A Year Straight (22 page)

 

 

JUST AS THEO'S work at the inn came to a close, his plans for Paris went through. This meant he had one month to spend in New York, with me. I prepared my apartment for his arrival,
feigning to be someone who does not keep her clothes in a pile in the closet. I hung each dress, T-shirt, and sweater and placed my shoes in a row, amazed that everything did actually fit in my closet if it was in fact arranged neatly.
I am going to keep it like this from now on.

I was spending one more weekend on the Vineyard with Theo before bringing him back home. I made the trek up with my brother, who was visiting a friend. Upon arriving at Theo's house, I promptly realized what lay ahead of me. He had a list of all the things he'd have to do to close up the house taped to the wall:

And the list went on. I tried to hide my doubt that he could complete everything in the little time he had left—twenty-seven hours to be exact, if you allotted time to sleep. I got to work. My brother and his friend lent a hand, too. It was actually kind of fun, our cleaning frenzy. We took breaks now and then to eat everything that wouldn't make the drive home.

At one point I found Theo, screwdriver in hand, looking intently at a dismantled clock.

“What are you doing?” I tried to ask in my least accusatory tone.

“This clock has never worked,” he said, picking up a gear and holding it up to the light.

“Um, is this really a priority right now?” I tried to sound as perky as possible. “I mean, I didn't see this on your list.”

“This will just take a second.” He placed the gear back into the gutted clock and went at it with the screwdriver.

I moved on to another task, laughing to myself and wondering if all men get fixated on fixing things or if it was just the Taurus in him.

“Hey baby,” I said later from the kitchen when I had finished cleaning out the refrigerator. “Do you want me to pick up your dry cleaning? That can be one more thing to cross off your list.”

“No, it's okay, babe. I'll pick it up later when I go to Cronig's to get cloves.”

“But that's in the other direction. Why don't you just let me do it?”

“Don't worry, babe. I got it.”

And that's when I learned he is stubborn. (Takes one to know one.) I had visions of us tearing across town on our way to catch the ferry, stopping by the dry cleaner to grab his stuff. And guess what happened. Exactly that. Except that when we
pulled into the parking lot, the dry cleaner had just closed. Theo, deflated, tapped on the window, willing someone to open the door. No one came and he was crushed, leaving his favorite sweater behind; the one I had gotten for him, his first gift from me.
Note to self: Sometimes I'm right, too.

 

 

PLAYING HOUSE IN my apartment was fun. Theo cooked for me and did my laundry. Each morning I'd wake up first and make us tea, which he'd sip from bed, watching me as I got ready for work. It was weird being witnessed after having grown so accustomed to living alone with my quirky routines. If Theo found it odd that I changed my outfit four times each morning before leaving the house, he didn't say so. He just sat up in bed smiling and reading
New York Times
restaurant reviews.

Time flew by like this. I'd return home from work. We'd eat something delicious he'd cooked up, like steak and broccoli with buttery turnip puree. We'd watch a movie or walk to the ice cream place up the street. I'd wake up and make us tea. He'd read and sometimes say, “Babe, there's a new restaurant I think you'd really like. We should try it out this week.”

And suddenly we were riding the train together, and that evening he'd be leaving for Paris. He was only going for six months, which in New York time is the blink of an eye, but when you're in those first stages of blissed-out, sleepless delirium in a new relationship, six months sucks. I tried to hold it together on the train, but as we approached my stop for work,
I teared up. Theo pulled me into a hug and kissed the top of my head. When I got home from work that evening, he was boarding his plane. I ordered in pumpkin curry.

 

 

AT FIRST, WITHOUT Theo's sweet presence in my everyday life, I was limp prey in the face of all my fears. What if he meets a sexy French pastry chef ? Or a younger Italian woman ? What if, what if, what if? But it was good for me, because I found the more I let the old tapes run on repeat, the more they sounded outdated. Do they even make cassette players anymore? Once I turned off the background noise, I could hear my own voice. And it was the voice of a strong, independent, confident woman. With each day that passed while Theo was in Paris, I put more focus on my own life, on what fulfills me. I joined a new yoga studio, enrolled in some art classes, and kept my closet clean (sort of). We talked online when possible, which, due to the time difference, wasn't as often as either of us would have liked. Every week I would receive a long email in which he'd recap the events of his week and remind me how often he thought of me (“constantly”). I would print out his emails at work and reread them on the train, on my way to painting class. Then I would fold the paper up, stuff it into my bag, and try to suppress smiles all the way to my stop. Gradually I developed a fondness for the space between us, the way it seemed to nearly pulsate with life—our bond like one of the wooden suspension bridges over the dunes on
Martha's Vineyard, pliant enough to bend with our weight but taut enough to hold us. And so together we walked our own paths and counted down days to my visit.

 

TWO MONTHS LATER . . .

My closet was overflowing. I'd torn dress after dress off the hangers, fussing over which outfit to wear. Balanced on one leg, I shoved the pile of clothes back in with my knee and slid the door shut. I'd be going straight from work to meet The German Girl for dinner and had settled on a sexy dress that tiptoed the line between office and date appropriate.
But it's not a date, Elena.
In a kitchen across the Atlantic, Theo was in his blue bandana, head down, chopping. I'd witnessed him wielding a knife. He could cut onions into translucent, paper-thin slices, his wrist a blur, the knife dancing across the butcher block in a rhythm consistent with his personality: steady. I continued to receive his weekly emails and to fall asleep every night thinking of him.

And then there was The German Girl, who had called me out of the blue, leaving me a voice mail message: “Hi Elena, it's Annika. From Paige's party ? I'm sorry it's been forever, but I would love it if you would call me back so I can make it up to you. Dinner, my treat? I hope you don't hate me. But if you do, call me anyway, okay?” I pulled on my boots and grabbed my keys, which I'd taken to keeping in a basket on my dresser. The elevator was playing “Let's Go Crazy” by Prince. Annika was
first to reach the restaurant and had set up shop in a dimly lit booth. She was sipping a glass of champagne.

