Why moms are weird, p.6
Why Moms Are Weird, page 6
After Jane tells me about the renovations she’s doing to her kitchen, she grabs my arm. “I said that as quickly as I could,” she says, “so you can tell me all about going to Virginia. Start talking, and don’t stop until I’m done with this glass of wine.”
Instead of telling her about my mother and sister, I find myself talking about Mickey, and how I’m frustrated to have met someone interesting right when I’m out the door.
“It doesn’t have to be over,” she says. “You’re not going for forever.”
“But I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, and it’s not fair to ask him to wait on me. We just met.”
She touches her thumb to her fingers, one by one. “Cell phones. Computers. Mail.”
“What are you doing?”
“Just thinking of all the ways we communicate with someone we can’t see every day. When’s the last time you saw me?”
“Almost six weeks ago.”
“Do you love me less?” She drops her head to my shoulder.
“No.”
“See?”
I’m shaking my head. “This is different.”
Jane sits up and claps her hands, bouncing in her seat. “Let’s make a list!”
“No, Jane. We aren’t making a list.”
She pouts. “Lists are important. We’ll find out if you love him.”
I refill my glass. “First of all, I’m not in love with him. We don’t need a list for that. And second, lists are too girly. I don’t need to make a list.”
“I just want some of his pros and cons. List them off, and then I’ll tell you what you want to know.”
“What do I want to know?”
Jane sighs. “You want to know if he’s worth it. That’s what you always say when you meet a guy.” She frowns and lowers her voice. “‘He’s not worth it.’”
She just did a pretty accurate impression of me, but I don’t want to give her the compliment.
“I’m not making a list with you,” I repeat.
Jane shakes her head, beautiful brown hair falling all over her shoulders, her arms. I wish I could look like that, gorgeous when I have no awareness that anyone is even noticing. “I want flaws,” she says. “I need to hear some of Mickey’s flaws or I will go find him and date him while you’re gone.”
“You could,” I say. “He’s not mine.”
Jane nudges me, so I start thinking. I try to decide what’s keeping Mickey single. He said he hasn’t had a steady girlfriend in almost a year. It could be that he makes fat jokes, or because his bedroom smells faintly of the end of a chewed pen. In his bathroom there’s a towel stiff with dirt that I’m pretty sure he uses to wipe his mouth after he brushes his teeth. One of his tattoos is of a girl’s name, but he won’t tell me what it means.
After hearing all of this, Jane concludes, “You’re an idiot. Those aren’t flaws. Those are descriptions of men. Tell me the good stuff, then.”
“I’m still not making a list.”
“Tell me.”
“I don’t know. Owns a car. Rents an apartment.”
Jane makes a buzzing sound. “Try again, Benny.”
“The other day Mickey took me on a tour of his Los Angeles, showing me his old apartments, restaurants where he had conversations with celebrities. He brought me to the elevator he was standing in when he learned that Hunter S. Thompson had killed himself. He showed me the parking lot where he slept in his car the first night he moved to Los Angeles from Boston, when he wasn’t sure how he was going to break it to his mother that he’d just dropped out of med school and didn’t want to be anything like the person he’d been planning on becoming.”
Once I start naming things for Jane’s dumb list, I can’t stop. I tell her how Mickey makes stupid jokes so surprisingly funny they make me snort. He touches the small of my back for emphasis when he’s telling me something he likes about me. His left eye squints more than the right when he laughs. He ends stories by hunching his shoulders, turning his palms face up as if to ask, “Can you blame me?”
He lives five blocks from my apartment.
He has abs I could climb like a ladder.
No matter what I do or say, he’s still interested. He looks at me unlike anyone else ever has, like he’s constantly discovering me. He makes me feel fascinating. I have no idea how to handle that.
Jane laughs. “Yeah. Sounds like you hate him.”
“I don’t love him.”
“How’s the sex?”
“Very good. In fact, I’ll get to have some when I leave here.”
