“Say what?” I tossed her the shampoo bottle she'd forgotten in the shower. She placed it in a plastic bag and slid it into a side pocket of her suitcase. And with that, she zipped it up and whirled it around to the floor in one swift motion, pleased with herself.
“That I was right ? If I'm not mistaken, isn't Theo some guy who works in a kitchen?” She flashed me a side glance.
“Mom, we had a fun time, that's all,” I said, failing to convince even myself. A smile crept up and out of me.
At the ferry landing, the last of the passengers whisked past us on their way up the ramp onto the boat. I hugged my mom goodbye one last time.
“Don't do anything I wouldn't do!” She turned to join the herd. We both knew I'd done a million of those things already, but she liked to say it anyway. My parents met each other at eighteen when my dad was sent over from Italy to the United States for a work exchange. Early into his internship, my mom's long legs caught his eye as she ascended the steps of the office entrance, and his white kneesocks won her over at the company softball game. (He wore them with a suit.) They fell fast and madly, but soon his visa was up and he was
forced to return to Italy. They wrote impassioned letters back and forth, but their longing wouldn't tolerate the distance. A few months later, my mom had a plane ticket in her hand.
“Clarice, you may as well pack up your desk, because you know you're not coming back,” her coworkers teased.
“Don't be ridiculous. Of course I am.” My mom left her framed photos and coffee mug on her desk just as they were. At the airport in Milan, she was overwhelmed, surrounded by sniffing Doberman pinschers and
carabinieri
with machine guns. She didn't speak a word of Italian. And to top it off, my dad wasn't there to meet her.
“I'm so stupid,” she said to herself, sobbing on the bench surrounded by families embracing. “He's Italian. He probably has fifteen girlfriends.” And then she looked up and there he was, running toward her with a bouquet of flowers.
“That very moment, I knew I wasn't going back,” my mom says whenever she tells the story. It's no wonder I'm a hopeless romantic at heart.
Alexis had the morning free, so we took her twins to the beach. They dug for crabs in the red sand while we sipped on smoothies and caught up on girl talk.
“Why didn't you go back to his tent with him? Tents are so romantic!”
“Maybe in high school. Or on a honeymoon in Greece,” I said, reaching around to apply sunscreen to the back of my neck.
“Girl, do you realize what you've done ?” Alexis said, fanning the air with her magazine.
“What?”
“All my friends here are desperate to meet someone, and you come along and scoop up the one single great guy on the island.”
“I know. He's pretty perfect, huh?”
“Honestly, I can't think of one bad thing about him,” Alexis said.
“Yeah, he's pretty amazing. How old is he, though? I can't tell.”
“He's twenty-five, I think. Yeah, twenty-five.”
“What?” I closed my magazine and looked at Alexis. “Oh no. No no no.”
“What's wrong? You're the older woman. It's hot. Very Demi Moore.”
“When I was sixteen, he was eight. No no no. I've had enough trouble with guys my age. The last thing I need is a younger man.”
“Oh come on.”
“Are we still going to Banyan's show tomorrow?”
“Yes, but...”
I tossed my
Us Weekly
onto my towel and got up to join the girls in the sand.
I avoided the inn all day. At seven o'clock, Theo called. I knew he had just gotten off work. I stared at my phone,
frozen.
This guy is different
, I told myself.
He's mature.
But I'd been through so many bizarre experiences with men, I didn't even know if I trusted myself anymore. I pressed “ignore” and let him leave a message, which I listened to immediately.
“Hey Elena, it's Theo. Just got off work and wondering what you're up to. Give me a call.”
I took the low road and texted him back.
“Hey, tonight's girls' night out, but have fun whatever you're up to.” I cringed as I wrote it. It was such a cop-out, such an obvious diss. I cringed.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Send.
“Okay, well let me know what you're up to after.” Theo's reply was direct, seemingly unaffected by my mock nonchalance.
Later, at a kitschy little Mexican bar in town, I clinked margarita glasses with the girls. With each sip, I blurred a little bit more the memory of how much I liked Theo. He was so wonderful, but so young, and I wanted things like a home and a family. He was twenty-five and living in a tent. With the added help of Alexis's friends egging me on, by the end of the evening I was back on the Banyan bandwagon.
