“I like to think there’s lots,” Rory says, in a soft-voiced sort of way, like it’s something he thinks about before falling asleep.“For me, my potential as a friend or a son. Or as a husband or a dad.”
It catches me off guard. “You’re married?” I ask. I realize his relationship status hasn’t come up yet—I’d just assumed he was single because Alexander was single. I check Rory’s hand for a ring. There’s not one.
“Nah,” he says as rain thumps against the awning and streams down onto the cobbled street, filling the mortar crevices between the stones. “But hopefully, someday soon. I’m turning the big three-oh next year, so I’m getting up there.”
I grunt in a grumpy sort of way because this stings, that I’m already over thirty and have a biological clock to worry about, unlike him. “Are you seeing anyone?” I ask.
“Technically, no,” he says, but his expression says there’s more to it than that. His eyes cloud over, and he seems to swallow heavily, his Adam’s apple protruding from his skinny neck.
“What’s the story?” I’m more curious than I want to be, but it’s probably better to keep talking with him than be alone back in my flat, replaying last night’s events on repeat.
Rory stashes his hands in his raincoat pockets and stares out at the market, as if deciding whether to tell me about it. “Things were serious with my girlfriend back home,” he starts, forehead furrowed. “We’d been together a couple years, talked about marriage and all that. And then one day she wanted out. Said we’d fallen into too much of a routine. That I never pushed myself out of my comfort zone. And that my teacher’s salary wasn’t good enough to support the four kids and big house that she wanted.”
He says it very matter-of-factly, but I can sense the hurt that hasn’t healed yet. I only intended to feel sorry for myself today, butnow I’m extending that sympathy to him as well. Instinctively, I can’t help but trust Rory—maybe because we grew up in the same place or because there’s just a candor about him that makes it impossible to doubt his character. Most adults, myself included, have gotten good at putting up walls and selectively showing different veneers in different settings while keeping the rest of us stashed away in some vaulted safe. I get the feeling Rory isn’t like that. That he wouldn’t know how to pretend to be somebody else, even if he tried.
“She said all that?” I ask.
“Indeed,” Rory says with a brave-face grimace. “I mean, she phrased it nicer, but that was the gist of it.”
I’m torn because, on the one hand, I can understand why she’d think Rory was boring and get freaked out picturing a ho-hum life together. Personally, I’d have the same issues with him. But she knew who Rory was when she started dating him, and she shouldn’t be changing her mind and stringing him along. Besides, this is the twenty-first century, and there’s no need for her to rely on a man to provide for her.
“Bonkers,” I say, trying to make Rory feel better with some British lingo. “She’s bonkers, mate.”
“I don’t know—I think she may have a point,” he says, still looking downtrodden. “I do like my routine a lot. So I took the job in London to show her—to showus—that I could stretch out of my comfort zone and take chances.” He makes a face to show that he’s acutely aware of what a crazy decision it was. “And because I needed space. Perspective.”
“Perspective,” I echo. I have that feeling again that he might be my little brother, and I want to assure him that the right person will appreciate him just as he is. I’m in no mood to get sentimental,though, so I just pry a bit more. “So how’s it going with her now?” I ask. “Do you still talk?”
“Every Sunday,” Rory says. “But she wants to stay on an official break until Christmas. And then we’ll ‘reevaluate’ as she says.”
“Well, it sounds like there’s a good chance then,” I say. “I’m sure she’ll come to her senses.” I’m actually not sure of this at all, but I find myself wanting it to be true so that Rory will get the future he’s planned out. There’s an unexpected comfort in picturing someone else’s life sticking to a small, cozy track, even though that’s not what mine is—nor what I want it to be.
“Does she have a job?” I ask in what I hope sounds like a purely inquisitive tone, even as I privately judge the Midwest’s prehistoric mentality that men should be the breadwinners.
“Emily doesn’t want to work,” he says, her name slipping off his tongue like it’s his favorite and most frequently used word. “Which is fine—I want her to be able to stay home if she wants. But I wouldn’t exactly be able to afford a mansion. Anyway, sorry I’m venting to you. I haven’t actually told anyone all of this; it just kind of spilled out. I don’t really have any friends here yet,” he adds lamely.
This makes me feel both very bad and very good, honored that he’s confided in me. “You’re not venting,” I say as we stay huddled under the bridal shop awning. “I asked you to tell me the story.”
We trip into a lengthy silence that should be awkward but isn’t. Trying to think of something that might cheer him up, I spy Badiani, a bright pink brick gelato shop two stores down. It’s already decorated with Christmas lights, though it’s not even November yet. “Very serious question for you,” I pose. “Do you think it’s too cold for gelato?”
Rory beams, and his huge, gummy smile seems to fit his face a bit more than before. “It’s never too cold for anything that resembles ice cream,” he declares.
“Spoken like a true Michigander.” My pounding headache is starting to ease, and I’m almost enjoying myself, even if I am missing the more sophisticated and romantic conversations I could be having with Alexander if he actually existed.
Rory and I make a dash from the awning and into the shop. I taste-test twelve flavors before deciding on tiramisu, salted caramel, and pistachio. Rory opts for two different types of vanilla—French and Madagascar.
“Don’t overdo it with all that variety,” I comment dryly.
He grins self-effacingly. “Go ahead and judge, but vanilla is just as exciting as any other flavor. More exciting, maybe, because it doesn’t lean on fillers to make it interesting.”
“Hmm,” is all I say. I don’t want to push it in case it reminds him of his ex’s critiques that he was too stuck in his routine.
I let him buy both of ours since I can tell he wants to, and our hands brush as he hands me my cup. There’s no spark or anything, just a splash of light. “Can’t believe they call this an extra-large,” Rory grumbles good-naturedly as we make our way upstairs into the seating area. “Back home, this would be a baby scoop.”
“And we wonder why America has a diabetes problem,” I say, though I’m also missing the generous portions of the dairy-farm ice-cream stands I grew up going to.
We’re the only customers in the shop, so we settle into a table beside the crooked little window that peeks out onto Camden Passage.
The gelato seems to cure Rory of his melancholy thoughts, but it does the opposite for me. I take a couple of spoonfuls but find ithard to swallow. The sweetness reminds me of the sugary cocktails last night.
