Though Matilda and Nina only infrequently visit me at work, both are well familiar with the legend of the Red Unicorn. I’d talked about him so often that it became necessary to procure a picture and prove, contrary to Matilda’s doubts, that he was real; and since I’ve purposefully avoided learning his name and therefore can’t stalk him on social media and find out something unsettling about him—like that he has a supermodel girlfriend, or boyfriend, or that he is an amateur DJ—I had to resort to other means to prove his existence. Namely, I once sneakily took out my phone and pretended to be texting a friend while I actually took a series of pictures of him to show my friends over Pizookies.
It’s not a proud moment of mine, but when a man is that attractive, his face needs to be shared!
“Is he here with somebody?” Matilda voices aloud the very question I’ve been wondering, as I scan for any sign of who his dinner partner might be.
But there is only one set of cutlery on the table, one glass of water, one glass of wine. “He’s eating alone,” I realize out loud, not sure why I should feel this little twist of pleasure. It means nothing. He could still be dating someone. And even if he is completely single, it changes nothing forme. I won’t approach him at the table, or slide him my number at the library. I just like looking from a distance, knowing that he is at leastin theorystill attainable, even if in practice he is very much out of my league.
“Eating alone and reading,” Matilda adds, and for the first time I notice the book in his hands—an Agatha Christie he checked out earlier that day—and the reading glasses that somehow manage to make him look even hotter.
You are a ridiculous weirdo,I remind myself, even as I make a mental note to give Axel some glasses before I send my chapter off tonight to my writing group.
If this were one of my stories, the Red Unicorn might look up and notice me across the room. A spark of recognition might light his eyes before he crossed the room to me. “The librarian,” he might say, teasing me in that faint, sporadic Southern accent of his. “I’ve been meaning to checkyouout.” (Or something less cheesy. I’ll have to brainstorm that one some more.)
But the Red Unicorn doesn’t look up from his book, and eventually I manage to drag my eyes away from him and pretend to be interested in the conversation for the rest of the night, until finally I glance back and see that he’s gone.
Chapter 3
Helen
Stepping into my compact, one-bedroom apartment, eager to devest myself of the sheer torture that is an underwire bra, I let out a groan of frustration when I see my cell phone screen light up withMom. A rebellious little part of me wants to send it straight to voicemail, but I quickly remember the last time I did so: The Boston Catholic network went into action, and my mom’s church friends’ sons, who also happen to live in Chicago, showed up at my door. And because Quinn Sullivan and Dan O’Malley run Cipher Security, they had a whole team of security officers with them. It was a whole thing, and it’s taken me almost a full year to convince my landlady that I’m not a war criminal. (Offerings of surplus baking goods have come in handy with this task.)
“You’re just so new to the world,” my father explained at the time. “We worried about you so much less when you were still a nun.”
I could have reminded all of them that I’ve been living on my own now for about two years, after earning my MS in library science and saving up enough money to move to Chicago, even if it was into a shoebox (and a kids’ small, at that). By pretty much all measurable determinants of what makes somebody a responsible adult, I tick all the boxes. I pay my bills, I have a steady job, I watch HGTV. Sure, I’ve never had sex or been in a relationship, but that’s true for a lot of adults. Okay, maybe not a LOT, but some. I’m not the only one.
(Right?)
But to my family, I will always be the miracle baby, the chosen one, whose life was promised to God—all without consulting me, of course.
“Hi, Mom,” I answer on the fifth ring, knowing I can’t let it go much longer without fear of repercussions.
“Helen!” My mother, Pamela Flanagan, shouts my name way too loud, then adds, “Ken, it’s Helen!”
I hear my father in the background, also shouting for no apparent reason. “Hang up and do the FaceTime. Helen, we’ll call you right back on the FaceTime!”
“I don’t really—” I start, but it’s too late, because my mother has already hung up the phone, only to call back a moment later via FaceTime.
I answer, forcing a smile. “Hi.”
“Sweetheart, did you get my text about Dean’s birthday?”
The worst thing about FaceTime—even worse than not being able to pretend to listen attentively as someone talks while you actually play Tetris—is not being able to eye roll with abandon. “Yeah. I already texted you back.”
“Oh. I haven’t checked my texts yet.”
Then why are you calling me, Mother?I want to demand, but keep my smile plastered on. I love my parents, I really do. They are good people, and they try their best.
But—and I think this with all the love and kindness in my heart—they need a hobby. Maybe several. I visited them over the Martin Luther King Jr. Day weekend, just a few weeks ago. We have a virtual Sunday dinner together every week. My mother texts me frequently throughout the day, usually about nonsensical, pointless things that she could have just as easily Googled. Mom is planning my brother’s birthday a month in advance, seemingly because she has nothing better to do. My dad at least has his sports teams he follows, but I once heard him get into a long debate with a telemarketer, I think just because he was bored.
I know they worry about me, and Dean (well, maybe rightfully so with Dean), but they might worry a little less if they took up gardening or traveling, or maybe got a dog.
These suggestions seem to always fall on deaf ears, though, so I listen as they tell me about a great new show they discovered that they think I’ll love. After listening to their back-and-forth explanation for a few minutes, I interrupt: “Are you talking aboutThe Office?”
“Yes, that’s what it’s called!”
Lord, give me strength. Only one of the most popular sitcoms of all time, and my parents think they’ve discovered a hidden gem. “I’ll have to give it a try.”
“What’s that on your face, sweetheart? Are you bleeding?”
