She sounds so brittle.
She sounds like me.
I hate to hear it.
Seth has opened me to the possibility of these things. I’m not sure I fully believe in them. But for him, I want to.
“Dezzie, love is not a toxic institution,” I say. “I certainly don’t reject it. And as for marriage—some people seem to enjoy it. Who knows.”
But she’s not listening.
“You don’t set yourself up to let other people upend your life,” she’s saying. “You protect yourself. And I used to think it was a little cowardly, to be brutally honest. But now I’m really fucking jealous.”
“Um, I’m not sure whether to be offended or flattered right now,” I admit.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t rant at you. I know things are going well with Seth, and I’m really happy about that. I’m not trying to, like, poison your optimism. I just know you always keep one eye open, and I feel idiotic that I didn’t do that too, especially after the last year with Rob. Like, I should not be blindsided, but I feel like I’ve been hit with a truck when I wasn’t even walking near a road.”
“I really think you should let me fly out. Or meet you somewhere.”
“Dude. No. You and Seth are doing your first Thanksgiving. I’m not going to fuck that up.”
“He can stay his ass at home. I’m so pissed at him.”
“Don’t be mad on my account. I get it. He was really sweet on the phone.”
I sigh. I know I’m going to have to let go of this anger, but at the moment it feels good and right.
It’s probably not fair to Seth.
But it’s real.
“What can I do to make you feel better?” I ask Dezzie, trying to remind myself that this is not about me.
“Nothing,” she mutters. “Unless you want to kill Rob.”
“I do want to,” I say. “I’ve been fantasizing about it all morning.”
“Me too. I was thinking I might use a pastry blender.”
“Gory. I love it.”
“I’m going to call Alyssa now,” she says. “Face the music.”
“Okay. Call me whenever you want. I love you.”
“Love you too, Molls.”
I spend the next few hours rage-cleaning. Using a previously untouched vacuum cleaner attachment to suck God only knows what from the interior cracks of my couch. Magic-erasing fingerprints from light switches. Dusting the bulbs in my lamps. It calms me down. By the time I’m done my fury has dissipated, at least a bit.
I strip my bed and put on the brand-new sheets I bought for Seth’s visit, and even pre-washed and dried for optimal softness. I sage every room and burn palo santo—giving the house the official smell of LA. I go out and buy fresh flowers to arrange on my table and then secure provisions to take with us to the desert. I splurge on good cheese and charcuterie and briny olives and rosemary-fennel crackers from my favorite fromagerie. Cornish game hens to roast in lieu of turkey. Two kinds of potatoes and fresh thyme and cracked pepper and cream for my mom’s famous gratin. A cranberry-orange pie speckled with shiny flecks of demerara sugar. Eggs and bacon and carrot cake muffins for breakfast. Whiskey and Seth’s favorite pinot and ingredients for a special Thanksgiving cocktail with cranberries and sloe gin. Candles. A big cooler and two bags of ice to transport my haul when we make the two-hour drive tomorrow.
I shop myself into something numb enough to feel like forgiveness.
Seth calls me back just as I’m pulling into my driveway.
“Hey,” he says. “Sorry, I got sucked into client calls all afternoon. I just arrived at the airport. Are you okay?”
He sounds almost frightened.
I feel terrible.
“I’m fine. And I’m sorry for being tough on you earlier. I was just disappointed.”
“It’s okay,” he says. “You’re an amazing friend.”
I would not credit my behavior to being amazing. More like traumatized. But I don’t argue. “Thanks.”
“Are you still picking me up from LAX or should I grab an Uber?” he asks.
“Of course I’m picking you up. I can’t wait.”
I hear him smile. “Me neither. See you tonight. I love you.”
“I love you too,” I say.
And I do.
I’m still shaken up, but I do.
