Why I Love Singlehood: (23 page)

Without warning, a nervous laugh escaped me as I caught myself actually checking him out.

Norman smiled. “What’s so funny?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I said, taking another sip of beer and averting my eyes. “I just felt like laughing, that’s all.”

“I have that way with women.”

“Do you know this is the first time we’ve ever hung out together, just the two of us, outside The Grounds? How did that happen?”

“We tend to have opposite schedules,” he said matter-of-factly.

“But you know, I like hanging out with you, Norman.”

“I like hanging out with you, too.”

We both got really quiet, and a look came over his face, as if he already knew what I was about to say next.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Uh-oh,” he said.

I laughed again, this time more anxious and less boisterous. “Nah, it’s not an ‘uh-oh’—at least I don’t think it is.”

“You’re not going to fire me or anything like that?”

“Of course not! How could you ever think that?”

“So what do you want to ask, Eva?”

I stalled, folding my napkin, fidgeting with my flatware, my nerves getting the best of me.

“Scott said something to me the first night we hooked up that has kinda bothered me. Well, maybe not ‘bothered,’ but it’s definitely been on my mind.”

“Uh-oh,” he said again. I didn’t laugh this time.

“He said you had a crush on me.”

Norman took in the words for a second, then lightly hit his fist on the table and leaned back in his chair.

Uh-oh.

“He said that?” His face darkened, creases forming between his brows and at the corners of his mouth. I’d never seen Norman angry. Irked, maybe. Stressed from work, sure. But not angry.

“He may have said that he
thought
you had a crush on me,” I said, as if that might keep him from exploding. “I can’t be sure. My head wasn’t exactly clear that day.”

“Asshole,” he muttered. “I apologize for my language and I know he’s one of my best friends and your boyfriend, but sometimes he’s just an immature asshole.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” I corrected.

Norman looked at me, confused.

“I mean, we’re obviously seeing each other and stuff, but I don’t think we’re really all that formal or official,” I rambled.

“Then what are you doing, besides the obvious?”

I stared at him blankly.

“Was he right about what he said?” I asked.

Norman leaned back again, beer in hand, took a long swig, and let out a deep sigh, which set my insides doing cartwheels.

“Look, Eva. I don’t want things to get awkward between us, especially since we work so closely together and you’re my boss. I respect you as a boss and a colleague. You’ve never once treated me like an employee or a subordinate—you’ve always treated me like an equal, a partner. You have no idea what that means to me.”

“I’ve never even thought of you as a subordinate.”

“So you can understand that I would never dare cross a line.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond. “Well, I appreciate that. But…” I started.

“
Crush
is a strong word, Eva. I don’t believe I have a crush on you.”

“But you have feelings?”

He looked away searching for words, not quite returning his eyes to my own when he did.

“I think…I think I’m
taken
with you. Or intrigued. I don’t know, I can’t put my finger on it. I do find you attractive, and I thoroughly enjoy your company and wish we could hang out like this more often, but…” He trailed off again in search of words, but this time he looked me squarely in the eye. “But I don’t think it’s meant to be.”

I looked at Norman at that moment—really looked into his eyes—and both fell in and out of love with him in an instant. It was as if our entire relationship—or the possibility of it—passed before me. We were seemingly perfect for each other. He was warm and sensitive and funny, and natural in all the ways I wasn’t. We liked the same books and films and TV shows and music. And yet, despite all this, we weren’t going to be a couple, ever. We were never going to act on those deep feelings of affection for each other that, up until that moment, I had never let myself even acknowledge, much less feel.

“You’re right,” I said. “I know you’re right. Why, though?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe we’re too much alike.”

“Maybe.” I sipped my beer again. “What do you think might’ve happened if
you
had taken me home that night?”

“Exactly what happened between you and Scott, and I’m glad now that it wasn’t me. I’m not gonna lie to you—I was disappointed at first. But I think it would’ve been a disaster. It would’ve changed
everything
in an instant. You went home with the right guy.”

“I guess,” I said, bothered by my uncertainty.

