“I’m Eli. I’m Nora’s neighbor,” he explains.
“Well, very neighborly of you to look out for my daughter.”
He grumbles something under his breath, and I have to step in before he fully turns back into the pissy version of himself I’ve mostly expunged from my life. “Mom, thank you, but I don’t think I have space for it,” I say, trying to steer the conversation back to what I need to share.
“Oh,” she says, deflating. “But I walked it all the way over here! And that was especially hard with Waldo.”
“Do you want me to hang on to it and then I’ll bring it back whenever I’m next at your apartment?” I ask, noticing that Waldo is looking sort of desperate to get a real walk in. My mother can sucker me in fairly easily, but add in a dog, and I’m a goner.
She claps her hands together. “Oh that would be great, thanks, love. And then you can also see how it looks in your apartment, in case you change your mind.”
“She’s not changing her mind,” Eli says under his breath.
“Oh, you Brits always take life so seriously,” my mother says, waving him off.
“Like someone who can’t deal with ‘Live, Laugh, Love’ signs?” he retorts.
And at that I grab his arm and unlock the door.
“Okay, Mom, well, don’t let me keep you!” I say, grabbing the sign in question and trying to make this whole interaction end. “I’ll see you at dinner next Friday, okay?”
“Yes! Just don’t bring any tomatoes; I’m still avoiding nightshades,” she says.
I wave as I pull Eli in, then shove him onto the elevator.
I stare at him, and he stares right back. He doesn’t press the button for his floor, so I guess he’s coming up to mine. When the elevator opens, I walk out and open my door. George pops up from his perch on his bed, his black shaggy hair in need of a cut. I reach down and pet him, still ignoring Eli even as he walks into my apartment and sits down at the table.
“Why do you let her do that to you?” he finally lets out, articulating what I know he’s been itching to say.
“If I answer that, will you answer why you always seem so primed for a fight?” I put my hands on my hips, defiant and unwilling to give in that easily to his passive judgment.
“Sure,” he says with a wicked smile, clearly thinking he’s won whatever fishing expedition he’s on.
I sigh, caught now in having to try and explainmy mother. I turn on the kettle to keep my hands busy and then start pulling out tea bags and teacups.
“It’s easier,” I finally say, hoping that’s enough.
“Bullshit.”
I pour the tea, bring the cups over, and sit down across from him. I like the way my dainty painted mug looks in his large hands.
“It is, though,” I say. “She makes everything so complicated. It’s like, she could be walking in a straight line from point A to point B and somehow break her foot, cause a car accident, knock over an unwitting bicyclist, and shatter a planter. So when she startsanything, it’s easier to just go along with it as much as possible and push back only as far as needed to get where I need to be.”
“Yeah, but youdidn’tget what you need,” he counters.
I take a long sip of my tea. “But I did. I don’t care about sticking this thing in my closet for a week. Ineedto not have her questioning why it isn’t hung up. Ineedfor her to not tell Suzy to come over andlook at her art in my apartment. Ineedto not give an opening to the idea that my apartment is open for decoration. So I did that but also didn’t drag it into some giant thing.”
“That’s exhausting,” he says, blowing on his cup as though he can get the frustration out through that small action.
I’m surprised that’s his response. I always expect him to needle me more, but maybe when it matters, he knows that sometimes a person just needs to be seen. “It is,” I concur.
He seems satisfied by that admission. So I attempt to change the subject. “Okay, your turn.”
“Oh, I’ll blame my parents, too, for all my detriments,” he says with a grin. When he sees that’s not enough, he tries again. “My father is a barrister, so I was raised to be primed for a fight?”
The question at the end makes it quite clear that that isn’t the whole answer. I fix him with a look, and he smiles sheepishly, knowing he’s not getting away with anything.
“There’s a version of you that isn’t like that,” I prod, and he puckers his lips in thought, taking the sentiment in.