“And then you’re going to break up with him?”
“It’s because I care, Jane, that I’m going to.”
“Wow,” Jane says. “You really are an idiot.”
Saying Good-bye.
In the time it takes for me to get ready, I talk myself into and out of seeing Mickey seriously no fewer than ten times. This is when I should say good-bye, pull myself away before things get weird. I like him a lot, but it’s silly to think we can be any more than this when I’m about to go out of town and he’s…well, he’s got his own life to live.
This night calls for the Fuck Me/Leave Me Alone dress. It’s black, clingy, short, and has magical powers. Every time I give the Final Talk to a man while wearing this dress, I know he won’t feel bad about it until I’m long out of his sight. This dress keeps a man solely focused on what it’ll feel like when he’s pulling it off my body. I’m not proud of the power of the FM/LMA dress, but I appreciate the clean getaway it often affords me.
I answer the door to find Mickey wearing the male counterpart of my superdress. When he smiles, all I can do is tuck my tongue into the corner of my mouth to keep the grin from growing too goofy.
“So,” he says. “Let’s do this thing.”
“Yep.”
Maybe tonight it’ll stay just a dress.
We’re leaning toward each other at a table in the near dark.
“You ever been here before?” he asks.
“No. I’m a fan of candlelight, but I’m a little scared to eat sushi in the dark.”
“You’ll be safe,” he says.
I sip my sake, the tiny cup in my hands making me feel awkwardly monstrous.
“You look amazing,” Mickey says.
“Thank you. So do you.”
I let him order. This is something I never do, but when Mickey looked over the long, skinny menu, I saw his eyes searching, occasionally widening in surprise. I knew he’d order things I’ve never tried before. I’m normally the one who decides what I eat and in what order, but this time whatever comes to the table will be something he wants to eat, and something he wants to share with me. I won’t have many more moments of this. I will have many more nights of ordering my own sushi. How weird that it matters to me, right now, that I want him to choose our menu. Even weirder that I recognize when I’m a different person around him. He makes me feel like it’s okay to try something incredibly risky for me: relinquishing control.
A small plate of food arrives. As I go through the soy sauce, wasabi, and chopsticks ritual, Mickey watches. “You have nice fingers,” he says. My instinct is to pull them back immediately, hide them from his view before he sees he’s mistaken, but my hands are occupied. I thank him again.
We eat quietly. I concentrate on putting large amounts of fish and rice into my mouth without looking like Cookie Monster on a bender. It’s difficult to look sexy while eating hunks of tuna, so I end up holding my hand in front of my mouth like a giggling Japanese schoolgirl as I chew.
“I wanted to take you to dinner because I didn’t want you leaving without us having a proper date,” Mickey says, sounding like he’s been having a conversation in his head for a few minutes that has just now started to become audible.
I nod, sticky rice making my mouth dry.
Mickey gives a quick sigh and rests his hands on the table, arms straight. His mouth is working as he thinks, like he’s still chewing on the words he’s about to deliver. “I think you’re a wonderful woman,” he starts. “But…”
Oh, my God. He’s dumping me.
My chopsticks make a tiny plink-plink! as I lower them to my plate.
I say, “Uh-huh.”
“But you’re about to go out of town, and I just met you, and as much as I like you and this…it’s probably best if you’re not having to worry about me, or think about me while you’re taking care of your family. I don’t want to be a burden.”
He’s giving me the “burden” line. I invented that line!
“You’re not a burden,” I say, sounding like the other side of the script. I’m delivering the boy’s lines. This is backward.
“I don’t mean a burden, I guess,” he says. “From thousands of miles away it can look pretty pathetic. So for your own good, and for my own good, I’m cutting you loose. Setting you free like a pretty butterfly.”
He’s doing exactly what I would have asked of him. It’s like I’m writing his words.
“You’re looking at me like I’m crazy,” he says. “Are you okay?”