“Anyway, if it makes you feel any better, you have my blessing. I knew it was bothering you these last few weeks.”

“Was it bothering
you
?”

“You wanna know what’s been bothering me? That you didn’t tell me. Of course you were gonna tell Minerva, but why not
me
?”

Hearing the hurt in his voice,
his
hurt, my eyes brimmed with tears. I didn’t realize how much we’d been holding back.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was afraid of how you felt, afraid you’d be angry at me.”

He nodded slowly. “I can understand that,” he said, “given what Scott told you.”

“I love you, Norman,” I blurted. I hadn’t even said those words to Scott.

He smiled softly in understanding, his eyes glassy as well. “I love you, too.”

Norman leaned in. I thought he was going to take my hand, and it seemed to want to be taken, moving forward to meet his before I consciously pulled it away and moved both of my hands into my lap.

“Are you happy, Eva?”

I looked down at my lap and took in a breath before facing Norman and his question. “I think so,” I said. “I really don’t know.”

“That’s not very reassuring.”

“No,” I replied. “I guess it’s not.”

We split the check (he insisted after I’d offered to pay and charge it as a business expense—work meeting) and then walked out into the parking lot together, his arm affectionately, platonically around me. It was comforting. We then hugged—something we’d never done before, at least not like this. But it felt right, and we both knew we needed to.

“See you tomorrow,” I said.

“Back atcha.”

I drove home in silence. The moment our eyes had locked, Norman and I witnessed our relationship change for the better, evolve into something deeper. I knew there would be no signs of awkwardness between us in the coming days, no trying to avoid the subject or getting around each other feigning politeness. The very realization of this unloosened the knot in my stomach that had been so tight for the past few weeks.

At home, I checked messages, read e-mails, and looked at WILS. Stared at it. Put my fingers on the keyboard, hoping they’d move on their own.

Nothing.

I went to bed and cried.

22

The Horror

OH, THE HORROR

I have seen Minerva study for four different kinds of anatomy exams at once. I’ve heard her stories about holding human brains in her hand. Real, dead brains. I’ve known Minerva to be able to cook a Thanksgiving dinner for ten people, clean up, and then go write a paper on the origins of DNA discovery. The woman doesn’t carry a golden lasso, nor can she deflect bullets with accessories, but dammit, she’s up there on the list of efficiency in the face of pressure, save a meltdown every now and then.

I have also seen Minerva look all sorts of haggard—final exams haggard, daylong labs haggard, two-straight-weeks-working-on-nothing-but-cadavers haggard; but this—this was above and beyond. She had dark circles under her eyes. She had never-before-seen frown lines running like rivers across her forehead. She had hair breakage.

She trudged in and up to the counter, shoulders hunched as if carrying a backpack full of rocks; yet she only held her wallet, keys, and cell phone. Her first words came out in pants of breath, as if she’d just run a marathon.

“I just found a pair of socks in my silverware drawer.” She paused for a breath. “Clean.”

“Well,” I said, exhaling a mock sigh of relief, “as long as they were clean…”

Norman leaned against the back counter as if to steady himself. “I’m afraid to ask how they got there,” he said.

“Blame it on multitasking gone all wrong. I was trying to fold laundry, empty the dishwasher, and polish the silver at the same time; in retrospect, probably not the smartest idea. Anyway, the drawers were all open. They must’ve fallen in there while I was relocating the pile to the bedroom. Didn’t even see them until today, just as she was pulling into the driveway. Had to make sure the silver was polished enough.”

“Who?” Norman asked.

“My mother-in-law.”

And instantly, everything fell into place; for, when up against the in-laws, Minerva waves the white flag. This much I knew.

“I didn’t know your in-laws were coming to visit,” I said.

Minerva looked like a cornered animal. “Neither did I. Not until yesterday, that is. Can you believe that? Only twenty-four hours’ notice.”

I searched for something intelligent or comforting to say, but “Why?” was all I could muster.

“Labor Day weekend,” she answered.

“So you put socks in the silverware drawer,” Norman said.

“I didn’t
put
them there; I
found
them there.”

