“That’s not what you’re thinking.”
I want to point out how that’s the pot calling the kettle black. I know she kept something to herself earlier and she’s now asking me to be honest when she wasn’t. It’s new territory for me—how much of your innermost thoughts do youhaveto share with your partner? All of them? Are any of them allowed to be kept private or is that going against some marriage code nobody’s explained to me? I opt to err on the side of not oversharing and simply say, “What would you think of moving to Seattle for the summer when school gets out, so I can see you and Emma more often?”
Her face goes neutral, losing the wonder it held moments ago when she waxed poetic about the adequate sandwich and Seattle skyline, but she quickly recovers into an optimisticsmile. “I’d have to ask Emma how she’d feel about leaving her friends for a couple of months, but I think we could manage that with my workload.”
“Great,” I tell her.
We board a few minutes later and find a table in the galley where we can sit and face out toward the bow. The sandwich is better than adequate, the potato salad is good. We eat and make small talk as we people watch. My initial instinct is to spiral at her response when I asked if she’d like to move to Seattle for the summer. There had been a pause and a lack of enthusiasm. I get it; it’s a lot of work to move two people for three months and a huge ask of her when I won’t even be there half of the time, but there is something else too.
I work through some of the techniques Dr. Fowler gave me when I begin to feel this way and I take a deep breath in through the nose and out through the mouth. My focus goes to what I’m tasting: the flavor of the sandwich mixed with a scoop of hummus on a pita chip I stole from Nola’s plate.
What I hear: the man sitting across the galley pulled out a violin. A small group of onlookers gathers as he begins to play and I tune into the melody. It’s familiar but I can’t place the song’s title. As soon as the spiral has started, it’s gone. I finish my lunch and am pleased I was able to work through that with Nola sitting next to me, none the wiser.
We clean up our mess and I take her hand, relishing in her soft fingers woven through mine, as we go outside and watch the boat pass Bainbridge Island again. Nola’s wearing cuffed jeans that hug her curves and a striped short-sleeved knit sweater. Seattle looks good on her; she fits in like a local.
When she leans against the railing, she positions one leg back and jets her butt out a bit. I don’t even think she’s aware of how adorable she is. Everything from the wind from themoving boat blowing through her hair, to her eyes scanning the water, to her sun kissed cheeks.
I come up from behind her and give her butt a little tap, the same way she did to me at Stella’s portrait unveiling and a smile crawls up her face. Wrapping my arms around her and leaning my chest against her back, we watch Seattle slowly appear. First a few buildings on the horizon, then the whole skyline explodes before us. She wasn’t kidding; against the blue sky, I can see why it’s called the Emerald City. It sparkles.
My nose brushes against her hair and sinks into it. My lips leave a light trail of kisses on her neck, right under her ear. I’m rewarded with a small whimper as she throws an arm up around my neck and runs her fingers through my hair. This woman is going to drive me crazy in all the best ways.
Seattle gets closer, and I don’t let go of her until the ferry docks at the pier.
Our commuteback to my place in Bellevue is thick with weekend traffic. Ready to get home and pick up where we left off on the ferry, I am not loving the sea of brake lights we are trapped in. Nola tells me about one of her accounts wanting a new collection for their hotel renovation that will keep her busy for the next few weeks. I tell her how I’ve been tearing apart my place, looking for my favorite hoodie for weeks, only to remember it’s at my place in Arizona. She offers to go retrieve it for me. “Emma is ready to go back and would not turn down the chance to swim in that pool again.”
As if knowing we were talking about her, her face shows up on Nola’s phone.
“Hey, Em,” she answers. Nola smiles apologetically at me thelonger Emma speaks.“Okay, honey. Yeah, that’s fine. It’ll make it easier for tomorrow. Yes, yes, sounds good. I’ll send you the address and you let Naomi know we’ll be there in half an hour.”
She ends the call, sends Emma a text, and tucks the phone under her thigh. With a grimace, she says, “Change of plans. John and Naomi need to drop off Emma tonight.” There’s an edge of pent-up frustration in her tone.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, something about a prior commitment they’d forgotten about when we showed up unexpectedly, so . . .” She lets her thought trail off.
I reach over and squeeze her thigh, just as disappointed as she is that we won’t be alone again tonight. However, she never needs to apologize for being a mom first. “It’ll be great. In fact, a guy on my team has a couple of kids and told me about an arcade close by that has Skee-Ball and Pac Man. He mentioned two bowling lanes. We should grab pizza and then go check it out.”
Her face lights up at the mention of an outing that should be Emma-approved. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah. Plus, it’ll make the morning easier with the whole airport situation.” The team flies out an hour after the girls take off, but we fly a chartered plane in a special terminal. If we time things right, I should be able to see them off at their gate and still make it to mine in time.
That’s future Max’s problem.
“I am the Skee-Ball cham-pi-on!”I yell, turning to face the Adlers and squat down into a Hulk position. Anybody who sinks every ball into the 10,000-point slot and gets thebonus tickets is afforded the right to brag at the lengths to which I’ve afforded myself.
“How many did you get?” Emma jumps past me to look at the ticket counter spit out my winnings. “One thousand!?” She joins in celebration with me. “I can get the big Squishmallow!”
This brings the bragging to a halt. “I’m sorry. Did you win the jackpot? I thinkIcan get the Squishmallow.”
“You’re teasing, right?” she jumps quick to asking. I hold a poker face, and she mentally goes back and forth on my stance. “Right, Max? Mom . . . he’s kidding, isn’t he?”
Nola gives a half smile to her daughter and sends a wink to me. “Well, they are his tickets, Emma.”
The machine finally spits out the last one and I fist my bounty, holding it high in triumph. “Are we done here, ladies? Should I go pick out my prize?”
“You don’t need those tickets,” Emma groans and follows us through the maze of machines.
I turn around and she runs right into me. “Hey, what if you were calling Bingo numbers and Stella was whining about losing to Robert. What would you say to her?”
