Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 112638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 563(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 375(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 563(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 375(@300wpm)
Other than the times he wasn’t.
“Lizzy’s coming over for dinner tonight. And you know Georgie’s always here. So I’m making peach cobbler,” she says about my sisters.
“Darn. I wish I could be there.”
“Oh, but you can! Just hop on a plane and come see us.”
“About that . . .” I trail off. “I’ve news of my own.”
“What is it, sugar plum?”
I gather oxygen in the pit of my lungs, preparing for my announcement. “I got a job! A new role. I’m going to be Nina from The Seagull.”
The line goes quiet. For a second, I think maybe I lost reception.
Dad is the first to recover. “That so? Broadway and all?”
I wince. “Not exactly Broadway. But it’s an established theater in Manhattan.”
“How long’s this gig gonna run for?” he continues.
“One year.”
“How nice.” Ma clears her throat, disappointment coating her voice. “This is . . . I mean, it’s what you wanted. I’m happy for you.”
I can see my Hell’s Kitchen brownstone from the corner of my eye. My feet feel like lead. I know I saddened my parents, who thought I was warming up to the idea of going back home. There’s still a part of me that wants to go home too. It’s not small either. But this role is important for so many reasons. One of them I can’t even utter aloud.
“Please, now. You’re making me blush with all your excitement,” I murmur, but there is no real bite in my voice. As much as it pains me to admit, I understand them. They want to nurture me, help get me back on my feet. Keep an eye on me while I’m close by.
“I just don’t think it’s a good idea that you’re all alone out there,” Ma says with a heavy sigh. “Maybe I should come? Just for a couple weeks? Make you that peach cobbler? I won’t stand in your way at all. Don’t worry. This old lady can find entertainment all on her own.”
“Don’t, Ma,” I beg, panic taking over me. “I’m okay. I promise.”
Our apartment—I guess it is my apartment now—is a modern two bedroom. With an open kitchen, eastern view of the Manhattan skyline, and what Realtors like to call character. I love everything about it. The quilted leather stools by the black granite island in the kitchen, the art pieces Paul and I collected from small flea markets on our honeymoon, and most of all, the way the place is still soaked with his presence. Swollen with the promise and expectation he will be back any moment now.
That he’d push the door open with his daytime-show-host smile and announce, Honey, I’m hooooome!
Sweep me off my feet, kiss me hard, and ask me how his favorite girl is doing.
His running shoes are still by the door. His toothbrush is tucked in a cup by our Jack-and-Jill sink, the bristles bent out of shape like a ripe dandelion. Paul scrubbed his teeth to the point of bleeding.
It gives me strange comfort that his yogurts are still in the fridge, arranged by now-expired dates, though I know they shouldn’t be. That his spare contact lenses are still perched by the faucet of his sink, waiting expectantly to be put on.
It’s why I don’t want my parents to pay me a visit. I’m not supposed to keep these things. The everyday oddments he won’t be using anymore. His orange-bottled prescription pills, the reading glasses on his nightstand, complete with the open newspaper he’d been reading, the article he never finished glaring back at me. “Mining the Bottom of the Sea.”
The New Yorker is to blame for the ugly way we parted.
The last time I saw him, we’d had an argument.
I’d been pestering him about canceling our newspaper subscription. He never touched it, and I’m allergic to world news and the anxiety it induces. I grew up frugal, and didn’t like how Paul threw money away for no reason other than he possessed it. He made a show of opening the paper that night, read half an article, put it aside, and promised he would read the rest when he returned from his Paris trip.
Don’t close the newspaper. I’ll get back to it, he’d warned. By God I will. The only reason I’m not taking it with me is because Phil always wants to talk baseball when we take flights together.
I never did. It stayed put. Each new paper I receive every day is rolled up and waiting in a pile in the pantry for Paul to arrive and read it. Like he might materialize one day, stride in here, and ask me what he missed these past eight months.
Pacing across the apartment, I run my fingers over the books on the shelves—a mixture of my favorite classics and his Jack Reacher—and the stainless steel appliances we chose together.