He looked confused. “Won’t she find them?”

Minerva looked at Norman with impatience. “Well obviously I removed them, idiot. I switched the silverware out with the silver when I heard she was coming.”

“For what occasion would you be using silver?” I asked.

“Cici only uses silver when she eats.”

“You’re kidding me,” I said, incredulous.

Norman blurted, “Cici? I’m sorry, did you just say
Cici?
”

Minerva’s face darkened. “She makes me call her Cici,” she said through clenched teeth. “She’s a Cynthia, but she told me calling her Mom would make her feel old.”

“What does Jay call her?” asked Norman. “Mom.”

“So…”

“So what she meant was having
me
call her Mom makes her feel old.”

“Ahh.”

“But Cynthia was too formal,” she said.

“So the only logical choice was
Cici
?” pressed Norman.

“Hey, don’t look at me—I didn’t choose it.”

Norman leaned in, resting his chin on his hands, eyes all lit up, like this was the hottest gossip of the year or the plot of some new serial on TV. “Who is this woman?” he asked while I looked on sympathetically.

“Old money Boston. Real high society. I think one of her great, great something-or-others was one of the original tea-dumpers.”

I was a little surprised. Jay never struck me as a polished-silver-old-money kind of guy—he wears hemp, for chrissakes, and spent an entire week begging Minerva to let him have a “worm farm” in his compost heap—and Minerva rarely talked about her in-laws, except in metaphors referring to nightmares.

“So where’d you get the silver from?” I asked from behind the counter, making her an extra thick mocha latte with extra whipped cream in an extra large mug.

“Cici’s old set,” replied Minerva. “Engagement present,” she continued, shooting Norman death rays as he erupted into a laugh, which then broke into a cough.

I attempted a hint of validation. “That’s sweet,” I said while sending Norman a
shut up!
look; he ignored me and continued coughing between laughs.

“No. It’s not,” Minerva snapped. “She did it so she can sigh every single time she eats; I never have them polished the way she likes.”

Norman managed to take a breath. “Oh come on, she can’t be that bad.”

“She’s the poster child of evil. The sum-total of the stereotypical mother-in-law. I won’t eat any apple she hands me. She—”

I set the mocha in front of her. “Here,” I said. “You need this. Trust me.”

She nodded and opened her wallet, exhaling a “thanks.”

“So,” Norman resumed, “back up. Why didn’t you pick up the socks when you dropped them in the first place?”

“Because of the toilet,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“The toilet. I’d forgotten to scrub it.”

She hovered over her mocha, as if fortifying herself with the scent of it, while Norman looked at me, his eyes pleading for me to explain the connection; but I shrugged my shoulders, just as stymied.

“I spent twenty-five minutes scraping mold off my toilet,” she said to the whipped cream.

“Now that’s something you don’t often hear over mochas,” I said to Norman.

“It’s powder blue—the toilet. Don’t ask what the landlord was thinking; I don’t want to know, especially since the rest of the bathroom is yellow. It was like that when we moved in. And it molds every week—the fan in there sucks…or doesn’t, actually. So I cleaned it nonstop at first, but lately I’ve been letting it go…and grow. I know, I know,” she said as she held up a hand, “totally gross, and if I had any pride left after dealing with that woman, I’d never admit to it. But, see, Jay’s got this weird thing where he thinks the toilet is so ugly that mini polka dots are some sort of improvement.”

“Jay?” I asked. “Environmental engineer Jay? Has six color-coded recycling bins Jay?”

“Again, don’t ask. I don’t pretend to know. But there was no way in hell I was going to let Cici lay eyes on it.”

She took a sip.

“I also had to code my to-do list on the off chance I forgot to take it off the fridge before they arrived.”

“Smart move,” I said.

“What does a coded to-do list look like?” asked Norman.

She huffed. “For example, ‘organize bookshelf’ actually means ‘dig up that picture of the whole family at the Christmas charity and put it in plain sight.’”

His laughing fit returned. “They go to
a Christmas charity
? Who dresses up as Santa?”