“Okay, all your extra linens and towels are in closet down the hall, extra blankets in the cedar chest, hmm . . . what else? Oh, the window next to the bed tends to stick a little when it’s raining, but not too bad. I left notes on all the remotes with instructions on how to use everything—it took me forever to learn how to just turn the damn thing on . . . let’s see, oh! Let’s go back into the kitchen and talk about the burners. There’s a trick to getting the back one to turn on high and—”
I followed Jillian through their Sausalito house Sunday afternoon, while Simon went through the same thing in the garage with Benjamin. House-sitting isn’t what it used to be; you can’t just bring in the mail and have a party.
As we toured the house, taking notice of everything we’d need to know while staying there, I was reminded of how perfect it really was. Situated in the hills just above the main street, the house was two stories in almost a triangular shape, so that practically each room had a view of the bay and, in the distance, San Francisco. Along with a multiterraced outdoor seating area, dotted with benches and fire pits, there was the in-ground hot tub they’d installed. Perfectly isolated, perfectly private, with a killer view.
The hot tub is where we found Simon and Benjamin, hunched down by the controls. Simon was having a great time, turning the interior lights from pink to blue to green to purple with a big grin.
“Caroline, look! It’s like having a light show!” he exclaimed excitedly.
“And I think that’s everything,” Jillian said. “Car keys are in the bowl by the front door, alarm codes you’ve got written down, you know how to work the hillevator. Oh what am I forgetting?” She pulled her notebook out, frantically checking her notes.
“Don’t worry about anything—we’ve got this. You two just enjoy your trip,” I replied. “And you’re not allowed to call and check in for at least a week. Go have sex with your husband.”
“Yes, go have sex with your husband,” Benjamin chimed in, closing her notebook and wrapping his arms around her from behind. “Thanks, guys, we really appreciate it.”
“You sure you don’t mind? You don’t have to stay here every night; just maybe a few nights a week?” Jillian asked.
“Oh my God, shut up already, will you? It’s a real big hardship, staying here— what a sacrifice.” I laughed, gesturing to the house.
Benjamin said, “All right, let them get outta here. Simon, thanks again for everything. And make sure you check out those bike trails; I left the maps with everything else.” As Jillian went for her notebook once more he told us, “I’d make a run for it if I were you.”
“Oh, let go you big oaf, I need to hug her,” she protested, engulfing me in her arms. “Thank you; you have no idea how much I need this,” she whispered. When she let me go, there were tears in her eyes. “And remember, I’m just a phone call away.”
I hugged them both and let Simon pack me into the Range Rover for our trip back over the bridge. We were both quiet as we entered the city, winding through the streets toward our apartment building.
He parked, then walked around to my side to open my door. Taking my hand, he said, “You know, this might not be so boring after all. It could be fun, having a house.”
• • •
Later on that night, Clive and I were playing Kill the Ponytail—a game we’d created a few years ago when I made the mistake of lying down next to where he was sleeping, and swishing my ponytail in front of him. He woke up to a giant piece of dancing hair in his face and went utterly apeshit. The object of the game, as closely as I could understand, was for Clive to chew on, bat about, and all but dangle from my ponytail.
Did I have to wash my hair thoroughly after this game? I did, but to see his eyes light up, and his little sideways crab walk across the floor when he knew it was time to play, was worth it. The game was taking place under the coffee table when Simon came over.
“Kill the Ponytail?” he asked as I poked my head out.
“Yup,” I replied, wincing as Clive took my inattention to grab a mouthful and tug.
“Who’s winning?”
“Who do you think? Ow!”
I turned under the table, intending to give chase, but laughed when Clive curled onto his back, purring loud enough to rattle the windows.
“Truce?” I asked him, rumpling the fur on his belly. The half-lidded eyes and the upside-down kitty grin was answer enough for me. Dusting myself off, I crawled out from under the coffee table to join Simon in the kitchen.
After our trip across the bay, I’d worked for a few hours while he napped, sleeping off his jet lag. I took my Clive break when he ran out to pick up some dinner. Now I got a whiff of Vietnamese, and quickened my steps toward the kitchen. A bowl of pho on a chilly evening was the best thing ever.
I got out bowls while Simon unwrapped containers. I grabbed chopsticks and he poured wine. We settled in at the kitchen table and in between slurps and sips, he went through his mail. It piled up when he was gone, so it was always a chore when he got back. We chatted about the day, different takes on what it would be like living part-time in Sausalito, when I noticed he’d stopped slurping.
“What’s that?” I asked as he stared at an opened letter.
“Huh? Oh, it’s a letter from the alumni association.”
“Stanford?”
“No, my high school, actually. It’s an invitation to my ten-year reunion.”
I stayed quiet, watching his face work through a few things. When he picked up his chopsticks and started on his noodles again, I asked, “So, you think you’ll go?”
