology” at some point this winter. I ordered a glass of white wine, acknowledging silently that I’d be the one to drive home. Brad was a lightweight, despite his somewhat pretentious grilling of the waitress over gin types and how many dashes of bitters he wanted. That’s what marriage was about, wasn’t it? Putting up with little irritants for the big picture of security and contentment?
I was dying to tell him about the trip—Venice! The Alps! Paris!—but he seemed intent on memorizing the wine and drinks list.
“Any speaking engagements this summer, hon?” I asked, knowing he loved to talk about his pet project. It worked. He brightened right up.
About two years ago, Brad decided that being a talk therapist wasn’t enough. He decided to write a self-help book about living your best life, which he entitled Living Your Best Life. Not the most original title, and, if I’m being honest, not the most original content, either. Breathe. Live mindfully. Eat healthfully. Take walks. Keep a gratitude journal. Nothing you couldn’t find in the 3.52 billion hits Google brought up when I’d checked the phrase. But he liked it, so he went with it.
When every agent and publisher rejected or ignored it, Brad went the route of self-publishing, sat back and waited for Oprah to call. She did not. He finagled a spot on NECN （one of the producers and I had gone to high school together, and I asked if she could put him in touch with the person who booked guests）。 The Cape Cod Times had graciously done a feature on his book and him. Alas, sales were almost nonexistent. It wasn’t exactly a surprise—he knew nothing about indie publishing, after all—but I tried to be encouraging. I even bought a few copies from time to time and gave them to my pregnant ladies as gifts. Brad would mention an “uptick in sales,” and I never had the heart to tell him that it was me.
Tonight, the question got his nose out of the wine list. “Thanks for asking,” he said with more enthusiasm than he’d shown all day. “I’m working on a new marketing plan. I think it’ll get some solid national attention, and I’m planning a blogging tour. Maybe even some signings.” He lifted his eyebrows.
“That’s great, hon,” I said, though he’d said this three or four times in the past. This spring, for example, he’d started an Instagram account and taken a lot of pictures of himself on the beach or kayaking or staring over the ocean, hair ruffling, #LivingYourBestLife #BuyTheBook #ChangeYourLife #amreading #amliving #bestlife. No pictures of Dylan or me, but he said he wanted to respect our privacy, and this was only for the book.
I ordered the seafood puttanesca, and Brad went with the pasta. “No steak?” I asked, because he usually ordered red meat when we were out.
“I’m thinking of going vegetarian,” he said. “Better for me. My thoughts are clearer, and I have more energy.”
I smiled. “Says the king of bacon cheeseburgers. Didn’t you eat two the other night?”
He rolled his eyes. “Maybe I did, Lillie. Typical of you to keep score.”
“I just . . . Never mind.” He’d been prickly lately, probably because of Dylan.
“Dylan got his roommate, did he tell you?” I said, and no, our son had not, so I filled Brad in. The kid was from Maine, had four sisters, seemed perfectly nice and was also a football player. I told him about the classes Dylan was taking—mostly core requirements, but he’d also chosen Fiction in the Twentieth Century, which made me happy, since I loved to read. I told Brad about my newest client, who was expecting twins.
Our food came, and I inhaled the sauce before tasting it. “God, they should make this smell into perfume,” I said. “People would chase me down in the streets just to sniff me.”
No reaction. Not the greatest date night we’d ever had. I wanted him in a better mood before I told him about the big trip. He seemed both a little bored and a little irritated, which in turn irritated me. I was doing 90 percent of the work here, after all. “Tell me more about the marketing plan,” I said.