“I’ve been tweaking the recipe,” he says. I wonder if he made waffles for his ex on Sunday mornings or if it’s a new culinary development.
“I bet you really get creative with all those tiny condiment packets in your fridge,” I say.
“You’re probably mocking me, but just wait until you experience how I use all three Taco Bell hot sauces in my mac and cheese.”
While the nextEnterprisecooks, I venture a question.
“What happened with Kira’s mom?”
“Besides the fact that our names are Nick and Nora?”
“Seriously.” I put the glass down and rearrange my sitting position. “Was it…acrimonious?”
“I don’t think any divorce is…what’s the opposite of acrimonious?”
“Harmonious?”
“Definitely not harmonious at the time. Raising a child…it exposes cracks in a relationship that you can paper over more easily when it’s just the two of you. Things that worked for us as a couple stopped working when we became parents. There’s more stress, less sleep, less sex. You don’t have as much time for your old hobbies and friends. You’re both going through this huge life change together, but that doesn’t mean you’re experiencing the same things.” He takes a deep breath. “And I knowthis isn’t going to paint me in the best light, but I know she feels that she took on more of the parenting duties than I did while we were together.”
“Do you think that, too?”
He’s quiet for a few seconds. “I didn’t see it at the time, but now that we’re in a different kind of structure, I think there’s truth to it, yeah. I was worried about letting things slide at my job, and maybe part of me felt like it was my duty to keep pushing on that front, even if it meant that Kira’s mom was picking up more of the slack at home.”
“I think that happens to a lot of women.” To put it mildly. “My dad is exhibitA.”
“I never wanted to be the kind of father who calls it ‘babysitting’ when my kid is with me. I work harder on that now. I’m more conscious of times when I start slipping. That’s why I’m grateful for the stability of my job, even when it’s awful. That’s why I moved to this place even though it’s a little smaller than my last apartment. I’m closer to the house, in a nicer unit, better neighborhood. My old complex didn’t have a pool and…well, you’ve seen Kira in the pool.”
“When did you split up?” I ask. I’m being blunt now, but I want to have all the facts.
He squints, like he’s trying to remember. “Maybe two and a half years ago?”
“Oh.” I can’t hide the surprise in my voice. I had thought it had been more recent, for some reason.
“So, do you want to watch a movie?” Nick asks as he sits next to me with his plate.
The thought of scrolling some streaming service’s interface reminds me too much of meandering evenings at Hal’s place—at least the times when we kept up the pretense of actually watching a film.
I look around his half-unpacked apartment for inspiration:the coffee table, cluttered with Popsicle sticks, wrappers, and colored pencils; stuffed animals and small ankle socks wedged behind the cushions; a fleece blanket covered in drawings of horses. There’s not a whole lot of Nick in this space. Then I look down at my starship-shaped meal.
Huh.
“Can we watch an episode ofStar Trek?” I ask.
“Now I’m positive you’re mocking me.”
“Hear me out: I’ve never actually seen this show, and it seems kind of important to you.” I gesture at our plates. “I want to understand why. So pick out an episode and walk me through it.”
“Oneepisode?” he asks, raking his hand through his hair. “Okay,” he says after a long, thoughtful pause. “I think I know exactly which episode you need to see.”
“You’re saying I’mthe emotionless, overly cerebral character with a bad haircut?”
“No,” Nick says. “I said that you both have bangs. Just wait until we get to the part where Spock has a hormonal breakdown.”
“Pardon me?”
“Spockdoeshave emotions; he just believes he’s mastered them. When he undergoespon farr—the Vulcan hormone imbalance—it proves that no one can suppress emotions indefinitely. Everyone needs some kind of outlet, some way to express themselves. Otherwise, sooner or later, you’ll explode.”
I’m not sure I have an outlet anymore. No more therapist, not that she was unlocking much. Academic stuff was probably some kind of conduit—writing about other creators’ big feelings. But when’s the last time I’ve engaged with art like that?When’s the last time I tried sketching? When’s the last time I grabbed something that’s floating around like a wispy ghost inside my head and pulled it out into the real world and confronted it? I’ve had so much time for a creative endeavor and I haven’t once picked up a pencil.
