10
TRAINING MONTAGE
When I offeredto let Nick stay with us, I was worried it would lead to Hannah trying to get us back together, like some low-rent Brooklyn version ofThe Parent Trap.
That’s not what happens, though. After a few days together, Hannah begins squabbling with her father over TV shows and bedtime. She gets annoyed at his unwillingness to leave the house every time she wants to visit a playground or go out for ice cream, and I have to remind her that he is letting his hand heal so he can get back to work.
It reminds me of what it was like to live together in Atlanta; Nick and Hannah had a lot of friction then, too. As an only child, Hannah can be pushy when she doesn’t get her way, like one of those high-strung movie stars who is charming as long as you are bringing her matcha lattes and highly unpleasant when you are not. And Nick can get grouchy when he is hungry or it’s early in the morning, which Hannah likes to turn into an epic crisis.
Within a few days, Hannah is talking about how much she’s looking forward to staying with her Aunt Tabby in Canada once school is over, not how pleased she is to have her dad around. I can sense that she’s been happy to have Nick visit but is equally happy to let him leave again. It feels like an unexpected gift, thisreminder that we don’t quite work as a family. Maybe if Nick had been here all along, we would have found our way to an equilibrium, with both parents setting the ground rules. As it is, Hannah and I are the family unit, and Nick is our charming but troublesome houseguest. I wonder if Nick feels it, too.
The night before Nick is going to switch out his wrist brace for something more flexible, I hear him swearing in the bathroom. I knock softly and he grumbles for me to enter. He stands there with his t-shirt caught over his head, half twisted up in his arm. He was clearly in the process of getting undressed when something got twisted the wrong way.
“Would you like me to take your shirt off again?” I offer, amused.
“If you have a moment.” His voice is dry, and I pull off the shirt and hand it to him, feeling a rush of affection. He’s much more appealing when he’s not trying to be appealing, much sexier when he isn’t giving me long, slow glances.
There’s a brief moment between us that I manage to shake off; it’s only because we’re standing so close. He doesn’t tempt me the way he used to. It’s like when I stopped drinking alcohol: after a while, you can miss something but not crave it, because you know your life is better off without it.
When I turn to leave him, I almost miss him saying my name. “Hey, Laura?”
I turn around. “What’s up?”
He gives me a tired smile. “Thanks for helping me.”
I smile gently, feeling my heart wrench. “No problem.”
He nods. “When you left Atlanta, I thought things were still open for us to try again.”
“They were. Then,” I reply. I don’t know when the window closed. Maybe Christmas. Maybe Hannah’s April break.
“But not now?”
I look away.
“Laura.”
I sigh and shake my head. I watch as an awareness dawns in his eyes.
“You really like that guy.”
My heart lurches a little. “I’m barely dating him. Don’t get worked up.”
“So can he make money at that? As a dance teacher?” Nick gives me a dry smile, trying to get me to admit the apparent irony that I’ve picked another unreliable artist who can’t support me, just at the moment that Nick is finally doing well.
“He teaches in the evenings. He works as a tax attorney at Murano.”
“Fuck.” Nick grimaces. “Now I want to date him.”
I laugh, feeling a well of affection for Nick, some hopeful vision of what it would be like if we were actually friends instead of whatever we are now: tortured soulmates turned disappointed co-parents. Maybe we can get to the kind of friendship where we can laugh together. Maybe. Maybe all it takes is not expecting anything and he will stop letting me down.
His laughter attenuates into something painful. I loved him so much, for so long, and I can feel it in the air: this is the last time I will ever have a chance to kiss him. He is still handsome, and he is right there, and I don’t want to kiss him. Not even a little.
As Hannahand I wait outside our building with Nick for his ride to the airport, I can sense that he is happy to get on the road again, to be somewhere that he gets to play ‘Dad’ to a bunch of cool young rock musicians instead of being ‘Daddy’ to an eight-year-old who already suspects that he’s a screw-up. It must be nice to be somewhere that your strengths are visible and yourflaws won’t be; it’s why politicians seem happiest when shaking hands and kissing babies.
“Two minutes until my ride,” Nick says, glancing at an app on his phone, and then turns to Hannah and gives her a huge hug that turns into a three-hundred-sixty-degree spin. Once she is wobbling back on her feet, he smiles, sets her right, and then leans over and gives me a kiss on the cheek.
“Thanks again.” There’s an unexpected amount of sadness in his eyes.
