“Sorry my stability has cut back on your entertainment.”
“It’s okay. I’ll send you my streaming bill. I need to stop for gas, you okay on time?” Marisol asks as a courtesy, not waiting for an answer as she pulls into the Shell station.
I lean back against the headrest. Marisol’s heavy foot at every stoplight sent waves of nausea rolling through my stomach.
I can hear Marisol struggling to get the nozzle into the gas tank. The back door of her ratty family minivan slides open, and snack carnage from her boys tumbles out. “I swear the back of my car is a biohazard. I have no idea what my boys have rubbed into the seats and floors to create all these stains.”
“And smells. That’s why I only mouth breathe when I’m in your minivan, self-preservation. I much prefer your drop top.”
“Me, too, but my boys aren’t allowed anywhere near my baby,” Marisol says, ignoring my sensitive stomach. “You know this is my favorite gas station, right?”
“Didn’t know you had a gas station rating system. Seems there may be better things to do with your idle mind.”
“This one brings back particularly fond memories of Food Stamp Floyd.” Marisol loves a good trip down the memory lane of my dating life. “You remember him when we first moved out here? How many slam poetry contests did you drag me to when you were stalking him searching for your artistic soulmate? Five? Eight? And then when he finally asked you out, he took you to that In-N-Out Burger across the street and tried to pay with his EBT card.” Marisol howls as she points across the street to ground zero of bad date number 164 of my lifetime.
“I don’t think I’ve ever laughed as much in my life as when I got your call after you ran to this exact bathroom. You hid in there until I came to get you. And you made me bring hats for both of us, so we could hide on the way out. God that story never gets old!” Marisol’s doubled over, lost in the comical history of my early love life.
“Okay, if you didn’t appreciate the board meeting and Jared update, then how ’bout this.” I blow out a big breath of air. Back in the car, Marisol doesn’t turn the ignition on. Instead she shifts in her seat, giving me her full attention. I know she’s hoping for something juicier than the picture of Leo in his swimming trunks I’ve been showing off, but I don’t have much else to share other than the text sent saying he reached the office and an accompanying image of Leo standing in front of the Smith, Bodie, and Strong sign by the elevator bank. I texted back something lame like, “Have a great day,” and then our communication went dead. I’m not ready to deconstruct that abysmal first attempt at long-distance banter with anyone, even Marisol.
A car waiting for gas honks. Marisol gives the driver the middle finger in her rearview mirror without skipping a beat.
“Graham texted me last night. First time ever.”
“How the hell have you been communicating about Xandra with that cabrón the past couple of years if you don’t text?”
“We have a strict email-only relationship. You know Graham treats every communication like a business transaction.”
“Old-school contentious coparenting. Totally 2000; but okay.”
“More like sanity preservation.” Our entire marriage Graham publicly touted my professional success while privately criticizing me for being an absentee mother and wife. Graham existed in constant judgment of how I spent more time at work than at home. His critiques became our nightly pillow talk.
Graham and I met in a coffee shop. Behind him in line, I was drawn to his lyrical accent as he ordered an oddly specific coffee drink. Feeling bold, I stepped out of line to ask if he was from Jamaica. Graham answered, Bermuda, to which I jokingly countered, Close enough. How many folks from the Caribbean Islands could there possibly be in Pasadena?
In the moment, Graham didn’t appear to be entertained by my humor, but when we sat down to sip our coffees together, he did appreciate a fellow scion of the islands who had been educated in the best schools America has to offer, just as he had. I was too naive to realize that moment was the beginning of Graham ticking off the boxes on his wife-to-be prospectus.
Both West Coast transplants, in retrospect, we clung to each other, more out of familiar comfort than young lust. We gravitated toward the same foods, the same music, and the same festivals. Graham was as passionate about his work as an entrepreneur in the technology field as I was as a science teacher, and we teasingly fought over who got to read Wired first on Saturday mornings. Though not the steamiest relationship, it was an easy and comfortable one, and between Marisol and Graham I felt safe and loved so far away from home.
A year later, Graham’s father, CEO of the Bank of N. T. Butterfield & Son in Bermuda, took a rare vacation from his work to escort Graham’s mother to California to size me up. Both Clarkes, rarely out of their versions of a tan linen suit, regaled me with stories of Graham growing up with a father who held up the banking system of Bermuda while the missus held up the home front. Each of them had distinct jobs to do, and they performed them according to societal expectations. Mr. Clarke made the money, and lots of it, and Mrs. Clarke made sure all four Clarke children were accepted to Pemberley boarding school and ultimately went on to make a name for themselves in business and finance.
Within a week of the Clarkes’ visit, Graham and I became engaged on the night of my twenty-sixth birthday. During our lavish engagement party hosted by the Clarkes, Graham’s mother pulled me in for a hug and whispered, You’re going to find caring for your children and my son a busy and purposeful life, just as I have. You must be relieved you won’t have to work anymore. I smiled and hugged my future mother-in-law back, chalking her sentiments up to a difference in generations.
Graham and I were married six months later. While our backgrounds contained many commonalities, given our youthful inexperience, we failed to find out if we shared similar views on how we saw our futures unfolding. What I discovered all too soon after Xandra was born was that Graham envisioned a future that was an exact replica of his childhood and his parents’ marriage. I imagined everything but being a replica of Mr. and Mrs. Clarke.
“What’d he want?” Marisol asks, jarring me from my memories.
“For me to call him. Something about Xandra.”
Marisol’s face goes from high interest to high alert.
“AND?!”
“I don’t know all the details, yet. The text came right as the board meeting was starting, then I had to go have a drink with Winn. By the time I got home it was way too late in New York to dive into a long discussion, so instead I called Leo, looking to catch him at lunch. It went straight to voice mail again.” I’d like to redirect Marisol from discussing Graham because I’d much rather dissect why Leo and I are having a hard time reaching each other.
“YOU DIDN’T CALL GRAHAM BACK?!” Marisol’s teetering on hyperventilation. “What if something’s really wrong with Xandra? Like she’s in the hospital? Or missing? Oh shit, Nina, what if she got a tramp stamp of smudged Arabic letters?”
“Relax, Doomsday Debbie. If you’re under eighteen, you have to have a legal guardian with you to get a tattoo. I did get in touch with Graham as I was following Winn out of Royal-Hawkins. I asked if Xandra was in one piece, breathing, and with all her blood on the inside.” I will admit, I was happy when Graham took a job in New York before Xandra started at Pemberley. Not just because he’s out of my hair, but also because he’s only forty minutes from Xandra if something were to go wrong. Graham is the best kind of ex: far away but useful.