“What you just said to me, people don’t say that.”
He places his hands on his face. “I’m lousy at relationships,” he says. “I make girls want to kill me.” Then he shrugs, hands facing upward, innocent. “I get wrapped up, but as soon as I have her, I get distracted. I get insanely focused on something that isn’t her.”
“Why are you telling me all of this?”
“Because I want you to know what you’re dealing with. Look, when you get back, if you miss me and I miss you, then we’ll just pick up where we left off. But for now there’s nothing I can do. Nothing you can do. You’ve got to go home. And I’m going to lie on my couch a lot and pretend I don’t miss you.” He spears a piece of salmon sashimi and drops it into his mouth. “For reals,” he says around the fish, grinning.
“Don’t wait too long,” I say. “I’m not worth it.”
He nods, and I can barely hear him say, “I’ll bet.”
“I’m sorry.”
“There’s another option. I wasn’t going to bring it up, because it’s something I can do regardless of what you’re doing. But I figure you should know.”
As I nibble on a piece of ginger, it feels like someone froze my stomach. “What is it?” I ask, helpless.
Mickey says, “I tell you I love you and we deal with it.”
“Oh.” I try not to close my eyes, to keep my blood circulating. I don’t want him to see I’ve been knocked over. This is too soon. I’m not ready for this. This isn’t how I want it all to go. I’m getting dumped while he’s telling me he’s in love with me. I have the entire range of a relationship here, and he’s asking me to choose, to handpick, exactly what I want from him.
“You can stick with the first option,” I say, hoping he understands both what I’m saying, and why.
Mickey nods. “I thought so,” he says.
It’s quiet for a little while. We poke at the remaining pieces of fish.
“It’s good that you said that, though,” he says.
“I’m sorry.”
“No, no, it’s good. Because if I had said…the other thing, then I’d have to prove it. Because it’s way too early to say something like that and have you believe me. I’d have to wait for you.”
“I don’t want you to wait for me.”
“Right, I can see that.”
“I have a no-waiting policy.”
“I think you have a lot of policies.”
“I’m sorry.”
He looks away, stares at another couple at another table. They are sitting diagonally from each other instead of across, sharing a bowl of some kind of salad. She’s leaning into his shoulder as he talks. They look like the same person—skinny, with dark hair slicked and waxed into structured messes.
Mickey finally takes a deep breath, looks at me with his eyebrows raised, and forces a smile. “This isn’t what I thought would happen,” he says.
“Why? Most girls pick the other thing?”
I see him wince. He wasn’t joking with me.
There’s no game here anymore. I’m looking at Mickey, and he’s changed. The mystery of a man who might be more has faded into the guy who isn’t going to be. And suddenly I want to tell him everything that’s wrong with me. I feel absolutely compelled to justify his decision to drop me here, and my decision to let him.
“I’m not worth it,” I repeat. “I suck at dating. I don’t want anyone around for very long.”
“Well, I’m not very good at having someone need me,” he says. “Always makes me feel like there’s something wrong with her. If she thinks I’m going to be able to save her? Lady, you aren’t nearly as smart as I require in a woman.” Then Mickey leans back. “Look how mature we are, discussing our insecurities as we break up.”
“Yes, we’re great examples of humanity and decency.”
He’s said all that and I’ve said all this, but he’s still looking at me with those eyes and the sake is making me feel really warm. We’ve just said we don’t need or want each other, but I can feel the pull between our bodies right now, so strong it’s amazing I don’t fly across this table and land in his lap.
“You know what would make this even better?” he asks, raising a hand to wipe his chin.
“Breakup sex.”
He reaches across the table and takes my hand, giving it a brief squeeze. “Dammit, Benny,” he says. “You make me want to marry you. Good thing I don’t love you. Then you’d really be in trouble.”
Later, in bed, in the dark, with sweat cooling against my skin, I kiss the soft side of his chest. I already miss him. “I’ll tell you your biggest flaw,” I say.
