He was already pulling away, I thought. Maybe that was just as well. Less pain for everyone involved. Less pain for him, anyway.
I sat alone at my window, looking out at the city. It was a beautiful day, breezy and warm, and there were flowers growingon windowsills and people laughing as they passed each other on my street.
And I was leaving.
I decided that I wasn’t going to tell Laura about the Paul situation. If nothing else happened with Paul, it was too embarrassing. Not as bad as Colin, but still another humiliation in a long list. She had enough of a romantic saga going on, especially if things didn’t work out with Nick. How would I compare Paul’s friendship of a few weeks to her years of marriage? I was probably just taking it all too seriously.
I spentThursday readying my place to host improv practice, and I decided to use it as an excuse to reach out to Mrs. Mahoney one more time.
I knocked on her door on Thursday afternoon, and she opened it, looking at me cautiously.
“Hi,” I said. “I am having a couple of friends over tonight?—”
“Parties aren’t allowed.”
“It’s three people. But I was just wondering if you knew of any good local Newfoundland recipes I could make for them. Cookies, or dessert, anything nice like that? They are locals and I’m trying to show them that I like it here, even though I’m from the States.”
She hesitated, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. “I don’t think I know any recipes just for Newfoundland.”
“Okay, thanks,” I said. “Well, if you think of anything…”
I waved and turned to go. “No parties,” she repeated again, but she wasn’t entirely frowning when she closed the door. I considered that a parade-worthy victory.
I made chocolate chip cookies from a recipe on the bag, bought some chips and salsa, and provided four bottles of wine, which is as domestic as I get. I hadn’t really wanted to cooka Newfoundland specialty; I just wanted to try one last time to warm up Mrs. Mahoney before I left the country. Somebody needed to. She was a version of what I feared I’d become as I grew older: alone, grumpy, resentful of everyone because no one ever seemed excited to see her.
Lisette and Mark arrived on time, chatting and speculating about what was happening with Paul’s mother and then evaluating my cookies with an appraising air.
“Could use a little burning,” Lisette said, “but I guess they’re edible.”
“I’ll make a note on the recipe,” I replied.
“Mark can cook everything,” Lisette said. “But he never brings us any of it. He always talks about how he was trying out some new Thai recipe, or some new hummus recipe, but does he bring us a sample?”
“They never turn out well enough to share,” Mark said.
“I don’t believe it,” Lisette said. “I think you’re running a small restaurant out of your home and refusing to give us a reservation.”
Mark gave her a small frown. “My house is tiny. Not good for entertaining.”
“I live in a dungeon, Mark. You have to have us over sooner or later.”
Half an hour passed, and then an hour, before Paul finally arrived. When he stepped into the room, his eyes were missing the spark that they usually had. He looked at me and forced a smile, which was more painful to watch than if he hadn’t made the effort.
“Hey,” he said, and held up a bottle of wine.
“You made it!” Lisette shouted. “You escaped the house of horrors.”
“Barely,” he said, sounded exhausted.
I walked up to him to take the wine. “You okay?” I asked him quietly.
He nodded slowly. “Wine would be nice.”
I squeezed his hand once before I moved to the table to pour him a glass.
“Really, though, what happened with your mom this time?” Lisette asked.
He shrugged. “She’s fine. She just starts fights with her neighbors over nothing. This time it was potted plants she put on her front step that she’s convinced they stole, even though I’m sure they didn’t. It was really windy, and I think her plants blew away. But then she escalated the situation by trying to get revenge on them. I’ll let her calm down again and then smooth it out with the neighbors.”
