I don’t know what’s gotten into us, but I like it. From Deborah’s view, Nicholas’s hands have disappeared up the hem of my skirt, and the notion of shocking her like this almost makes me feel sorry for her. Almost.
When Nicholas lets me go, I have to make an admission to myself:
I have no idea what’s happening anymore. It’s terrifying.
–
I’m still hungry, and miracle of miracles: Jackie’s is open.
“On Thanksgiving?” I exclaim to Nicholas after he climbs back into the car with a greasy paper sack.
“They’realwaysopen.”
I look sideways at him. We grabbed so many meals from Jackie’s the first year we dated, before we got engaged and moved in together and I lost my hardware store job all at once. “You still come here a lot, then?”
“Oh, you know...” He shrugs. But I don’t rip my gaze from his face, and he eventually spills the truth. “Sometimes when things aren’t going so great at home, I do. If I’m worried you’re about to say something... uh... that I don’t want to hear, I get in the car and leave. I’ll say I’m going to Mom and Dad’s, but most of the time I just drive around or I come here. Look.” He opens the glove box, where a huge stack of extra-large napkins from Jackie’s is crammed.
“You’re worried I’ll say something you don’t want to hear?” I repeat, accepting a carton of fries from him. “Like what?”
He shrugs again, then starts to drive home.
Since it seems he doesn’t want to answer this question, I come up with something else to say. “The plaque on your parents’ house is wrong. The ‘rose by any other name’ one.”
He laughs. “I know. I looked it up once. Don’t tell them, okay? I want to see how long it takes them to find out.”
We share a smile. Nicholas isn’t so bad, maybe.
It’s this goodwill that makes me say, “When we get home, there’s something I want to show you.”
He looks over at me. I feel his stare in the darkness, dividing between my face and the road. He’s quiet but I hear his brain spinning the rest of the way home, wondering what I’m going to show him. I can’t get a read on what his guess might be.
By the time we’re walking through the front door, I’m already regretting this. Why am I so impulsive? I need to take back my offer. I strain to come up with a different secret to show him but draw a blank.
“So,” he says, hedging. “What do you want to show me?”
I’m not sure I still would, were it not for the hesitation in his eyes. He’s worried. He thinks that whatever it is, it involves him and me, and that it might be bad. I can’t let him suffer, so I suck it up and summon all my bravery and then some. Never in a million years did I think I’d voluntarily show him this.
He’s leaning against the kitchen counter when I hand him my phone. “Here.” Then I retreat to the other wall, biting my nails.
He’s even more worried now. “What do you want me to do with it?”
“Check my notes.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
He studies me for a handful of seconds like this might be a trap, then does as he’s told. I want to snatch my phone back. My face is red and my heart’s in my throat, and if he laughs at me I’m going to cry. His pity would be even worse. I am so certain that he’s going to think I’m a pathetic loser. All the evidence is there in his hand.No one wants me. Look at what you’ve thrown everything away over. A woman who can’t even get hired as a waitress at Olive Garden.
I watch him read the list that I’ve typed up in my notes, of every single establishment I’ve applied to. It’s detailed: I describe if I applied online or in person, if I can expect to hear back from them over the phone, by text, or email. Places I had high hopes for are marked with smiley faces. The nos are followed byXs. The places I haven’t heard back from yet have question marks beside them. There are no yesses.
It’s a long list, and it’s full ofXs.
When several minutes pass and he still hasn’t spoken, just staring at my screen as he no doubt decodes it all, I feel like I’m being strangled. When I was the only one who knew about all these rejections, I was able to handle it. Now that he knows, it’s freshly humiliating. I know I’m not worthless, but god is it tough not to feel that way when you’re in the middle of a never-ending streak ofThis is hard to say, but we’re going with someone else. We’re very sorry we couldn’t give you better news and we wish you the best of luck.
I’ve got my face in my hands, so when a pair of arms wraps around me I’m not expecting it. His touch tugs all my threads loose, and I start crying into his shoulder. “It’s stupid to cry over this. I’m sorry.”
“Hey,” he murmurs, nuzzling my temple. “It’s not stupid. You have nothing to be sorry for. These places are stupid.”