“I’m not sure. I didn’t think I’d want to go, but now that it’s here—maybe?”
He changed the subject, but I saw his eyes wander over to the letter more than once. And while I was cleaning up after dinner, I saw him reading it again.
“You should go,” I said, hours later. We were in bed, the news was on, Clive in between us. Simon knew instantly what I was talking about.
“I don’t know if I can. It’s between Thanksgiving and Christmas; I’m sure I’ll be traveling. I must have missed the notice somewhere,” he said, eyes on the screen. He was tense.
“You’d have known about it if you were on Facebook. I bet you anything your classmates have been looking for you on there.”
“I doubt most of them would remember me,” he scoffed.
I bit down a response. Though I didn’t know him back then, every high school had a Simon Parker. Couple that with his parents passing away so unexpectedly, and yeah, they all remembered him.
With a sigh, he turned toward me, hand reaching out across the pillows. I curled on my side as well, my fingers tangling with his. He tucked his other arm under his head. In the light from the television, he looked young. And a little sad.
“I never planned to go back. I mean, I really had no reason to.”
I squeezed his hand.
“I don’t know, maybe I should? Might be kind of fun to see some of those guys again, right?”
I smiled and said nothing.
“I’ll look at my calendar tomorrow. Maybe I can swing it.”
“Want me to check mine?” I asked.
“You think you can? I mean, I know how busy you are.”
“I think I can get away for a weekend. Besides, I’ve never been to Philadelphia. Can we go for cheesesteaks?”
He groaned. “Oh my God, do you have any idea how long it’s been since I had a cheesesteak? That may have just made up my mind.”
I slid across the bed and straddled him, moving his hands to my hips. I leaned down and brushed his hair back from his face and kissed him square on the lips.
“Tell me about your favorite place for cheesesteaks,” I said as he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me down on top of him.
For the next twenty-seven minutes I lay on top of Simon, listening to him talk about a mom-and-pop sandwich shop. And the importance of both sweet and hot peppers. In doing so, he told me more about his family and the place he’d grown up than he had in the entire year we’d been together. I realized that I’d never even seen a picture of his parents, had no idea what they’d looked like.
I’d ask him about that soon. Not tonight, but soon. Tonight was all about cheesesteaks, and everything that came with them. And I’m not talking just about the sweet and hot peppers.
• • •
“Caroline, there’s a call from someone over at the Design Center. They want to know if Jillian would be teaching her class again next month? Can you take it?”
“Caroline, Mrs. Crabtree is calling again, Jillian’s client. She needs to know exactly what shade Jillian painted the trim in her sitting room ten years ago, and if we have any kind of guarantee that it shouldn’t be yellowing? She also mentioned to me that she smokes two packs a day in that room and never opens a window; you want to handle this?”
“Caroline, there’s a guy from the heating and cooling company in the lobby, says we’re due for our fall maintenance check. Did Jillian mention this to you?”
“Caroline, I think I accidentally deleted the last few billing invoices on the Peterson account, but I know Jillian always keeps paper copies of those. Any idea where?”
“Caroline, can you—”
“Caroline, will I need—”
“Caroline, I superglued this doorknob to my—”
I gazed out the window of my new office, realizing that with the bigger office came not only bigger responsibilities but also bigger headaches. And the one I currently had was a whopper. I’d officially been in charge of the office for one week, and I was ready to throw myself to the sea lions. How the hell did Jillian manage all this? She had her own clients, she had her team to mentor, she was the answer woman and the puter-outer of all fires, and she managed to do it with her signature calm style.
I was frazzled, freaked, and fucked.
I could have called Jillian, of course. But she was on her honeymoon; I didn’t want to interrupt her and Benjamin while they were . . . well, while they were. Besides, I didn’t want to admit that there was so much to running this business that I wasn’t aware of. I was determined to handle it on my own, figuring it out as I went, so when Jillian checked in after a few days, I lied through my teeth and told her everything was great.
After the office, house-sitting was a piece of cake.
That week we spent two nights in the Sausalito house, and two nights in our own apartments. I worked round the clock, while Simon enjoyed some time off before his next trip. The two nights we spent across the bay he stayed the entire next day, hiking in the headlands, biking through the town, and by the weekend, he was asking when we were heading over.
I worked late Friday night while Simon had a night out with the guys, and Saturday morning we packed our bags and left. Our neighbors Euan and Antonio agreed to baby-sit for Clive; it didn’t seem fair to him to transport him all the way over there for just a few days. If it seemed like we were really going to enjoy it, then I’d consider moving him in. For now though, I was enjoying the perks of being Jillian. Namely, racing her Mercedes convertible through the winding streets up into the hills, with Simon riding shotgun.
“Pretty sure Jillian wanted me to drive her car while she was gone,” he insisted, grimacing as I took a turn too fast.
