Eight months later
I hatch the plan on a Sunday morning.
The sun is bright, the curtains nonexistent, and Jack’s eyelids must be as blackout as ever, because I get in at least twenty minutes of intense plotting before he wakes up to pull me closer. Then his stubble brushes against my belly, and I tuck my plans aside, carefully stored in an uncluttered corner of my brain, and let myself giggle in his arms. “You seem pensive,” he points out later, in the kitchen, but I distract him with a kiss; his mouth is syrupy sweet, and the smell of waffles thickens the early-morning fall air.
The diversion works.
It’s a plan that will require practice and organization, a touch of logistical troubleshooting. The best option would be to recruit someone else to help me, but I don’t know. I’d rather do this on my own. Except that Jack and I spend Sunday night the same way we do every Sunday—falling asleep on the sectional while catching up on articles. Monday’s spent at Millicent’s with the rest of the family, which involves the usual routine: Greg and I chatting about the YA books we’ve been buddy-reading, Jack playing against his grandma at the Go board, and the rest of the family, Caroline included, respectfully avoiding mentioning that I went from dating one brother to the other. I’m not sure what went down there, or what prompted the Smith Cinematic Universe to suddenly grow boundaries. I suspect that some overdue stern conversations were had, threats were made, and people were encouraged to either shut the hell up or never show up at Millicent’s again.
It worked.
Tuesday night is also a no-go, because I have therapy, which I now can miraculously afford. I’ve never been this healthy—mentally and physically. The wonders of having insurance.
“. . . and most of the time I really, truly believe that he sees me for what I am, but sometimes there is this petrifying fear,” I explain to Jada, “that maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he’s making a mistake? Maybe he’ll change his mind? Maybe there’s a deal breaker, and he’s days, seconds away from discovering it?”
“And what do we do when we feel like that?”
“We buy five pounds of Whole Foods pecorino?”
Jada blinks at me, unamused.
I sigh. “We articulate our insecurities to our partner and listen to their answer.”
But it’s not easy, articulating. Getting easier, yes, but a few hours later, when I’m lying on the couch on top of Jack, all that comes out is “You’re not going to suddenly realize that you don’t really like me, right?”
He dips his chin to look at me. “If my feelings for you haven’t changed after reading that Bella and Alice alphaverse fan fiction, I’m pretty sure we’re golden.”
“It’s called omegaverse—and you said it was good!”
“I said it was hot,” he corrects me. The blue slice darkens. “Actually, you should read it to me again. Now.”
I roll my eyes. “No, it’s just that . . . I promise I’m usually . . . But sometimes I feel like . . . I’m not sure that . . .” I fall silent. There are no right words to be found in me.
“Rough session with Jada?” Jack asks. And I nod till he holds me tighter. We watch one of his white male rage movies in silence, and between a car chase and a weird CGI monster and his hands anchoring me to him, I think that maybe there is no something, no deal breaker, no shoe that’s about to drop.
Maybe it’s just us.
So, Wednesday. Wednesday is supposed to be the day I execute my plan, but I wake up to the coolest email of my life.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Article ID: 89274692
Dear Drs. Hannaway and Sepulveda,
Congratulations. I am pleased to inform you that following your revisions, your paper entitled “Supermolecular organization in lyotropic liquid crystals: a new theoretical framework” has been accepted for publication in Nature Physics. Below you will find additional information . . .
That night George’s wife makes souvlaki to celebrate. It’s delicious, but George and I are too busy reading and rereading the email and letting out annoying high-pitched screams to truly savor it. We are obnoxious but just cannot help ourselves.
“Should we break up with them?” I hear Dora ask.
“We certainly deserve better,” Jack answers. But that night he hugs me from behind while I brush my teeth and whispers, “You are the most magnificent thing that ever happened to me,” and I know it to be true.
I’m a mess. A work in progress. I’m two steps forward and one step back. I hoard my cheese, and I can’t efficiently load the dishwasher, and I’m going to struggle with the truth until the day I croak.
Jack knows all of this, and he loves me. Not anyway, but because.
So the next day—that’s the one. Thursday. It’s cutting it close, but it works.
“How’s the job?” Mom asks me on the phone while I’m on my way to my apartment.
“Good. Great, actually.”
“And that boyfriend of yours?” It feels a little robotic—like a list of questions that she’s written in her Notes app. But she’s trying. And she hasn’t demanded I take care of Lance and Lucas in a while. “Has he proposed yet?”
I laugh. “Mom, it’s been less than a year.”
“That’s plenty of time!”
“I don’t need him to ask me to marry him,” I say, distracted, rummaging in my bag for the keys that I almost never use anymore. I hope I haven’t left them at Jack’s.
“Why not?”
“Because . . .” Ha! Found them. “Because I already know that he wants to.”
Cece arrives just a couple of minutes after we hang up. “Does Jack know why you’re here?” she asks, cheeks bright from the cool breeze.
“Nope. I told him we were just hanging out. A last hurrah before we move out for real next month.”
“Good idea.” She watches me mix the powder in water. “Maybe I should have brought Hedgie? For girls’ night? But Kirk’ll enjoy some one-on-one time with her.”
He won’t, since he’s as terrified of her as I am. I finally feel seen.
“It’s a bit bittersweet that we won’t renew the lease,” I say.
“Don’t worry.” She grins. “I wrote down Mrs. Tuttle’s HBO password.”
I laugh and shake my head. “It’s just the end of an era.”
“It’s not, because our new places are five minutes apart.”
“Still.” I glance around. “Maybe I’ll miss the coconut crabs and the exposed wires.” I go back to stirring, and we’re quiet for a while. Then her shoulder bumps against mine. “Elsie?”
“Yeah?”
“FYI, you’ll always be my favorite.”
“You too, Cece.” The red in the pot gets a bit blurry for a second. “You too.”
The following morning, when Jack steps into his office, I’m already there. Waiting in the chair behind his desk.
“Well, well, well,” he says. Surprised. Delighted. “Look who’s—”
His eyes fall on the fruits of my labor: his little Hadron Collider model is . . . well, where it always is. Except today it’s trapped in cherry Jell-O.
“Happy birthday,” I say. I’m a little breathless. I still get knocked off my feet when I see him after a while. I wonder if it’ll ever end. I wonder if all these beautiful, momentous things I feel for him will ever settle into something ordinary. I can’t imagine they will.
“The Jell-O is my birthday present?” he asks, like he’d be overjoyed if it were.
“Nope.” I point to the card next to it. “That’s the present.”
The dimple makes my heart skip a beat. “Is it another Wayfair gift certificate? To buy more curtains?”
I laugh and swivel around in his chair—faculty members do get better furniture than the postdocs. I listen to him tear open the plain envelope, and let my eyes roam out the windows, to the trees that are just about to turn red and yellow, to the students going about their lives, to the blue sky. Then I close my eyes and picture Jack’s face as he reads my words.
Dear Jack,
I know I’ve been slow, but I just wanted you to know something: I’m right here. With you.
