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.”“He doesn’t talk about his private life much,” I say.“It just doesn’t come up.And my dad’s not the type to ask.”“How’s he doing? Your father, I mean?”I tell her Dad’s doing great and fill the time waiting for our food with hospital anecdotes.Part of me wants to steer the conversation as far and as fast away from the topic of Jacob Corwin as possible, and part of me wants to ask Cathy tons of questions about the date.Did he kiss her? They wouldn’t have done anything more, I reassure myself—neither of them is the type to speed things along physically.Although Jacob sped things along pretty quickly in my father’s living room.That was different.I wonder if they’ve already made a plan to get together again.Do I care?I should.I should be rooting for this relationship to work out, because if he and Cathy fall in love, I won’t have to worry about his hurt feelings anymore, or about how long things will be awkward between us.He’ll have his girlfriend and I’ll have my boyfriend, and that would create some kind of emotional Venn diagram where we can be friends in the overlap.But I feel a tiny little stab of hurt somewhere in my head when I think of him and Cathy talking together or sitting together or holding hands or anything like that.Just hearing her talk about him like she has a right to, like he’s not just my friend but someone who’s potentially important to her—that’s a stab right there.The waiter puts our sandwiches down, and Cathy tucks eagerly into hers, which gives me a moment to let my mind wander, and I picture Jacob looking at Cathy the way he used to look at me.That stab is the worst one so far.It’s the first time I’ve admitted to myself that I’ve known for a while that Jacob liked me and that I liked the way he’d jump to get whatever I needed or come over to talk to me if I was sitting alone.That I could tell he liked looking at me.That I could tease him and even take advantage of him, and he’d put up with it—maybe with exasperation, but he’d endure it and come back for more.It’s why I knew he wouldn’t push me away when I kissed him.It’s why I kissed him.“Aren’t you going to eat?” Cathy asks me, and I realize she’s inhaled half her sandwich already, and I’m still just staring at mine.“Oh, sorry.I was just thinking about the stuff I need to get at Costco.I should make a list before I forget.” I busy myself getting some paper and a pen out of my purse and spend a minute or two staring off into space and occasionally writing things down.It buys me some time to think my own private thoughts for a little while longer.I’ve enjoyed soaking up Jacob’s admiration more than I’ve ever acknowledged, even to myself.Not that realizing that changes anything.I have a boyfriend, a great one, and Jacob’s free to see anyone he likes, even Cathy, even if she’s really too tall for him, and too bony and earnest—I stop myself.Cathy’s great.I’m being a jerk.Jacob’s free to date whoever he wants.Because I’m satisfied with Tom.But if I’m satisfied with Tom, why did I sleep with Jacob?And then it hits me: it’s because Tom got that tattoo! That’s why I slept with Jacob.My body almost crumples with relief.I’ve figured it all out.Tom made it clear our relationship was permanent, and right after that I slept with another guy for the first time ever.Those two things have to be connected.I know I want to be with Tom forever, but the fact I’d never been with another guy was probably flipping me out on some unconscious level when he showed me that tattoo and we celebrated an entire decade of being together.I would never cheat on a fiancé or a husband, so I needed to get something out of my system while Tom and I were still just girlfriend and boyfriend.I slept with another man so I could commit myself wholeheartedly to Tom for the rest of my life and never cheat on him once it mattered.This revelation makes me feel so much better.I heave a big, relieved sigh and put my paper and pen away.“Make your list?” Cathy asks.“Yep,” I say and pick up a sandwich half.My appetite’s back.16.Rochelle is mildly annoyed that I forgot to buy Splenda.We’re completely out, and she can’t drink her coffee without it.“Can I make a suggestion, Keats?” she says.“Tape a piece of paper to the cabinet in the kitchen—or even better, mount a dry erase board.Then we can all write down whatever we need as things run out.Don’t you think that’s a better system than just trying to pull together a list at the last minute?”She means well.I know she means well.But I’m not in the mood for a lecture on organization, not from Rochelle.When I first started working for her, the kitchen was a mess, just a grungy old coffeemaker and a couple of half-eaten boxes of stale cookies.I cleaned it up, stocked it, labeled, shelved, and jarred everything, and made sure there was always a fresh pot of decent coffee for anyone who wanted a cup.Also, I just made her article a lot better.Then I wonder why I’m reacting this way.Rochelle’s decades older than I am.She has a PhD in English.She’s poised and stylish and married with children.And she’s my boss.She has every right to give me advice, and this particular bit of advice is practical and easily implemented.So why am I chafing under one well-intended suggestion?I don’t know.Maybe I’m just sick of my job.Or of my life.That evening, Tom and I are driving to meet Lou and Izzy for drinks and a movie, when I ask him if he thinks I should take the GREs in the fall.“Why would you do that?”“I don’t know.Just to see how I’d do on them.”“I already know how you’d do.Great.You totally killed on the SATs, remember?”“I did okay.” Not as well as Hopkins or Milton—they both got perfect scores.“I was just thinking that if I did really well on them, I could think about going back to school.”“Where?”“I haven’t gotten that far yet.Maybe get an MA in English literature somewhere.Or maybe think about law school [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.”