“Bullshit, she wanted me to enjoy myself. Get over it.” I laughed, punching my foot to the floor as we took off into the breeze.
We ran errands, hit the market, then headed back home to fire up the grill before Mimi and Ryan came over. We’d decided to christen our first weekend with a quiet dinner, and since we couldn’t agree on whether to invite Sophia, or Neil, or both, we settled on just the couple we could count on not bumping chairs.
Sitting on the terrace, Mimi and I watched the boys grill burgers as we munched on carrots. There was a late fog moving in, blanketing the bay with gray clouds and shrouding the city entirely. Shivering a bit, I moved closer to one of the heat lamps that was stationed around each patio.
“We have really pretty boys, don’t we?” Mimi sighed, crunching down on a carrot. I looked at them and sighed as well.
“We really do.”
“Speaking of pretty boys, has Sophia seen Barry Derry since the wedding?”
“Nope, the curb got that one. Good thing too—that man was so dull.” Mimi mimed falling asleep in her chair, snoring.
“We boring you, dear?” Ryan asked, buttering his buns.
“Nope, just thinking about Barry Derry and his insurance ways,” she piped back.
Simon looked over at me and mouthed the words “Barry Derry?”
“The guy Sophia brought to the wedding,” I answered, pulling Mimi out of her chair and ushering her inside the house, the guys following us with their meat. Ahem.
“Oh, that guy? He tried to sell me travel insurance. Was telling me all these statistics about air travel and why I really needed to make sure I was covered.” Simon laughed, setting down the burgers.
I poured more wine for everyone and we each grabbed a seat and a bun.
“Did she ever agree to talk to Neil?” Ryan asked
Mimi and I exchanged a look. Laughing about Barry Derry was one thing, talking about Neil and Sophia was another conversation entirely. One that never seemed to end well.
“No, I don’t think so,” I answered, passing the pickles.
“Jeez, that’s cold,” he responded, slapping a burger onto everyone’s plate. “And if you don’t mind me saying so, a little ridiculous.”
“I do mind you saying so, a little. Who’s got the ketchup?” I asked. “And besides, why should she talk to him, she didn’t do anything wrong.”
Simon passed me the ketchup with a side of stink eye.
“I agree with Caroline; Neil is the one that needs to work for this here, not her. Why should she bend? Who wants onions?” Mimi offered.
“I’ll take the onions, and I think you both are being as ridiculous as your friend. How can he work for it when she won’t even return his phone calls?” Simon said, giving “work for it” air quotes and spilling onions on the floor. “Shit. Babe, throw me that dish towel, will you?”
“Here’s your dish towel, and before you ask, here’s your mustard and your lettuce and your tomato,” I said, setting the plates down a little harder than necessary. “And for your information, your boy, not our girl, is the one who cheated. Ergo, she doesn’t have to return anything.”
“Ergo? When did you become a lawyer? And thank you, this is everything I ever wanted in a burger,” Simon said, making a great flourish out of dressing his patty. “She should at least hear him out; is that too much to ask?”
“Do you even know why she’s so hurt? Why she can’t get over that he cheated?” Mimi said, squeezing the ketchup bottle so hard it squirted all over her plate.
“Okay, can we stop saying cheated? He didn’t cheat, he just kissed his ex-girlfriend,” Ryan interjected, taking a bite of his burger. “Tha’s na cheeinh.”
“Of course it’s cheating!” Mimi and I yelled in unison.
“Okay! That’s enough. No one talks for one minute. Everyone take a bite,” Simon commanded, looking as serious as anyone could, with a burger that was stacked almost nine inches tall.
We all bit. Then chewed. Simon took the longest. He had nine inches, after all.
“Now, can we discuss this like adults?” he asked.
“You’ve got mustard on your lip, Simon,” I said, biting back a laugh. He blushed, then licked his lips.
“I can discuss this as an adult, if you two can admit that what he did was wrong,” I offered, pointing my pickle spear at the boys.
“If I can speak for Simon here, neither of us ever said that what he did wasn’t wrong. We just don’t think he needs to be tarred, feathered, and driven out of town,” Ryan said. “He kissed someone—would you rather he fucked someone?”
“But that’s the thing: he didn’t just kiss someone, he kissed an ex-girlfriend. The ex-girlfriend, from what you told me,” Mimi answered.
“What do you mean, the ex-girlfriend. You didn’t tell me it was the ex-girlfriend,” I exclaimed, turning to Simon.
“I did too!”
“You did not.”
“I did too!”
“So much for adults.” Ryan snorted, taking another bite of his burger.
“You said it was an ex-girlfriend. You didn’t say it was the ex-girlfriend,” I snapped.
“What’s the difference?” Simon asked, and Mimi’s head exploded.
