Dating You / Hating You
Page 51
I nod, remaining silent on the topic of Jonah’s schedule. Old Carter would have spilled all the details about my brother’s fall from grace, his money troubles, his current adventures in bankruptcy, because—at least for a few minutes—it would mean I’m the good one. But this strange guarded sensation in my chest feels something like protectiveness.
Toward Jonah. I think . . . I might be starting to like him?
“He does have a lot on his plate,” I say.
My mom puts down a particularly hideous shirt and pins me with narrowed eyes. “This is usually the point where you call him something colorful and tell me how many days it’s been since he last visited.”
“Maybe I’m being a grown-up.”
“Maybe you’re full of it,” she counters. And there it is, there’s that little spark I love. I sometimes wonder how much Mom knows about the particulars of Jonah’s life. They obviously talk because he told her about Evie, but he rarely comes home, and getting my parents onto a metallic death tube piloted by alcoholics (their words) is unlikely.
I’m twenty-eight years old and moved out of my parents’ house when I was nineteen, but I still miss my mom sometimes, my dad, the rest of my crazy family. I’m really not sure how Jonah does it. Then again, maybe that’s exactly how. If he came home, she’d probably figure out what a mess he is right now. Maybe he’d rather be the perfect Jonah they all remember than the one he actually is.
“LA is just . . . a lot,” I say finally, lamely.
It must communicate what I mean it to, because Mom nods, refolds the terrible shirt. “Just be sure you don’t become a lot, too.”
I sit in the backseat next to Doris on our way back to the house. Ten minutes into the drive, she’s asleep, which doesn’t make for the best conversation but does allow me to scroll through my texts and maybe mope a bit without anyone reading over my shoulder.
I’m not going to lie: it’s a little depressing to open my text window with Evie and realize how much time has passed since things were so good between us. I start to reread some of our exchanges, wondering if it’s possible I made then-Evie out to be funnier, smarter, or sexier than she really was.
I didn’t. The Evie in these texts is just like I remembered, and basically just like the one I see every day—maybe with just a touch more fire.
• • •
My phone rings as I’m carrying packages into the house, and I double take when I see the name on the screen.
Zach Barker is one of my stage-to-film clients. He was offered a last-minute role in an action movie when one of the supporting cast had to be replaced. Despite the fact that he and his wife, Avya, were living in New York and expecting a second child, he was needed on set right away. It wasn’t an ideal situation, but the last I heard, Avya decided to stay behind and wait for their son to finish up the fall semester before joining Zach in California around the time the baby is due.
“Zach, hey,” I say into the receiver, looking up to see snow beginning to fall. “You back in New York?”
“I’m still in LA. Avya and Josh are there. That’s why I’m calling.”
My heart speeds up and my mind races with thoughts of impending disaster. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“Jason broke his ankle,” he says, and I wince.
Jason Dover, the lead.
“Okay, what does this mean?” I ask, walking to the edge of the driveway.
“We’re almost done, so they think they can shoot the remaining scenes around him and use a double for the rest, but they had to rearrange the shooting schedule and I won’t be home until tomorrow.”
“Do you want me to call someone, or . . . what can I do?”
“I need to call in a favor from Friend Carter, not Agent Carter.”
“Yeah, whatever you need.”
He laughs. “You might regret that in a second.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“I was supposed to make it back yesterday, in time to go with Avya to birthing class tonight.”
“To what?” I bark out a laugh and a cloud of condensation hangs in the air in front of me. My mom’s little garden is frozen over, forgotten vines covered in ice and snow. A group of teens huddle together on the corner a few houses down, the end of a joint glowing in the fading daylight.
“Yeah . . .” Zach says, trailing off before laughing again. “I told you.”
I squeeze my eyes closed, pinching the bridge of my nose. “No, no, it’s cool.”
“You are such a liar.”
“Are you sure Avya’s fine with this?” Avya and I knew each other before she started dating Zach, but I don’t want her to be uncomfortable.
“She’s the one who suggested you.”
I open my eyes, staring up at the foggy, snowy sky. I love the day-to-day interactions with my clients. This is just . . . an odd one.
