When we were done, Paul stood up.
“Let’s have some wine and dissect that a bit,” he suggested, and then we did, talking about what worked and what didn’t. It was interesting to hear his analysis of something that seemed so silly on the surface: how we could have committed more, where we could have picked up the pace. I saw now why they were such a good improv group: it wasn’t just Lisette’s talent or Mark’s dry wit. It was Paul, pushing them to be just better, sharper, riskier.
“Where could we have gone further?” he asked, looking between us. We all offered ideas, and I enjoyed even that. I was going to miss this. I was going to miss Paul and Lisette and grumpy Mark. I might even miss improv.
At the end of the night, as everyone was getting ready to go, I quietly approached Paul. “Hey, can you stay a minute after this? There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
“Of course,” he said. Mark and Lisette both gave us knowing looks as they headed out, but once they were gone, Paul immediately looked ashamed.
“Abby,” he said, “I’m so sorry about this week.” He leaned against the wall by the door.
“You don’t owe me an apology,” I began, trying to cut him off. I took one of his hands.
“I do, though. This has been such a rough few days. I really wanted to spend time with you, but first there was Trish, and my mother just…She’s awful, honestly. But she needs help.”
“And how are you?” I asked gently. I knew I had to tell him that I might be leaving, but it could wait. He so clearly needed someone to listen to him.
He put one hand over his eyes. “I’m furious, honestly. But I have no right to be.”
“Of course you have a right to be.”
I led us back to the sofa and sat down next to him.
“She really can’t help herself.” He sighed, struggling for words. “But half the time I want to tell her to get out of my life. That it’s not my problem.”
I nodded, and he took my hand and squeezed it, searching for words. I said quietly, “I told you my mother was an alcoholic, but what I didn’t tell you was that—in the time before she died—she was always calling up Laura and I for a few hundred dollars to get through the month, and the first time she asked us, she felt guilty. But by the third, fourth, fifth time, she started to insult us if we didn’t help her. We felt like we were her enablers, and we hated it, but we didn’t know what else to do because she couldn’t hold down a job. So if you want to talk about how angry you are, it’s okay. You have the right.”
Paul nodded. “My mother is a difficult person. And I’ve thought about cutting her off, or drawing the line, but there’s no one else she has to turn to. It used to drive Trish crazy. She said my mother was manipulating me, and she absolutely was, I knew that, but if I didn’t step in, my mother would have been homeless. She burns every single bridge she has. My father usedto keep her in check, smooth things over when she got into it with people, but now she has a massive victim complex and no one to stop her. And she can never see that it’s her own fault.”
I could see the words hurt him as he said them.
“I understand. Honestly,” I said.
He looked even angrier. “I don’t want you to understand. I want to take you on a date. I haven’t taken anyone on a date in…” He cut himself off. “I still want to take you out, it’s just that my mother is at my house this week and she makes things harder.”
“Is there anything I can do?” I asked.
“You’re such a saint.”
“Don’t say that. Please. That’s so not sexy.”
He smiled. “Someone told me nice is sexy.” He smiled. “But this isn’t your job. I’ll sort this out. It’s like you said. She expects this. She pushes people away, and then she expects to come stay with me. I think she wants to move in with me, but that’s where I draw the line. She’s not…I don’t like saying this, but she’s not a very nice person. She doesn’t know how to be.”
“You may need to set more rules if it gets worse. I mean, I know how hard that is.”
“You know when I said I dreamed of moving to the American Southwest? It’s because I knew she couldn’t get herself organized to follow me. That makes me a horrible son, doesn’t it?”
“You’re an amazing son in a horrible position.”
He covered his eyes and shook his head. “I’m not an amazing partner, though. I haven’t been an amazing husband, or—or boyfriend to you.”
I leaned my head against him, and he rubbed my hand, then took it between both of his hands and examined my fingers gently, separating out each one like they all mattered to him.
“Your ex came back.”
He shook his head. “That’s not the point.”
I smiled, and then he turned and kissed me gently. His eyes were very serious afterwards, like he was making a promise.