“Girl, Banyan is so hot. I think every woman on this island would kill to be in your shoes.”
“Hey, if you hook up with him, that means we'll be invited to his parties. His bandmates are pretty luscious, too.”
“You could join him on his tours and see the world!”
“Alexis, why didn't you ever set me up with him?”
“We're invited to the wedding, right?”
Alexis remained quiet. She was willing to humor me by taking me to Banyan's concert, but of the setup, she was no longer a fan.
I didn't write Theo back that night. The following day he called again. Normally this type of persistence would turn me off, but his assertiveness impressed me.
“Hey lady, it's Theo.” His tone was cheerful. “I hope you had fun with the girls last night. There's a bonfire tonight at Philbin. Let me know if you want to come. We can pick you up on the way down from the inn. It's a little hard to find in the dark.”
I texted back: “Hey Theo, I'm going to see Alexis's cousin play tonight, but maybe we'll come by afterward.” That was a lie.
Up in my hotel room, I was extra careful brushing my hair because there was some woman in the room down the hall who had just gotten a brush so stuck in her hair that they had to cut it out. Her fiancé to be was downstairs at the bar, waiting to surprise her with a proposal. I put on one of the dresses that had been gathering dust and wondered if the woman got the brush stuck on purpose.
“Listen,” Alexis said when I met up with her to leave. “I've got to get back home after the concert because the girls aren't feeling well, so we should take two separate cars. But
don't worry. I'll introduce you to Banyan, and you can go to the after-party.”
“You're not coming with me?” I scowled.
“You'll be fine!”
I followed Alexis as she pulled into the parking lot of The Hangar. She drove us right to the front of the building and into a space marked PERSONNELONLY. I'd grown accustomed to her rebellious island ways. The Vineyard laws were apparently open to interpretation, and every other cop was her cousin. She pointed at the space next to her. Reluctantly, I took it.
“Come on, I think he started already,” she said, grabbing my hand and dragging me to the entrance.
It seemed like the entire island was packed into the place, and every single straight woman was in the front row. Alexis grabbed my hand, and I trailed behind her to the back of the bar, where her brother and some friends were standing. They sang along to all of Banyan's songs while I brainstormed names for our kids. He was gorgeousâtall, toned, and tanâand with that guitar slung around his neck, I was a goner. I wouldn't even mind when he went on tour. I'd stay home and hold down the four-thousand-square-foot fort. No problem.
After the concert, Alexis pulled me backstage. Banyan was in a room with his bandmates, and she waltzed me right up to him.
“Hey cuz, what's up?” She hugged him. “This is my friend Elena. She's visiting from New York.”
We shook hands, and Alexis whispered something to him. She stayed for another ten minutes and then left to go home. I made friends with the bass player. We chatted while Banyan addressed his adoring fans. Then he came back into the room.
“We need some rides back to the house. Does anyone have space?”
“I do,” I said.
“Cool. You guys go with Elena, and I'll be there soon.”
I ended up driving the bass player and two random guys to Banyan's house. We pulled through the gated entrance and made our way up the long winding gravel driveway. When we passed the horse barns, I suppressed a squeal. We took the fork in the road that led to his house, and I imagined myself taking that turn many more times in my future. I'd have a trunk full of organic groceries, including cases of goddess dressing and fresh veggies from the farm stand up the road. Then I would get home and cook up some brown rice in my oversize rice cooker, which would fit in our kitchen because it would be so big, bigger than New York kitchens.
There would be so much space! We could have house parties and invite people from the neighborhood!
We got out of the car and walked up to the front door, which was unlocked because it's Martha's Vineyard. Yep, the kitchen was definitely big enough for a twelve-serving rice cooker. And it had skylights!
I could hang lots of plants from
the ceiling. I could make macramé plant holders like my mom used to make in the seventies. I could bake pies and cookies and learn how to make croissants. I could do yoga in the living room.
