So, in this version of our destiny Simon gets to move forward with no repercussions for his vanishing act, and I get to go in reverse, scarred and embittered. I may not have made substantial progress on myself since Simon left, but I certainly have no desire to backslide to the way things were. Simon looks up from cutting through packing tape to see if my facial expression has shifted to match his enthusiastic three-year plan. It hasn’t.
“Excuse me.” A raspy but authoritative voice accompanies a knock just outside the garage, interrupting Simon’s fantasy that I don’t want, now or ever. If only the girls didn’t want it either. Unfortunately, they do, so here I am, again, standing still.
“Ash,” I gasp, and my arms drop to my sides in shock. So do my boobs. Simon turns away from his cardboard box to take Ash in. “How do you know where I live?” Sensing my piqued interest and shift to a friendlier tone than I had been using with him, Simon leaps over the boxes to stand by my side, two against one. I take a big step to the left, unsure where to place myself between the two men.
“You left your information on a piece of paper at my grandmother’s house,” Ash says, shielding his eyes from the morning brightness so he can catch my gaze. “Right after your mother and Bubbe decided to make the hair house call a standing weekly appointment.”
Indeed, I had left my address. The following day an exquisite bouquet of peonies showed up with a card with no name thanking me for bringing my mom over to do Mrs. Eisenberg’s hair. The day after that was spent driving my cart past Build-A-Burger at least two dozen times to ask Zwena if she thought Mrs. Eisenberg sent the flowers or maybe it was Ash. Each time she told me to go ahead and ask one of them. And each time I waved away her advice as ridiculous before returning twenty minutes later to ask for it again. On my final drive-by, Zwenainformed me that Albert Einstein claimed that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again expecting different results. She clocked out of her shift before I could tell her one, Albert Einstein was not a founding father, therefore he would not be on her citizenship test, and two, leaving me to stew in my own thoughts is in violation of our friendship code.
“I wanted to give you space to consider my offer, but time’s ticking, and frankly I’m surprised I haven’t heard from you.” Ash waves his index finger back and forth like a metronome keeping time to make his point. Dang, I should have listened to Krish. He warned me that if I waited to respond, Ash would think I was not only ungrateful but also an idiot. “Anyway, I thought I’d stop by.
“I also wanted to let you know my grandmother has been loving her hair appointments with your mom. I’m not sure she will ever head back into the salon now, and she has had a long-term relationship with her hairdresser, so that’s saying something.” I giggle under my breath listening to Ash talk about his grandmother’s grooming habits. It’s really attractive for a man I initially considered to be short on emotional intelligence.
“Space to consider what?” Simon asks, interrupting my focus on Ash. Simon sounds perturbed that a man is here, towering over him, to see me. I’m enjoying observing Simon’s internal angst as he tries to parse out if I’m juggling two men in my life.
“I need to know what you’ve decided,” Ash says, moving into the garage to step out of the rising sun. His eyes stay fixated on me, not acknowledging Simon’s presence or his question. “More importantly, the producers need to know.”
Clearing his throat to be noticed, Simon reaches across the boxes to take my hand and ownership of me. “Hey, aren’t you the new judge onInnovation Nation?” Simon furrows his brow and squints his eyes in an attempt to place Ash. I avoid Simon’s hand by clasping my own behind my back. I’m now acutely aware of the inside-out shirt I’m wearing in front of Ash with the tag sticking out like a tongue at my neck.
“I am,” Ash states matter-of-factly.
Realizing who’s standing in front of him, Simon tries for a formal introduction. “I didn’t get your name,” he says with aman of the housetone that makes me gag. Simon spreads his legs to appear bigger than he is, adding to the protective vibe he is working to send Ash’s way.
“Ash Eisenberg. I’m a friend of Antonia’s. And you are?” Ash continues straightforwardly, taking one step closer into Simon’s space. I can’t help but swallow a snicker. Is this about to be a cock fight?
“I’m Toni’s husband.”
“Didn’t realize she had one. She’s never mentioned you,” Ash responds unremarkably, knowing full well I do have a husband. Or did. Or I don’t know.
Ash’s disinterest in Simon is made apparent when he turns his back to him and fully faces me. “The producers are finalizing the cast list for the second half of Season 18 right now. So, what will it be, Antonia?” Ash’s tone is one of finality, telling me he is not asking again. I cross my ankles, trying to hide one ratty pajama–clad leg behind the other. Simon is looking at me profoundly confused, so I move my eyes to avert his gaze.
“Mom, you used up all the eggs and I want to make french toast!” Lou yells from the kitchen to wherever she thinks I might be in the house.
“Yes, I’ll take you up on your offer,” I answer Ash. I lift my chin assertively and more than a slight bit competitively with Simon standing there trying to expand his own presence and diminish mine. Today is not the day 610 Andrews Street will become a communal office space. I, too, have a company to launch. The extra room will not be Simon’s. It will not be Lou’s or Coco’s. It will be mine for Brown Butter, Baby!.
“Yes, you will go get more eggs?” The girls bounce into the garage following my voice.
With the three of us in our Sunday-morning pajamas, I gather Lou and Coco under my arms, most proud of these two products that I havefunded and raised. This time, happy to make introductions, I look first to Lou and then to Coco. “Ash, these are my daughters, Lou and Coco.”
“Our daughters,” Simon corrects, his tone a mixture of irritation and injured manhood.
For the first time since Ash walked up to the garage his face, like the summer sun, warms up and radiates an inviting smile toward the three of us. “It’s so nice to meet you two.” Ash slowly turns his head back and forth, taking in my twins as if teen girls are the most miraculous invention he has ever seen. “Your mom is one lucky woman.”
“I am,” I agree, and give both girls a squeeze.
TUESDAY, JULY 23
It’s a little over six weeks until I go to LA to shoot my segment forInnovation Nation. The result of a decade of mothering girls who were wide awake at the stroke of 5:30 a.m., my circadian rhythm is trained to the first sign of dawn. My boss was so excited at my news and to have a reality TV personality as an employee that she rearranged the personnel schedule and put me on the 3:00 p.m. to midnight shift through September. Now, if I hop right out of bed when my eyes open, I am able to optimize the peace in the house for a solid five hours before my sleep-drunk teens rise to ask for food, cash, and rides. I can then return to manipulating my pitch from 10:00 p.m. to midnight from the quiet comfort of my cart, when the need for airport transportation services is relatively sparse. As a general rule, older customers tend to be early travelers, not wanting to navigate airports, car rentals, taxis, or hotel arrivals in the dark. Their need to be settled in early is serving Brown Butter, Baby! well right now.
12:36 p.m. (Gloria)
Niña, come rápido!
12:36 p.m. (Gloria)
And bring mis nietas.
12:36 p.m. (Gloria)