“What’s that, love?”
“Your timing sucks.”
“Right back atcha, pretty thing.”
Departures.
Mickey pulls the car over three times on the highway to kiss me. His hands are large and warm. They are everywhere. My seat belt is cutting into the skin on my neck. I don’t care.
We reach LAX. Mickey merges the car into the lane underneath the sign that says Departures. I watch him reach over and silence the radio, which is playing Queen’s “We Are the Champions.” Mickey shakes his head like he’s disappointed in the radio gods. I can’t help but grin.
We’re standing at the curb, suitcase by my feet, Mickey’s arms tight around me. The sound of buses, car alarms, and jet engines is muffled by his skin against my ears.
Mickey says, “I was just starting to get used to you.” His voice cracks slightly on the last word, his mouth against my ear.
“I’m kind of used to you, too,” I say. “That’s weird, right?”
“I think it only takes a week,” he says.
“What takes a week?”
He pulls back and smiles, lips clamped shut. He’s blushing.
“What takes a week, Mickey?” I don’t want to let go of his hand.
“Don’t push me to say the other thing if you don’t want to hear it,” he warns.
“You’re right.”
“God, you’re such a woman. ‘Love me, but don’t love me. But love me!’”
We’re swinging each other’s hands, like little girls at recess. We’re playful even in our last good-bye. It’s different from what I’m used to, and I hate this nagging feeling that this is what it’s supposed to be like.
“Do you believe in signs?” he asks. “Like, fate telling you things?”
I haven’t told him about the supermarket music. There are lots of things I haven’t gotten to tell him. Why do I want to stay and keep talking?
“I don’t know,” I say. “It’s nice to think it’s possible.”
A security guard motions for Mickey to move his car. Mickey nods, but then goes right back to me without moving a muscle toward the direction of leaving. “I don’t really believe in fate,” he says, “but sometimes I’ll let something else make the choice for me. When I had to pick where I was going to live in Los Angeles once I moved here, I threw a dart at a map of the city. It hit Hollywood.”
“You’re so lucky.”
“I know. What if I’d tossed that thing into Compton?”
Mickey checks his watch and then looks over my shoulder, as if he can see the plane I’m supposed to be on. “Anyway, before I set you free to live your life, and I go back to Hollywood and talk a few desperate, sad actresses into having sex with me, I wanted to give you a sign that means I’m thinking of you.”
“Okay.”
“A red car. Whenever you see a red car, that means wherever I am, I’m thinking about you.”
I must be looking at him like he’s crazy, because he keeps talking.
“We didn’t get enough time to have any proof we were together. The only thing I’ve ever bought you, you ate.”
“I’ll keep looking for the red cars,” I say. “I promise.”
“Have a good flight, Benny.” He leans in and gives me one last kiss.
I take the handle of my suitcase and step up onto the curb. “This is the weirdest breakup I’ve ever had,” I say.
“Yes, we should break up more often.” He runs a hand along the top of his head like he’s holding back more words. Then he turns on his heels and gets into his car without another glance toward me.
Unlimited Minutes.
“We’re so excited you’re coming,” Mom says. “Jami even broke plans with Charles tomorrow so she can see you.”
“Charles?” I’m sitting on my carry-on suitcase, waiting at the gate. I have about ten minutes before my group is boarding. My mother has been on the phone with me since I was in the security line. I’ve heard all about her job search, her last date with her boyfriend, Gregory, the constant phone calls she’s been getting from her ex-boyfriend, Michael, who either would like to start dating her again or thinks they are still dating, and the way her foot has been itching inside her cast.
Mom has been talking to me for over an hour. My ear is almost as hot as the cell phone pressing against my head. I worry briefly if this is the call that’s going to set me over the edge, and cause the cancerous tumor to begin forming in my brain. Well, I suppose that’s one step closer to being Whitman. Look out, clock tower.
