a hand to my forehead. The gesture feels so intimate. I’ve slept with this man, but this feels intimate? I’m contagious. He can’t go to Cohasset or he’ll infect the whole brewery, and he needs to stay quarantined here with me.
“I think you’re lovesick,” he says with a curving mouth.
My stomach flips. My tongue is tied in at least three knots. I can’t think of a response, so he steps even closer, until our bodies are just barely touching. “You are. Trust me, I know all the signs.”
My mouth doesn’t work. I try to form words and let out an unintelligible squeak.
He grins and leans in to kiss my temple. His lips pause at my ear, and I shiver so hard I know he feels it. “It’s a condition I’m quite familiar with myself.”
I clutch the arm of the couch so that I don’t tip over when he withdraws. His back is turned to me, shaking slightly, and I’d swear he’s trying not to laugh.
I’m such a mess over his accusation that I barely hold it together long enough to say good-bye. He says, “Good luck at your interview. I know you’ll knock it out of the park. Be back before you know it, pretty girl.” He winks, and then he’s gone, in his Jeep that’s going to crash, with a contagious illness and either too much or not enough caffeine.
I burn away the next few hours painting the front door purple, ordering Nicholas a new phone charger—one that’s long enough to reach his nightstand—and setting up my new Instagram account dedicated to the gruesome salt and pepper shaker babies. I’ve named them Frank and Helvetica and I’m going to position them in a new location every day to bewilder Nicholas. It will be like Elf on the Shelf, and I’m calling it Demon on the Ceilin’. My favorite ideas involve suspending them from fishing line at Nicholas’s face-level. The shower! The car! His office at work! It’s going to be way more fun than my old Instagram.
My phone chimes with a text from Nicholas at 9:50 to say he arrived safely in Cohasset.
Good luck! I reply. I don’t know what I’m wishing him luck for. He’s not doing any of this for himself; he’s doing it for his parents.
He replies, You, too! For extra good luck, drive by the Junk Yard on your way to the interview. Seeing an old friend might be just the boost you need.
My old friend died a slow, agonizing death. It will probably sit empty for at least five years, or maybe get bulldozed, which can only serve to bum me out. But Nicholas is trying to be sweet and encouraging, so I send him back a smiley face. He’s so cute even when he’s wrong.
I think about what Nicholas is up to today. His devotion to family, being the rock they all depend on. Being the man they call to come fix whatever’s gone wrong, to smooth it out and make it better. I think of what these qualities will be like when transferred to a wife and children. I think how there’s no way he’ll ever miss a school play, a parent-teacher conference, a soccer game. How he’ll want his wife to know he’s capable of supporting her financially and she can work if she wants but doesn’t have to, because that’s how he shows his love—by providing stability.
It’s a gesture I’ve completely misinterpreted, since it’s loving but not necessarily romantic. You look at a love letter and it’s clear as day—you think, This is a love letter. But when your significant other says, You don’t need to work. You don’t need a job, you might hear, I don’t think you’ll find meaningful employment without a college education. I don’t believe in you.
In my head, I’ve been assuming that when Nicholas says I don’t need to work, what he means is that any job I’d qualify for is so beneath his notice that I might as well not work at all. In Nicholas’s head, all he’s done is say, Here I am, here I am. Be anything! It doesn’t matter if you don’t make much money, because I’ll take care of you. I’ll let you need me. I’ll be your rock, whatever happens. Spread your wings, you can always fall back on me.
Our communication has been so shitty, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
I decide to put on Nicholas’s hat and coveralls because wearing his clothes is the next best