“Wow, you look beautiful,” I said. She was wearing one of her strappy designs. Swirls of black velvet outlined her golden shoulders, and her long silky hair looked even fuller than before. It glimmered in the candlelight.

“I do not. You? Elena, I can't even look at you,” she said, blushing and hiding her face in her hands. We perused the menu for some appetizers to share.

“Look,” Annika said, reaching her hand across the table and placing it on mine. “I'm really sorry I disappeared like that and didn't return your calls. Things were pretty crazy for me back then.”

“It's okay,” I said, settling into my seat, relaxing.

“Right after I met you, I found out I was pregnant.”

I gasped a little and broke into a sweat. I slid out of my sweater slowly, absorbing the shock.

“Is it mine?” I asked.

Annika laughed.

“I had a girl. Her name is June.”

I took a big gulp of my water, unfolded my napkin, and placed it on my lap.

“But if you wanted to name her after me, she would have to be December.”

Over a bottle of wine and some semolina gnocchi, we caught up on the several months since we'd met. Annika
explained that things hadn't worked out with June's father and that she had decided to have June and raise her on her own, along with the help of her closest friend, Karoline. And I told her all about Theo.

“Why did you have to go and get a boyfriend?” Annika asked, tilting her head.

“Because you never called back.”

After dinner she walked me to the subway station.

“Elena, I had such a nice time with you tonight. Can we please do this again soon?”

I made a face like I was hesitant, and she tugged me toward her, pulled me into a hug, and kissed my neck.

“Okay, great!” she said, and threw her hand up to hail a cab.

The subway car home was a circus, complete with live music, a break-dance act, and me juggling thoughts of Theo with Annika's dizzying kiss.

 

 

“WHATEVER YOU DO, don't mess things up with Theo.” TJ stabbed her fork into my ravioli and stole a huge bite. “I like him. He picks on you even more than I do. And he cooks.”

“Must you hold your fork like that?” I asked, sliding my bowl farther away from her.

“Like what?”

“Like a kindergartener holds a crayon. You don't have to wrap your whole fist around it.”

“Don't change the subject. Look, why don't you talk to him about it ? Hell, he'll probably think it's hot, the thought of you with another woman.”

“It's not like that,” I said, recalling when I'd told Theo that I'd dated women before him. He was the first guy to respond in what I consider the appropriate, nonmoronic way. He wasn't wowed. He wasn't shocked. And he didn't ask to have a threesome.

“I'll figure it out, don't worry.”

“Oh, I worry,” TJ said, grabbing my glass and stealing the last sip of my wine.

 

 

AS MUCH AS I loved Theo, I couldn't help comparing my relationship with him to having a girlfriend. And there were certain aspects of the latter I preferred. In the short time Theo had stayed at my place before leaving for Paris, I had learned there would be things to adjust to—like endless shavings of facial hair scattered around the sink and dirty socks in the kitchen.

A few days later, Annika invited me over to her house. I rang the bell, bearing a box of cupcakes. She opened the door, saying, “Shh,” and I followed her on tiptoe down the hallway. She stopped by June's room to give me a glimpse of her sleeping. From the doorway, I watched the pink blanket rise and fall with each tiny breath.

“She's so precious,” I said when I joined Annika on the couch in the living room.

“Yeah, she is now. But you weren't here for my two hours of singing, bouncing, and twirling around to get her to stop crying. Do you know what that does to a woman?”

“I don't. But I'm guessing you need a cupcake,” I said, handing her one.

After we'd polished off half the box and two pots of tea (all the while stifling laughter so as not to wake June), I returned from clogging the toilet of her clean bathroom to find Annika curled up on the far edge of the couch. She had her knees pulled in toward her, and she looked nervous. I suddenly felt nervous, too. I plopped myself down at the opposite end, letting my legs dangle toward the floor, where I was staring. The air grew thick with awkward silence.

“Maybe I should go,” I said softly.

“Elena, don't go. I want to talk to you about something.” Annika sat up against the pillows in her corner of the couch. “I've been thinking since our dinner together. I know you are with Theo now, and I am so happy for you. So I don't want to create any confusion for you. From what little I know you, already I think you are amazing. I would like to have you in my life, in whatever way possible. I would very much like to be your friend.” I took a moment to digest what she'd said. And then I smiled, feeling relieved.

“Sounds like a plan.”

I'd already given the topic plenty of thought. Annika was beautiful, funny, warm, and kind. And Theo was also all
those things. But he had stood by me from the very start. He'd rushed into my life with arms wide open, excited and eager to love me. It was Theo who had my heart.

 

 

THE DAY BEFORE I was to leave for a trip to visit Theo in Paris, I received an SOS text from TJ.

“Jackass, you're my hero,” she said when I met her outside her house. “I've had the worst day.”

“What happened?” I asked, handing her my set of
30 Rock
DVDs and her spare set of keys. “Did you mess things up with Antonella already?”

“No, no,” she said, unlocking the door. “Things with her are great. In fact, this is all her fault. I had this grand plan of surprising her with her own personalized helmet tonight.”

“Her own what now?”

“Her own motorcycle helmet. You know, with her initials painted on the side of it. In gold. It's her favorite color.”

“Okay, you are officially whipped.”

“I know. Shut up. Anyway, I was in a supergood mood on my way to pick it up on my bike. It was going to be an awesome day. But then it started to rain, so I came back. And then, as you know, I got locked out.”

“Yeah, speaking of which, you might want to give those spare keys to your girlfriend since I'll be out of town.”