“Oh my word, it’s Alyssa and Molly,” Mrs. Rubenstein cries, elbowing her way past her sons to give me a hug. “Girls, how are you? It’s been so long!”
She wraps her arms around Alyssa, and then turns to Ryland. “And who is this handsome young man?”
Ryland offers her his hand. “Ryland Johnson. I’m Alyssa’s husband.”
“Barbie Rubenstein, and my husband, Kal. And this”—she gestures at her other child—“is our son David and his lovely wife, Clara. And of course, you must know Seth.”
“Nice to see you, man,” Ryland says.
“I’m Jack,” the little boy on Seth’s shoulders shouts before Seth can reply. He bonks the top of Seth’s head for emphasis. “Tell them I’m Jack.”
“My apologies, Jack, how rude of me,” Mrs. Rubenstein says with mock gravity. “Friends, this is my grandson, Jack, and that handsome gentleman is his brother, Max.”
“I’m four,” Jack yells, loud enough to wake the dead.
“I’m six,” Max provides shyly, like he is obligated to furnish this information after his brother’s announcement.
Mr. Rubenstein drops Max’s hand and squeezes my shoulder. “Why, if it isn’t Miss Molly Marks. My goodness, doll, how long has it been? Twenty years?”
I smile, because Mr. Rubenstein always called me doll, and I’ve always loved Seth’s family.
“Just about,” I say. “It’s so good to see you.”
Mrs. Rubenstein grabs my hand. “Molly. You look amazing. How is your mom? Happy and in good health, I hope? I always see her signs in town.”
I laugh. “She never met a park bench she didn’t want her face on.”
“So what brings you all to these parts?” Mr. Rubenstein asks.
“Jon and Kevin’s wedding,” Alyssa says.
“Oh how lovely!” Mrs. Rubenstein exclaims. “We’ll be there too. Except for the boys, of course.”
“I didn’t realize you were coming,” Seth says to me, taking his nephew off his shoulders and setting him down gently on the sidewalk.
“Somehow I made the list,” I joke.
He winces. “Oh, no—sorry, I didn’t mean I’m surprised you’re invited—I just know you hate weddings. And Florida. Figured you’d probably skip it.”
It’s a fair assumption. Normally, I probably would have. After all, a pandemic is a pretty good excuse to avoid mushy emotions under white tents.
I certainly don’t offer the truth: I partially came to see him.
We haven’t talked in over a year, not since he cut off contact last June. I’ve carefully avoided bringing him up to my friends. I muted him on social media. I’ve done everything in my power not to pour salt into the wound he left.
But I still think about him every day.
There is never a time I check my email that I don’t hope I’ll get one from him.
It’s pathetic.
“Uncle Seth, Uncle Seth, knock knock,” Max says.
“Who’s there?” Seth asks.
“Beets.”
“Beets who?”
“Beats me!” Max shouts.
Seth shoots me an amused glance. “Maxie here is the family comedian,” he says.
“So I see.” There is something very charming about a child enjoying the fuck out of a knock-knock joke. I bend down. “Hey, Max,” I say. “Knock knock.”
His eyes light up. “Who’s there?”
“Goat.”
“Goat who?”
“Goat to the door and find out.”
He guffaws. “I never heard that one!”
“You should steal it, bud,” Seth says. “Very elevated comedy.”
“Well,” Alyssa says. “We were on our way to Miss M’s. I don’t suppose you all want to—”
