“Hello,” I said.
“Hey, it looks like you’re a regular customer. That’s just great.”
I moved aside and let him walk in. He put the pizza box down on the counter, gently moving aside the divorce papers and pretending not to notice what they were.
“I didn’t know if you delivered pizza, but I’m glad you do,” I said.
He put the bag down next to the pizza and turned toward me. His face was open and friendly. “Well, if pizza makes you happy, then we deliver it.” I nodded. I hoped to hell that pizza made me happy. At least I was reasonably sure it wouldn’t make meunhappy. “I don’t think we had a chance to introduce ourselves,” he said, putting his hand out. “I’m Joe Grant.”
I put my hand in his, and he shook it. Firm, dry, warm. Calm serenity passed through me like a lightning bolt. I hadn’t felt anything like it in years. Not since senior prom. I could have kept my hand in his forever, but his eyes flicked toward it, and I realized I had held the handshake too long and dropped my hand.
“I’m Eliza Farris,” I said, avoiding his eyes. I gnawed at the inside of my cheek, which was my go-to nervous tick since I was a child.
“Nice to meet you, Eliza Farris. Would you like me to help you put away the groceries?”
“No, thank you. It’s not much.” Just a two-liter of chocolate cream soda, a five-pound bag of peanut M&Ms, and a bag of pre-washed kale because I didn’t want Delivery Happiness to think that I was a gross pig.
“Okay, then,” he said.
“Oh! I forgot to pay you.” I walked toward my Walmart bag and counted out the money.
“Some people leave us their credit card number, and we use it automatically for the deliveries. It’s less of a hassle for a lot of folks that way.”
I handed him the cash. “I’m sort of having a problem with my credit cards. Those new chips break so easily.”
He nodded. “Sometimes technology is like a pact with the devil. Thank you,” he said, holding up the wad of cash. I opened the door for him, and he stepped out. His bicycle was parked just outside the door. It had a wicker basket on the front and a plastic box attached to the back. The bike looked like it had been put together with old parts, and it was splattered with paint, a lot like Joe’s shirt.
“Wasn’t it hard biking while carrying a pizza?” I asked.
“No, it was a blast. I’ve been able to ride no hands since third grade. What’s life without a little danger?” I guessed life would be fabulous without a little danger, but I decided to be diplomatic. I shrugged and smiled. “Do you like to ride?” he asked.
“Me? I haven’t been on a bike since I was twelve years old. I like my car.” I gnawed at my cheek. “I mean I did. It’s… in the shop.” Another lie, and I clutched my stomach with the pain of it. I didn’t know why it was so hard to lie to him, but it was like my insides were being scrubbed out with a wire brush. I wanted to tell him the truth, but at the same time, I would have rather shouted my weight at my high school reunion.
We said goodbye, and I watched Joe pedal down my walkway and into the street. I closed the door. In the kitchen, I decided to eat the pizza on my best China, which my grandmother had given to me on my wedding day. “If you’re going to act ignorant, at least you can have pretty plates,” she had explained. At the time, I figured she had early-onset Alzheimer’s. She was right about them being pretty, though. The dishes had a vintage design from the 1920s, and I only use them for Thanksgiving and Christmas every year. But here I was, using a plate for my junk food. It made me feel slightly better, just like my new bras and the hope of getting my husband back. I put three slices of my ham and pineapple pizza on the plate and poured myself a glass of cream soda with crushed ice from the freezer. In a small bowl, I poured some M&Ms and then changed my mind and got a bigger bowl. Bringing everything to the couch, I sat with my feet up on the coffee table and the plate perched on my lap, and I clicked the remote until I landed on a marathon ofI Dream of Jeannie.
Jeannie seemed happy to take care of her master, and she looked great in her pink outfit. Pink was never my color. I looked better in blue, which incidentally was Jeannie’s alter-ego color. The worst that Jeannie had to suffer was some timeout time in her luxury bottle with the circular couch. I could relate to that. I watched three episodes, and just as Jeannie was once again hiding from Dr. Bellows, the carbs and sugar began to work their magic and tranquilize me to a nice, calm couch potato state.
I was relaxed enough to push back at the memories of Steve’s hurtful words, which were hovering at the edge of my brain, like an army on a ridge, poised to attack at any moment. I was aware that they were there, but they weren’t hurting me for the moment. I kept them at bay with M&Ms, cheese-filled crust, and sixties sitcoms that promised magic and sex appeal, even in the suburbs.
Introspection is highly overrated.
My eyes began to droop as my sugar coma took hold. I was just about to lie down and drape a blanket over me when I was startled by a sound outside. I bolted upright, knocking the wedding plate to the ground. Freezing in place, I heard it again. Metal scraping something, like Charles Manson’s family was trying to break in, in order to steal my M&Ms and hack me into pieces with rusty knives they found in a medical waste dump. On television, Jeannie hopped on Major Nelson’s lap and blinked him a good meal. Why couldn’t I be Jeannie instead of a victim of a grisly cult slaying?
Why wasn’t Steve there to save me?
I held my breath, hoping they would go away, but there was another noise. Hoping that it wasn’t a drug-crazed, homicidal mob, but merely a rabid coyote that wandered off, I tiptoed to the front door and looked through the peephole.
What the hell?
I opened the door. Joe Grant, the Happiness Delivery man, was on my porch, leaning a blue bicycle with a large wicker basket against the stone wall that separated my property from my neighbor’s.
“Joe?” I asked. “Did you forget something?”
He turned a light pink as a blush swept over his face. “I had an extra bike, and I figured while your car is in the shop…”
“Oh.” The bike was a pretty sky blue, and the basket looked brand new. The seat was a wide, cushioned one. It looked like something out of a French film from the seventies where the pretty virgin in a flowy summer dress and no bra rode her bike down a country lane to meet her older, pipe-smoking lover. It was perfect.
Almost romantic.
