“No, thanks. Why didn’t you get me up?”
“Or I can make a pot of coffee.” He put the manuscript down. “Do you drink coffee?”
“I’m not allowed.”
“New rules.”
I followed him into the kitchen and sat down on one of the stools at the counter. He took a bag of coffee beans out of the freezer.
“You have to keep them in the freezer or the beans lose their flavor.”
I watched him grind the coffee, stopping the electric grinder twice to give it a shake. “Makes sure it’s evenly ground,” he said, getting two glass coffee cups from the cupboard, heated up milk in a saucepan. My father is fastidious about the details of cooking.
“I love this song,” he turned up the radio, started humming “Rhiannon.” “English muffin?”
“Sure.”
He took a fork out of a drawer, made little holes in the muffin all the way around, split it in half and put it in the toaster. “It’s so good to have you here,” he said, reaching into his pocket. “I made you a key.” He beamed at me as if this was an extraordinary achievement, pulled up a stool beside me. “So. My divorce is finally final.”
I wasn’t sure what I was meant to say—whether I should be happy for him or sad. I opted for silence.
“Joanne made it a pretty easy decision. She gave me an ultimatum: my marriage or my girls. And obviously that was a no-brainer.” He took a dramatic pause. “You and Anna didn’t know this, but Joanne never liked my having kids.”
I feigned a look of surprise, tried not to laugh.
The toaster popped up. “I’m so sorry I disappeared on you girls. Joanne made it all so difficult. Anyway,” he said, taking a stick of butter and a jar of English marmalade from the icebox, “good riddance to bad rubbish. Never again. From now on it’s you, me, and Anna. No one will ever come between us again. And that’s a promise.”
* * *
—
“Mary,” I hiss into the pay phone now. “Go tell my father I need to speak to him. And tell him if he doesn’t come to the phone, I’m never speaking to him again.” I hear her taking a mental pause. “Do not make this decision for him, Mary, if that’s what you’re thinking. Believe me, it’ll backfire.”
She puts the phone down on the counter. I listen to her steps moving into the bedroom. I can hear her talking to my father. After a few minutes, she picks up the receiver. “He says, ‘Fine, if that’s what you want.’”
“You told him that would be it?”
“Yes,” she replies sweetly, “I repeated your exact words.”
I feel sick, sucker-punched. “Well then, I guess there’s nothing else to say. Have a lovely wedding. Last time Dad got married, the bride wasn’t wearing any underwear. I think he likes that bare-crotch thing.”
I hang up the phone and run into the coffee-shop bathroom, dry-heaving over the bowl a few times until the nausea subsides. I’ve never been able to make myself throw up, no matter how hard I try. I hate him. I hate his weakness. Everything he has never done for us. Everything he has promised. The endless betrayals. I splash my face with cold water. I’m splotchy and bloodshot, but at least I can breathe. I need to get out of here. I need Peter.
I’m almost out the front door when someone in the booth behind me says, “Elle?”
His voice has changed. Deepened, of course. But I would recognize it if it were in a chorus of a thousand voices. I’ve imagined this moment for so many years. What it would be like. Who we would be now. In my version, I’m carrying a rough draft of my thesis on Baudelaire, running to meet a corduroy-clad professor; or coming out of the pond after a vigorous swim—tan, fit, mature; no regrets. I run my fingers through my wild staticky hair. I could walk out the door, let him think he’s made a mistake.
“Elle,” Jonas says again, in his soft, easy voice—monosyllabic but perfect, like a pressed shirt.
And I turn around.
He looks different. Less woodland, less feral. His thick black hair is cut short. But his eyes are the same sea green: unwavering, pure.
“Wow,” I say. “Wow. This is so weird.”
“Indeed,” he says. “Wow.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I was hungry.”
“Shouldn’t you be in Cambridge with your family? It’s New Year’s.”
“Elias had a baby. They’re all in Cleveland. Hopper is the godfather. I had too much work. What’s your excuse?”