Matt kicked off the weekly status meeting by detailing each of the open houses he and Lauren had attended over the weekend. They couldn't find anything quite right because—oh my fucking god—she wanted five kids and at least two dogs, and everything was too small for their big-family needs. I'd already heard some version of that before—fuck me—but hearing it again before I'd consumed an adequate amount of coffee was a smack in the face Ididn'tneed.
This came on the heels of a weekend where I hadn't thought about Lauren once. Not a single time. She hadn't dominated my days and nights, and that absence had slipped my notice until the reality of her making babies with Matt slammed into my consciousness. But there I'd been, squeezing the shit out of my burrito and trying to light Matt on fire with my glare, as jealous and bitter as I'dalwaysbeen.
And I hated it. I hated everything about my reaction and the energy I was dedicating to that bitterness and jealousy. But the problem with feelings like these was that they didn't die with a single game of strip pong. My feelings for Lauren were deep and complex, and tangled around history and family and everything I associated with goodness. They were losing their poignancy, that was definite, and I wasn't fighting to get it back. Allowing them to fade away was the best option around, but that didn't make it anyeasier.
From there, things turned even more Mondayish with a lengthy discussion of Andy's work on the property on Eastern Pond in Wellesley. By itself, the project was standard and she was handling it well. But there was a hitch, and not a small one. Wellesley wasn't just another old house under our care; it was our childhood home and a giant, haunteddisaster.
The biggest problem was that, nearly three years after my father's death, we were still dealing with that house. He'd asked us to spruce up the place because of course he left us a list of chores in his motherfucking will. Rather than burning the inspiration forAmerican Horror Storyto the ground, we'd delegated it to Andy. Why not? She didn't have any skin in the game. She hadn't watched while her mother died on the master bedroom floor. She'd never been molested, beaten, or emotionally torturedthere.
Because Andy was physically incapable of doing the bare minimum, she'd taken care to restore the property and trick it out with all the hottest sustainability features. She'd approached it with precision, and since none of us wanted to think about the Nightmare on Eastern Pond, she'd had free rein and no one hurrying her along. That meant she'd perfected every corner and crevice of the 1880s Arts andCrafts.
And now shewasdone.
Since Andy wouldn't allow a bonfire, we had to make decisions about the next steps. We weren't keeping it—hellno—but we didn't knowmuchelse.
When she'd raised this question, we'd looked around the table at each other with blurry eyes and sour grimaces, as if we'd awakened after a long night of liquor and questionable decisions, and were now expected to explain quantum physics. The response had been an assortment of head shaking and brow rubbing, and broken statements like "I don't think we can, um, or should—" and "Are we? Or, does it? I mean, when?"and"Well…"
Tom—sweet, precious Tom—stepped up to the plate, and promised to minimize the details that came our way. He and Andy probably didn't see their roles on that project as critical to the health and well-being of me and my siblings, but it was the truth. We'd all dealt with the past—our mother's death, our father's vicious abuse in the name of grief, our gradual emergence from the goddamn horror of that childhood—in different ways. But the one thing we shared was an inability to deal with that house. Much like our father, it hit us in different ways, but it alwayshitus.
After a morning packed with those dueling dick slaps, it had to get better, right?Wrong.
Then there were permit issues on one of my projects, and all work had to stop. My meatball sub had failed to arrive with the lunch order. Another project had a slow, steady basement leak but no obvious water source. The Red Sox lost two exceptionally winnable games on the road, and one of the Patriots' key players was out with a season-ending injury. A project set to start in two weeks was pulled when the homeowners called to announce they were getting divorced and would not be needing their farmhouse renovated. Alex was busy all day and on call most nights, and she barely had time to return texts. The clients from my Marlborough Street project requested a meeting to discuss "a couple changes" which basically meant they wanted to redo the entire house. I doused myself with coffee every day, and twice onThursday.
Something about this one-punch-after-another week reminded me of those loyalty club cards where you get a stamp every time you bought a sandwich. But instead of getting delicious sandwiches, I got a week's worth of bullshit and douche water, and I was looking forward to the added bonus of weekend weirdness with my ex-girlfriend.
So when Alex asked from the passenger seat of my SUV while we cruised down the highway on Friday afternoon, "What's the schedule for our time in Rhode Island?" I didn't have a goodanswer.
I'd barely managed to get out of the office, and I had no clue what I'd packed. I wasn't even certain where we were staying, and was hoping to find those details in one of the emails I'd ignored from Shannon.Shambles.I'd spent the entire morning on the phone, wrangling one issue or another, and greeted Alex with ten minutes of incoherent ranting about people who never returnedvoicemails.
It was worth noting that until a year or two ago, I was one of those people who never returned voicemails. Hell, I didn't even listen to them. Wasn't that the whole point of textmessaging?
But I was hypocritically bitter about those damn voicemailstoday.
"There's a lot to see," I said, bouncing my fist against the gear shift. "What are you in themoodfor?"
My eyes were on the road but I still noticed her twist in her seat to face me. "What?" she asked around a yawn. She'd been in and out of surgery since—apparently—Columbus had arrived in the New World and she was feeling the sleep deprivation today. "You've been talking about Rhode Island for weeks. You made it sound like you had every minuteplannedout."
I held open my palm and let it fall to my leg. "Yeah, I have some ideas," I said, the hesitation heavy in my voice. "But the week got away from me, and I didn't get a chance to sortitout."
"Okay, then. What do you want to do? You'd mentioned a bunch of restaurants and sights to see, and something about bakeries," Alex started. "One with great breads, one with greatcakes."
"Seven Stars and Pastiche," I repliedautomatically.
"You also mentioned two donut shops, but I don't know whether I can do two bakeries and two donut shops in the same weekend,"shesaid.
"I don't share that concern." I shot her a glance, smiling. It hadn't registered until now, but she was all kinds of sexy-cute today. Jeans, a gauzy shirt-type-thing, cardigan, and red sequined shoes. The clothes helped but the sexy-cute was all Alex. "And you can always bring a doggie bag back homewithyou."
"Snacks for days," she quipped, pushing her sunglasses to the top of her head and pressing her fingertips to hereyelids.
She was tired, and who wouldn't be after the week she'd put in? I didn't understand how she functioned on so littlesleep.
"We don't have to do much," I said. "Maybe drop by the event at the Providence Art Club tonight, and then get dinner on Federal Hill, or somewhere over on the East Side? It'll be quick. I'll have you in bedbynine."
"Is that a promise?" she asked, her fingers still on hereyelids.
I was about to joke about taking her to bed anytime she wanted, but I stopped myself. Knowing the state of my mind right now, I was liable to say that without an ounce of humor and reveal that, yes, I'd thought about sleepingwithAlex.
More than once. A lot morethanonce.
