on a place to go on vacation, which led to not going on vacation together at all.
Sometimes, a relationship withers, and by the time you realize how close it is to death, you don’t know what to do to save it.
I desperately want the guy who brought silver roses to me on our second date back. I miss the man who lay in bed with me all day every Sunday, equipped with a Sunday Times, a few rented Blu-rays, and breakfast delivered to our door. I want my buddy back who watched BBC America with me every Thursday night.
I miss him, and I know he’s still lurking somewhere inside the too-sleek yuppie who crawls into bed with me every night. I know he’s still there.
Or, at least until tonight, I thought he was still there.
As I stare at the blank sheet of lined paper, I am at a total loss as to what to write.
1. Nagel.
Scott reads my number one upside down. “That’s cheating,” he says. “I totally served that one up for you. Show some originality.”
“But I can’t stand Nagel,” I point out.
“And I don’t like wet socks. Who does? Movin’ on to number two.”
I’m not really comfortable telling my friends the real reasons my relationship isn’t working. So I start by writing down some of my minor grievances:
2. Works too much.
Scott smiles. “Good.”
3. Cannot see a dish in the sink to save his life.
4. Will not shop for Christmas presents until December 24th.
Seema reads that one. “Hmmm . . . so basically number four just makes him male.”
Scott turns to Seema. “You loved your gift card.” Then he turns to me, “Keep going, sweetheart.”
5. Blares U2 at 8:00 A.M. on Saturday morning while getting ready for his softball game.
6. Accidentally deletes my DVRed Monday-night sitcoms every time a game is on that night.
Then I brace myself, take a deep breath, and write down the really painful ones.
The ones that sometimes do make me hate him.
7. Wouldn’t let me move in.
Seema’s eyes widen. I never let on to anyone that he didn’t want me to move in. Never admitted to her (back when she, Nic, and I were roommates) that I gave him an ultimatum one night: let me move in, or we’re over. He did— eventually. But he kept all of his furniture exactly where it was. All of my stuff went into storage. So I always felt like a guest in my own home.
8. Wasted six years of my life.
I scribble angrily.
“Great start,” Scott says. Then he puts out his hand. “House keys.”
I am confused for a moment. “I’m sorry?”
“You’re moving out,” Scott says matter-of-factly. “What do you need most between now and Monday?”
Seema sighs again, then says to Scott, “Um . . . honey? With all due respect, you’re pushing too hard here—”
“No, no,” I interrupt quickly, giving him my keys. “I either need a pair of Banana Republic blue jeans or the ones I bought from Target. My fat jeans, not my thin ones. And my flat Steve Maddens, my gray Ann Taylor long-sleeve T-shirt, a long T-shirt to sleep in, preferably the one with the Grinch and Max the dog on it, a toothbrush, and my Kiehl’s moisturizing lotion.”
Scott looks at me blankly.
I clarify, “I need pants, shirts, shoes, and a toothbrush.”
Scott smiles at me. “I’m proud of you. Most women would be curled up in a ball right now.”
He gives me a kiss on the forehead, kisses Seema good-bye, then takes his leave.
The moment the door closes behind him, Seema warns me, “Just so you know: he might very well come back with a pair of Gap blue jeans from 1993, tennis shoes, and your beat-up old Spice Girls T-shirt. I’ve gone on weekend trips with him: there is no rhyme or reason to what he packs.”
“I don’t care,” I say, feeling myself smile. “He could come back with a box of Tampax, a pair of pantyhose, and a flashlight. Tonight, I have a hero taking care of me.”
And as awful as this night has been, how Politically incorrect and wonderful is it to be able to say that?
Chapter Seven
Nicole
“And chances are,” I gleefully read to Malika, my soon-to-be step-daughter, “if she asks for some syyrruup . . .” I drag the word syrup out five syllables to wait for Malika to finish the sentence.
Malika looks up at me, her face brightening as she squeals, “She’ll want a pancake to go with it!”
“Yes, she will! Won’t she?!” I say, tickling Malika, who giggles as she squirms her little body beneath me.
We’re both in our pajamas, lying in her bed, and I have just finished reading her Laura Numeroff’s If You Give a Pig a Pancake while Jason reads Harry Potter to her nine-year-old sister Megan in the other room. On alternate nights, Jason reads to Malika, and I get to read Harry Potter.
“Switch!” Jason, clad in his nighttime ensemble of his team T-shirt and gray shorts, yells happily from the doorway.
I rapidly kiss Malika on the cheek five times. “I love you,” I tell her.
“I love you too.”
“I love you more. Who’s the cutest five-year-old?”
“Me!”
I smile, stand up, and walk past Jason. “Tagging out!” I say, making a show of high-fiving him.
“Tagging in!” Jason says.
I head to Megan’s room and catch her reading the next chapter of Harry Potter.
“Hey, that’s cheating.” I pretend to lecture. “I just have to know how it ends,” Megan says, as I walk over and sit on her bed. She looks up at me and whispers, “Do you think I could use my flashlight? Just for a little bit?”
How can I resist that angelic smile and those pleading eyes? I lean in and whisper, “Okay, but just one chapter.”
Megan smiles and pulls a flashlight from under her pillow. “Don’t tell Dad.”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” I assured her conspiratorially. I give her a kiss on the forehead and say, “I love you.”
“Me too.”
I take
