I set the phone back down and sink into the tub. Closing my eyes, I feel my muscles go slack in the warm water. Of course I’m disappointed that I won’t be seeing Margot, but also, I’m relieved she’s canceled; I need a break. I’m still shaky from Dallas, and from what I saw Brad and Margot doing. But more than that, Graham and I are back to normal and I don’t want to rock things. I can’t.
28
Friday, April 6, 2018
I’M TEARING CRISPribs of romaine lettuce for a salad over a large weathered bowl. Erin stands next to me, whisking the ingredients for a Caesar dressing. The rhythmic thump of her spoon against the glass bowl is soothing. So is the open bottle of prosecco we’re sharing as Graham and Ryan hunker over the grill in our backyard, searing the steaks.
Mattie has pulled Jack into her lap on the sofa and she’s absentmindedly combing her fingers through his blond locks as they watch yet another episode ofDoc McStuffins. Jack’s baby quilt is balled up in his lap, and he sucks his thumb, eyes glazed over from the TV.
“So, Graham told us that you’ve been busy with freelance work,” Erin says. Her voice is warm and bright and filled with so much sincerity; I feel a stab of guilt as I lie.
“Yep, sorry I’ve had to miss out on our dinners lately. But yeah, it’s been good for me. You know what they say about idle hands and all that.”
I grab a chunk of Parmesan and grate shards of it over the salad.
“That does sound really good for you. I’m happy. I know this town can be awful and boring, believe me,” she says.
Erin left, too, after high school. She went away to the University of Texas at Austin and majored in world history and planned to never return. But one summer night, at a friend’s wedding in Mapleton, Ryan asked her to dance and they fell in love. Ryan was already established here—he owned the house they live in now; his business was just picking up steam—and he made it clear that he wasn’t going anywhere. So, Erin finished out her senior year and packed up her tidy duplex and moved in with him.
We kept in near-constant touch during college. I fled north, to Northwestern University’s School of Journalism, and all throughout my freshman year, as loneliness sat like a hippo parked on my chest, I looked forward to my phone dates with Erin.
I’d sit cross-legged in baggy sweats on the thin mattress in my dorm room and curl the beige phone cord around my finger until it turned red. We’d talk for hours, about our classes, about the new cities we found ourselves in, but mostly, we talked about boys.
Erin was a serial monogamist, dating one studious guy for a year and then moving on to someone equally as serious as the last. I, of course, was knee-deep in my flings with bad-boy jerks.
I would tell Erin every agonizing detail of these tortured relationships and welcome her grounded, nonjudgmental reactions. I told her everything but skipped the one-night stand I’d had with a woman named Lisa.
Lisa was a senior when I was a sophomore and I met her in philosophy class. Everyone idolized her, men and women alike, but she made it clear she wasn’t into men. She had charcoal-black hair, cut short, high cheekbones, and dreamy lips. She was outspoken, always organizing rallies and protests, and I was drawn to her and nursed a crush for weeks before she ever even spoke to me.
When she did finally notice me, one day after class when a group of students were gathered in the leafy courtyard next to the philosophy department, she looked at me and said, “You and me, drinks tonight.”
She took me to a dive bar, and we sipped foamy pitchers of cheap beers andsat at the scarred wooden bar, tacky with spilled booze. When she leaned over and kissed me, a gang of frat boys burst out in whoops, so she took me by the hand and led me back to her chalk-white bungalow around the corner.
She pulled me into her room, which smelled richly of incense, and traced her fingers over my lips before kissing me again, this time even harder. She kissed better than any boy I had ever been with, and my stomach did somersaults as she slid her hand down my pants and touched me.
The next morning, over pancakes at a nearby diner, she had me jot my phone number down on a napkin and promised to call. All that day, alone in my dorm room, I shuddered with desire, remembering her touch, and imagining us a power couple, strolling through the tree-lined campus together, her fingers laced in mine, but she never called and then ignored me for the rest of the semester in class. I was crushed.
I never told anyone about Lisa, until I met Graham. One night during our early and heady days of dating, we split a bottle of velvety red wine over a steak dinner in Chicago. We traded ghosts-of-relationships-past stories (like Erin, Graham had been a serial monogamist), and I blurted out about my torrid night with Lisa.
His neck turned crimson and his eyebrow arched in curiosity.
“I’m straight, though,” I quickly added. “I was just experimenting.”
I didn’t want him to be a guy who dreams of a ménage à trois or open relationships or any of that malarkey. After the string of bad boys and jilted loves, I craved something solid.
—
ERIN EMPTIES THElast of the prosecco into my glass as I’m pulling a homemade persimmon pie from the oven. The crust bubbles and oozes, and as I’m walking it over to the counter in my oven mitt–clad hands, my phone dings. Erin leans over as if to check it but then turns away.
I set the dish on a hand towel and tug off the mitts, scoop up my phone. It’s a group text, from the Hunting Wives. I can’t tell if Erin saw it or not. And Ican’t believe I’m hiding something this big from her. Not that she’d be interested in joining us, but I do feel bad that she’s excluded.
Jill:Pool party at the lake on Sunday? My place? I’m missing my ladies. Margaritas and nibbles.
Tina:Sounds SO fun. I’m in!
Margot:Yasssss!
A thumbs-up from Callie; I can feel her haughtiness even through a simple emoji.