My fantasies unfolded with each turn of each corner of the six-bedroom, five-bath house. And then Banyan showed up. With a girl. And they were holding hands.
“Hi, I'm Vespa,” she said, reaching out her hand. Great. I'd already been burned by a Vespa, and now I had to forfeit my future husband for one. As it turned out, it was a sweet surrender, because she was so extraordinarily likable (and pretty) that I was kind of crushed out on her myself.
“I'm Elena. Nice to meet you.”
I decided to stay at the party in case there might be another guy for me, one of Banyan's friends, perhaps. Double-date horseback rides with Banyan and Vespa! The British piano player and I took turns deejaying on the iPod while a bunch of girls danced around the dining room. When I tired of that, I joined some others around a campfire in the front yard. We sang along to classic rock songs, to which Banyan strummed the melodies upon request. And so the night wore on. I chatted with this person and that, sat around, danced a little, and ate up every snack in sight. That's always the best part of parties: the food. At some ungodly hour way past my bedtime, I wandered out to the barn, where I stumbled upon the guys taking shirtless turns on the Pilates machine. They were flexing, showing off for each other, grunting and pulling
this weight here, stretching that leg there. So that's what guys do in the locker room at the yoga studio. One of Banyan's friends walked over to me.
“So, tell me again what it is you do in New York.” I hadn't told him, but I dismissed that minor detail.
“Well, for my day job, I work in finance.” At this, his eyes glazed over. “But I love to write and dance andâ” It was too late. I'd lost him. He was zoning out on his friends playing Ping-Pong across the room. I watched the little white ball float back and forth across the table. Ping pong ping pong.
What am I doing here?
I missed Theo, who listened.
Having turned down several offers to share a bed with a persistent guitarist, I crashed on a couch in the living room.
When I awoke a few hours later to a headache reminiscent of my rave days, the sun was up. And so were the guys. They hadn't gone to sleep yet and were still drinking beer. The very thought of it made me gag. I heard someone say the word
pool,
and I dragged myself sloth-style across the floor in hopes that water might make me feel human again.
This isn't worth the pony.
I fetched my bathing suit from my car and followed the train of fumbling zombies up the path toward the pool. And that's when I met my ex-future mother-in-law. Banyan's famous folksinger mom was standing at the top of the path in the most beautiful silk dress. She was backlit, and the sun created a halo effect, just like on an album cover. I squinted. Yep, it was really her.
“You guys look pretty ragged,” she said as we approached. “You should come in for some toast.” She turned to walk inside.
We followed her into her delightfully decorated, hippie-inspired, immaculate house. I ate my toast over my plate so as not to drop a single crumb on the floor. And then I had to pee. I admired the baby pictures on the wall in the hallway on the way to the bathroom.
Our kids would have been so cute. Oh well.
And then I did what I always do at the most inconvenient, inappropriate time. I clogged the toilet. I have this terrible habit of using way too much toilet paper, and I'd been spoiled by the robust prewar plumbing of New York City. You could flush a television down the toilet at my Brooklyn apartment but not, as it turns out, on the Vineyard. After wrestling with the plunger for five minutes, I reentered the kitchen and hugged everyone goodbye.
I got into the driver's seat of my car and tossed my flip-flops on the passenger-side floor. My mom hates it when I drive barefoot, but I love the feeling of the cool pedals on my feet. It makes me feel free. I sat behind the wheel, wondering where to go. The answer was obvious, but my own game of ping-pong was still in full swing.
He's young. But so sweet. He's young. But so smart. He's young. But so insightful. He's young. But so funny.
It was Sunday, so I knew he didn't have to work. Hands trembling, I texted him.
“Picnic at the beach?”
My phone chimed less than a minute later. “Sounds like a plan.”
On my way to fetch Theo, I stopped by the overpriced market for provisions. I put special care into choosing. I'd never fed a chef before. The clerk rang up my hummus, heirloom tomatoes, baby carrots, multigrain baguette, chocolate, and my splurge item, $8 lavender goat cheese. Theo was cleaning a window screen in the driveway when I arrived. He walked over to me with a wide smile and his confident stride. My shoulders softened at the sight of him.