“He doesn’t talk about his private life much,” I say.“It just doesn’t come up.And my dad’s not the type to ask.”“How’s he doing? Your father, I mean?”I tell her Dad’s doing great and fill the time waiting for our food with hospital anecdotes.Part of me wants to steer the conversation as far and as fast away from the topic of Jacob Corwin as possible, and part of me wants to ask Cathy tons of questions about the date.Did he kiss her? They wouldn’t have done anything more, I reassure myself—neither of them is the type to speed things along physically.Although Jacob sped things along pretty quickly in my father’s living room.That was different.I wonder if they’ve already made a plan to get together again.Do I care?I should.I should be rooting for this relationship to work out, because if he and Cathy fall in love, I won’t have to worry about his hurt feelings anymore, or about how long things will be awkward between us.He’ll have his girlfriend and I’ll have my boyfriend, and that would create some kind of emotional Venn diagram where we can be friends in the overlap.But I feel a tiny little stab of hurt somewhere in my head when I think of him and Cathy talking together or sitting together or holding hands or anything like that.Just hearing her talk about him like she has a right to, like he’s not just my friend but someone who’s potentially important to her—that’s a stab right there.The waiter puts our sandwiches down, and Cathy tucks eagerly into hers, which gives me a moment to let my mind wander, and I picture Jacob looking at Cathy the way he used to look at me.That stab is the worst one so far.It’s the first time I’ve admitted to myself that I’ve known for a while that Jacob liked me and that I liked the way he’d jump to get whatever I needed or come over to talk to me if I was sitting alone.That I could tell he liked looking at me.That I could tease him and even take advantage of him, and he’d put up with it—maybe with exasperation, but he’d endure it and come back for more.It’s why I knew he wouldn’t push me away when I kissed him.It’s why I kissed him.“Aren’t you going to eat?” Cathy asks me, and I realize she’s inhaled half her sandwich already, and I’m still just staring at mine.“Oh, sorry.I was just thinking about the stuff I need to get at Costco.I should make a list before I forget.” I busy myself getting some paper and a pen out of my purse and spend a minute or two staring off into space and occasionally writing things down.It buys me some time to think my own private thoughts for a little while longer.I’ve enjoyed soaking up Jacob’s admiration more than I’ve ever acknowledged, even to myself.Not that realizing that changes anything.I have a boyfriend, a great one, and Jacob’s free to see anyone he likes, even Cathy, even if she’s really too tall for him, and too bony and earnest—I stop myself.Cathy’s great.I’m being a jerk.Jacob’s free to date whoever he wants.Because I’m satisfied with Tom.But if I’m satisfied with Tom, why did I sleep with Jacob?And then it hits me: it’s because Tom got that tattoo! That’s why I slept with Jacob.My body almost crumples with relief.I’ve figured it all out.Tom made it clear our relationship was permanent, and right after that I slept with another guy for the first time ever.Those two things have to be connected.I know I want to be with Tom forever, but the fact I’d never been with another guy was probably flipping me out on some unconscious level when he showed me that tattoo and we celebrated an entire decade of being together.I would never cheat on a fiancé or a husband, so I needed to get something out of my system while Tom and I were still just girlfriend and boyfriend.I slept with another man so I could commit myself wholeheartedly to Tom for the rest of my life and never cheat on him once it mattered.This revelation makes me feel so much better.I heave a big, relieved sigh and put my paper and pen away.“Make your list?” Cathy asks.“Yep,” I say and pick up a sandwich half.My appetite’s back.16.Rochelle is mildly annoyed that I forgot to buy Splenda.We’re completely out, and she can’t drink her coffee without it.“Can I make a suggestion, Keats?” she says.“Tape a piece of paper to the cabinet in the kitchen—or even better, mount a dry erase board.Then we can all write down whatever we need as things run out.Don’t you think that’s a better system than just trying to pull together a list at the last minute?”She means well.I know she means well.But I’m not in the mood for a lecture on organization, not from Rochelle.When I first started working for her, the kitchen was a mess, just a grungy old coffeemaker and a couple of half-eaten boxes of stale cookies.I cleaned it up, stocked it, labeled, shelved, and jarred everything, and made sure there was always a fresh pot of decent coffee for anyone who wanted a cup.Also, I just made her article a lot better.Then I wonder why I’m reacting this way.Rochelle’s decades older than I am.She has a PhD in English.She’s poised and stylish and married with children.And she’s my boss.She has every right to give me advice, and this particular bit of advice is practical and easily implemented.So why am I chafing under one well-intended suggestion?I don’t know.Maybe I’m just sick of my job.Or of my life.That evening, Tom and I are driving to meet Lou and Izzy for drinks and a movie, when I ask him if he thinks I should take the GREs in the fall.“Why would you do that?”“I don’t know.Just to see how I’d do on them.”“I already know how you’d do.Great.You totally killed on the SATs, remember?”“I did okay.” Not as well as Hopkins or Milton—they both got perfect scores.“I was just thinking that if I did really well on them, I could think about going back to school.”“Where?”“I haven’t gotten that far yet.Maybe get an MA in English literature somewhere.Or maybe think about law school [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]