“Just for a little longer,” she says with urgency. She reaches out to smooth her hand on top of mine. A placating gesture to ease the harsh brunt of her request. “I think running into Frankie and you losing your job can’t be a good omen, and I don’t know. Maybe it’s a sign that we should slow down.”
“Okay,” I tell her, though all I want to do is say no. No, I don’t want to keep us a secret for a second longer. No, I don’t want to keep our bubble intact to protect what we have as if it’s this fragile, delicate thing. We’re so much more than that.
“Is that okay?” she asks cautiously.
I look at her, plastering on a fake smile along with a reassuring nod. “Of course. If that’s what you want and if that’s what makes you feel comfortable.”
She leans forward, hovering over our unfinished dinner to kiss me. Her hand cups my cheek, and I feel the tension dissipate away from all the soft parts of her I love. How can I tell her otherwise? Especially if this is how relieved she is that we no longer have this daunting task of telling people about us. Only, it’s not daunting tome.
“Thank you for understanding,” she adds. “And, you know, this…is a good thing. Us officially being a couple means a bigcommitment for you too. I know that’s a huge step, so…I—this is for both of us.”
For us.I hadn’t realized my now vanquished commitment issues bled into the fate of our relationship, but I guess I should’ve known. If all I’ve been presenting myself as was a commitment-phobe who thought the idea of a relationship meant vulnerability, I guess she would think I would be on the same page as her.
“Yeah, totally,” I say, lying through the mask I’ve slid on.
“What did you need to tell me?”
“Huh?” I ask, suddenly thrown off.
“You said you needed to tell me something,” she reminds me.
“Oh, just that…I think we should be sharing custody of Buster,” I say, thinking on my toes, though I’m not opposed to the idea. A day with him on our own gave us a bonding moment.
She laughs. “Sharing custody?”
“Yup. I think you should be referring to me as ‘daddy’ from now on.”
“Daddy?” she repeats. “I think that sounds way more obscene than you meant it to.”
“You know, I think you’re right. How about father?”
“Or papa,” she jokingly suggests. “Sounds less formal.”
The mood is somewhat lifted, hovering high above us instead of right over our heads. The strains of our relationship feel easier with sex or jokes (or sex jokes), much like a pair of training wheels strapped on to a two-wheeler, and it can stay that way a little longer until we’re ready to rip them off and careen straight into the unknown.
“By the way,” she adds. “Where did you find the plates?”
“In your linen closet,” I tell her. “Why do you keep your plates in the linen closet?”
“Those are my wedding china.”
“They are?”
She nods.
I suddenly want to hurl them off the balcony. “How about we find an empty alley to break them after dinner?”
She smiles slyly. “Yes, please.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Grace
After what welike to call our “Date Night Debacle,” we tried to settle into a routine. Andrew pretty much stayed in my place. Though I offered to spend the night at his apartment during the week, he said it wouldn’t be fair since I was the one who had to go to work early in the morning. Some weekends, we’d stay at his place, schlepping Buster, our unofficial child, back and forth. He ran errands, job searched, kept Buster company until I came home in the afternoon, allowing me to give my dog walker a little break since she usually stops by around midday. A suggestion made by Andrew. Most of the time, he would have dinner ready, some variation of Pinterest recipes and other things he’d grown comfortable cooking without the need for a step-by-step instruction.
After two weeks, though, I saw his spirit start to fade. What used to be upbeat and optimistic, turned irritable and frustrated. He’d been doing his due diligence, sending his résumé to different companies, following up interviews with “It was a pleasure to meet you” emails. But the days passed, and he couldn’t get past a first interview. So, with a lot of reluctance on his part, he decided to pick up some food delivery shifts. Uber Eats, DoorDash, anything to scrounge up a few bucks as his billsstarted to pile up. He hadn’t even told his parents he lost his job. I know it’s because if he did, then he’d have to explain what happened, which would in turn require an even longer story about how he and I are a thing now.
Our habitual pattern of dinner and sleep didn’t change at first when he started this part-time gig, but once the alerts for delivery services peaked in the evening, I found myself alone more often. I started to miss him. Not just the physical presence of him, but my boyfriend. The man who would hold me when I came home from a long day at work while we exchanged stories like it was our form currency. And a part of me couldn’t help but feel responsible for all of this. It’s my fault he got into a fight with Frankie. If it weren’t for me, he wouldn’t be dealing with bringing random strangers their late-night snacks. He’d have a job, a future.