How could I possibly say no? Birthing class it is.
• • •
If you were to have asked me what I thought I might be doing tonight, there are a lot of answers I could have given you: Xbox with my cousins, wrapping presents with Double D, rereading Evil’s old texts again and again until I eat a box of ice cream sandwiches solo and blame it on my dad somehow.
The possibility of ending up with someone else’s wife in a room full of pregnant women and their partners would not have occurred to me.
Yet here I am.
I meet Avya out front and we hug, exchanging a few pleasantries and a comment or two about the weather. It’s a little awkward at first because I don’t know where to look or what to say—or really even how to hug a very, very pregnant woman.
Per usual, Avya breaks the ice. “Ready to go talk about my vaginal birth?” she says, yoga mat rolled up under one arm.
I don’t even know what to say to this. With a smile, I open the door, motion for her to lead, and follow her inside.
As far as birthing classes go, this one doesn’t seem too bad. It’s in a large open space and feels a lot like hanging out in sweatpants in a friend’s living room. It’s a plus if you’re trying to keep things natural, I guess.
Natural seems to be an ongoing theme: managing pain as best you can through natural methods, but not placing judgment on yourself or anyone else if a situation arises where you change your mind. An aside: if modern science ever figures out a way for men to experience the miracle of birth, put me down for a No. If the No option is full, I’ll take drugs. Lots of them.
Our teacher’s name is Meredith. She’s knowledgeable and soft-spoken and walks from couple to couple adjusting posture and widening a stance, or moving a foot here and there. We go through a series of stretches, the first with all of us on our hands and knees, gently rocking our hips back and forth in some sort of air hump, and I am so glad in this moment that Avya and I never had sex before Zach came along.
“That’s good,” Meredith says, looking out over the class. “Arch that back, swing those hips in a figure eight. Feel the motion. Back and forth, back and forth. Enjoy that movement, because who knows when you’ll feel it again after this, am I right?”
Avya catches my eye over her shoulder for a beat before we dissolve into laughter.
“God, Evie will not believe this,” I say, helping Avya into the next position.
“Evie, Evie,” she repeats slowly. “Don’t think Zach’s mentioned that name before.”
Toward Jonah. I think . . . I might be starting to like him?
“He does have a lot on his plate,” I say.
My mom puts down a particularly hideous shirt and pins me with narrowed eyes. “This is usually the point where you call him something colorful and tell me how many days it’s been since he last visited.”
“Maybe I’m being a grown-up.”
“Maybe you’re full of it,” she counters. And there it is, there’s that little spark I love. I sometimes wonder how much Mom knows about the particulars of Jonah’s life. They obviously talk because he told her about Evie, but he rarely comes home, and getting my parents onto a metallic death tube piloted by alcoholics (their words) is unlikely.
I’m twenty-eight years old and moved out of my parents’ house when I was nineteen, but I still miss my mom sometimes, my dad, the rest of my crazy family. I’m really not sure how Jonah does it. Then again, maybe that’s exactly how. If he came home, she’d probably figure out what a mess he is right now. Maybe he’d rather be the perfect Jonah they all remember than the one he actually is.
“LA is just . . . a lot,” I say finally, lamely.
It must communicate what I mean it to, because Mom nods, refolds the terrible shirt. “Just be sure you don’t become a lot, too.”
I sit in the backseat next to Doris on our way back to the house. Ten minutes into the drive, she’s asleep, which doesn’t make for the best conversation but does allow me to scroll through my texts and maybe mope a bit without anyone reading over my shoulder.
I’m not going to lie: it’s a little depressing to open my text window with Evie and realize how much time has passed since things were so good between us. I start to reread some of our exchanges, wondering if it’s possible I made then-Evie out to be funnier, smarter, or sexier than she really was.
I didn’t. The Evie in these texts is just like I remembered, and basically just like the one I see every day—maybe with just a touch more fire.
• • •
My phone rings as I’m carrying packages into the house, and I double take when I see the name on the screen.
