“Do you think it’s still from all the Covid shit?”
“I honestly don’t know. I mean, he has a lot of young clients who’ve lost people. So I think that’s why he snapped at Ry. Not that it excuses it.”
“No. That was out of control.”
“And obviously the isolation and fear and all of that take a toll,” she goes on wearily. “His doctor put him on Prozac but…” She trails off. “Obviously it’s not working.”
I reach across the table and take her hand. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s really beginning to drain me, Molls. He’s just so erratic. Drinks so much.” She starts to tear up. “I don’t know how much longer I can take this. He can be so mean.”
I walk around the table and wrap my arms around her.
“I’m so sorry, my love,” I murmur.
“I keep hoping it will get better.” Her voice breaks. “I love him so much, you know? And I know he’s in pain—I can see it—but he’s not bringing it to me. He’s turning away from me. And I don’t know if it’s to protect me or if he just can’t bear to talk about it, but I feel like I’m losing him.”
“Have you guys thought about therapy?”
“He won’t go. With me or alone.” She wipes away a tear and sniffles. “And I feel awful complaining about my marriage when so many terrible things are happening to other people. But, we’re finally starting IVF next month and I’m worried that—”
Just then Rob reappears.
“Food! Hell yeah!” he says, as though he doesn’t notice I’m holding his crying wife.
I glare at him, which must provoke some level of compunction because he says, “You all right, babe?”
“You need to apologize to Ryland and Alyssa,” Dezzie says.
“Roger, dodger.” He plops back down in his seat and tears into his steak.
I squeeze Dez and return to my chair. The sage and butter sauce on my ravioli has already started to congeal.
Alyssa and Ry return, hand in hand.
“Hey, I’m sorry,” Rob says to them immediately. “I was totally out of line.”
“Yes, you were,” Ryland says, in an icy tone that makes it clear he doesn’t want to discuss it.
We finish the meal awkwardly. I try to smooth over the tension by chatting about Marian’s recent wedding to her baseball player (an intimate family-only ceremony featured in People magazine) and showing off pictures of Gloria and Emily’s twins (who are so adorable they’ve made me wonder if I should have a kid).
As soon as we’ve paid the check, Dezzie tells Rob they should get back to her parents’ house before they fall asleep. Alyssa, Ryland, and I decide to take a walk and get ice cream.
“I’m worried about Dez,” I say as soon as she and Rob are out of earshot. “She started crying while you guys were gone.”
“Poor thing,” Alyssa says. “What in the world is going on with Rob?”
“Could have strangled that fucker,” Ryland mutters.
Alyssa squeezes his arm.
For the millionth time, I marvel at how good they are together. How they radiate quiet, steadfast love.
I’m skeptical that love like theirs happens for many people, and even more skeptical that it might happen for me. I think it’s a rare gift that my dear, gentle Alyssa deserves.
But it makes me wish I had a relationship like that. One in which there is a safe, private world between the two of you.
We wend our way through the tourists, past boutiques that all seem to sell pastel sundresses and Tommy Bahama shirts exclusively. The air smells and feels like my childhood—sweet and thick. As we get closer to the ice cream shop (an iconic local establishment called Miss Malted’s) the sidewalks are packed with couples and families happily licking the towering, melting, soft-serve cones Miss M’s is famous for.
“Ry, did you know Alyssa used to work at this ice cream parlor?” I ask.
She groans. “I ended up with three cavities that summer.”
“Hey guys!” a familiar voice calls from somewhere up ahead of us.
Seth’s voice.
I stop walking. My entire body stiffens as he comes into focus.
I knew he would be here, of course.
I’ve tried to prepare myself.
But I don’t have a playbook for how to behave in front of a person you can’t stop missing.
He’s with the whole Rubenstein gang—his parents, brother, sister-in-law, and two nephews.
“Hey yourself, Rubenstein,” Alyssa shouts, bounding ahead to greet him.