“An ex-girlfriend just means she’s, like, one of many. No one special. The ex-girlfriend is suuuuuch a bigger deal,” she explained
I could see Simon still didn’t get it.
“You’re talking to someone who doesn’t have any ex-girlfriends, much less the ex-girlfriend,” I told Mimi, signaling her that I had this one. “Simon, an ex-girlfriend is someone you’re happy to see every now and again, you wish her well, but it doesn’t matter in the long run. The ex-girlfriend matters: there’s a connection there, there’s shared history, she’s even maybe the one that got away. An ex-girlfriend, we wouldn’t be so pissed over. The ex-girlfriend, yeah.”
“Wait a minute, just wait a minute. You’re telling me if I kissed an ex-girlfriend, you wouldn’t be pissed?” he asked, mustard on his lip again.
I closed my eyes. “Of course that’s what a guy would hear—no! We’re pissed if you kiss any ex, but an ex isn’t as big a deal as the ex. An ex, the ex—big difference.”
“Okay, please stop saying an ex. I realize it’s grammatically correct, but it just sounds weird. Plus it sounds like you’re saying annex. The point is, you’re pissed because he kissed a girl he had a connection with—or at least you assume he had a connection with, right?” Simon asked. Still with the mustard. This time I wasn’t telling him; he was in charge of his own mouth.
“Ryan, you told me this was the girl he almost asked to marry him, right?” Mimi asked.
“Yes.”
“I rest my case,” she shouted, dusting off her hands.
“Christ, this is going nowhere fast. Okay, so let me ask you this. Which would have been worse: if he kissed this particular ex, or had sex with some random woman he was never going to see again?” Ryan asked.
“Depends,” I said.
“Random. No, ex. No, random. No, it depends,” Mimi said, shaking her head.
“I give up,” Simon said.
“Do you have any Tums in your purse?” Ryan asked Mimi.
“I’m getting more wine,” I announced.
“You’ve got mustard on your lip, Simon,” Mimi said.
• • •
They left. Simon and I did the dishes in silence, passing plates back and forth to dry. He went back outside to the patio; I stayed inside.
Mimi texted me:
Do you think Sophia should talk to Neil?
Yes, she probably should.
You gonna tell her?
I think you should.
Together?
At the diner tomorrow?
Deal. Tell Simon thanks for dinner, it really was nice.
I will, tell Ryan thanks for coming.
They just don’t get it do they?
Eh, they’re boys.
They’re pretty great boys.
That they are. I’m gonna go kiss on mine. See you in the a.m.
XO
I walked outside, bringing coffee for both of us.
“This seat taken?” I asked him.
He shook his head and lifted a corner of the blanket he was under. I sat down and handed him a mug. He sipped, then raised an eyebrow.
“I wanted a little Irish with my coffee tonight. Thought we both could use it,” I explained.
“Agreed.”
We sat together for a moment, silent.
“We can’t keep arguing over this. This isn’t our fight.”
“I know it isn’t. It’s just hard to watch.” I sighed, looking out over the bay. It was quiet tonight, the fog softening all the sounds.
“I get that, but you have to let them work it out.”
“I know.”
“And they can’t work it out if they don’t talk.”
“I know.”
We were both quiet, under the blanket.
“You said something tonight that I didn’t like.”
Surprised, I turned to him. “I did?”
“Just because I don’t have the ex-girlfriend you guys were going on and on about, that doesn’t mean I didn’t have real connections with the people I dated. I don’t have ex-girlfriends because I didn’t have girlfriends in the traditional sense, but that doesn’t mean I don’t understand the difference.”
I nodded. “You’re right.”
“You can’t just negate my past because it wasn’t the same as yours.”
“You’re totally right.” I turned to look at him.
“Okay?” he said.
“Okay,” I replied. He was in a very different place with me than he’d ever been before. “Are we okay?”
“Of course we’re okay. Isn’t this how people in relationships resolve conflicts? You said something I didn’t like, so I let you know,” he said, puffing his chest out a bit.
“Well, good goddamn, Dr. Phil, color me impressed,” I said, clinking my coffee cup to his. “So what do we do next? Y’know, as people in a relationship after they’ve resolved a conflict.”
“Pretty sure a blow job should follow this,” he said seriously.
“Hmm, that does seem fair.” I traced my fingers up his leg and snuck over to his hi-there. “Did you want that right here or—”
“Christ no, it’s cold out here. Let’s go inside, where it’s warm, to conflict resolutize,” he exclaimed, jumping up and tugging me inside.
“Pretty sure that’s not a word.”
“Blow job is.” He locked the patio door and faced me with a knowing smile.
“I think it’s two words, actually.”
“Talking too much is what got you into trouble in the first place,” he said, pointing me in the direction of the bedroom. “Now get in there.”
I resolved him twice that night.