Zach Barker is one of my stage-to-film clients. He was offered a last-minute role in an action movie when one of the supporting cast had to be replaced. Despite the fact that he and his wife, Avya, were living in New York and expecting a second child, he was needed on set right away. It wasn’t an ideal situation, but the last I heard, Avya decided to stay behind and wait for their son to finish up the fall semester before joining Zach in California around the time the baby is due.
“Zach, hey,” I say into the receiver, looking up to see snow beginning to fall. “You back in New York?”
“I’m still in LA. Avya and Josh are there. That’s why I’m calling.”
My heart speeds up and my mind races with thoughts of impending disaster. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“Jason broke his ankle,” he says, and I wince.
Jason Dover, the lead.
“Okay, what does this mean?” I ask, walking to the edge of the driveway.
“We’re almost done, so they think they can shoot the remaining scenes around him and use a double for the rest, but they had to rearrange the shooting schedule and I won’t be home until tomorrow.”
“Do you want me to call someone, or . . . what can I do?”
“I need to call in a favor from Friend Carter, not Agent Carter.”
“Yeah, whatever you need.”
He laughs. “You might regret that in a second.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“I was supposed to make it back yesterday, in time to go with Avya to birthing class tonight.”
“To what?” I bark out a laugh and a cloud of condensation hangs in the air in front of me. My mom’s little garden is frozen over, forgotten vines covered in ice and snow. A group of teens huddle together on the corner a few houses down, the end of a joint glowing in the fading daylight.
“Yeah . . .” Zach says, trailing off before laughing again. “I told you.”
I squeeze my eyes closed, pinching the bridge of my nose. “No, no, it’s cool.”
“You are such a liar.”
“Are you sure Avya’s fine with this?” Avya and I knew each other before she started dating Zach, but I don’t want her to be uncomfortable.
“She’s the one who suggested you.”
I open my eyes, staring up at the foggy, snowy sky. I love the day-to-day interactions with my clients. This is just . . . an odd one.
How could I possibly say no? Birthing class it is.
• • •
If you were to have asked me what I thought I might be doing tonight, there are a lot of answers I could have given you: Xbox with my cousins, wrapping presents with Double D, rereading Evil’s old texts again and again until I eat a box of ice cream sandwiches solo and blame it on my dad somehow.
The possibility of ending up with someone else’s wife in a room full of pregnant women and their partners would not have occurred to me.
Yet here I am.
I meet Avya out front and we hug, exchanging a few pleasantries and a comment or two about the weather. It’s a little awkward at first because I don’t know where to look or what to say—or really even how to hug a very, very pregnant woman.
Per usual, Avya breaks the ice. “Ready to go talk about my vaginal birth?” she says, yoga mat rolled up under one arm.
I don’t even know what to say to this. With a smile, I open the door, motion for her to lead, and follow her inside.
As far as birthing classes go, this one doesn’t seem too bad. It’s in a large open space and feels a lot like hanging out in sweatpants in a friend’s living room. It’s a plus if you’re trying to keep things natural, I guess.
Natural seems to be an ongoing theme: managing pain as best you can through natural methods, but not placing judgment on yourself or anyone else if a situation arises where you change your mind. An aside: if modern science ever figures out a way for men to experience the miracle of birth, put me down for a No. If the No option is full, I’ll take drugs. Lots of them.
Our teacher’s name is Meredith. She’s knowledgeable and soft-spoken and walks from couple to couple adjusting posture and widening a stance, or moving a foot here and there. We go through a series of stretches, the first with all of us on our hands and knees, gently rocking our hips back and forth in some sort of air hump, and I am so glad in this moment that Avya and I never had sex before Zach came along.
“That’s good,” Meredith says, looking out over the class. “Arch that back, swing those hips in a figure eight. Feel the motion. Back and forth, back and forth. Enjoy that movement, because who knows when you’ll feel it again after this, am I right?”
Avya catches my eye over her shoulder for a beat before we dissolve into laughter.
“God, Evie will not believe this,” I say, helping Avya into the next position.
“Evie, Evie,” she repeats slowly. “Don’t think Zach’s mentioned that name before.”
