How to Be a Grown-up (18 page)

The morning of Maya’s Little Mermaid party (last-minute burst of preschooler inspiration), Claire came over early to help me set up. “You got highlights,” was the first thing out of her mouth as she passed off the cake. “And your phone is in the fridge.”

“I did. And it is.”

“Because you are cheering yourself up—or because you want this turd burglar back?” she asked.

“He is the father of my children. He should be living here. Christmas is in ten days. I need to
do
something.”

“Fair enough. But he will never again be good enough for you in my eyes.” I knew she meant it lovingly, but I wasn’t ready to take advice from the woman who knocked every potential suitor in the knees with a proverbial tire iron. “And your phone?”

“The airplane function is broken, and I needed a break.”

“From?” she asked, unwrapping the goody bag packages and starting the assembly of every cheap piece of plastic shit with Ariel on it I could order.

“Corporate espionage and a one-sided torrid affair.”

“You do move fast.”

The doorbell rang. “That’ll be my parents,” I said.

“You want me to . . . ?” she asked.

“Pretend to be me? Yes, but no.” I walked to the vestibule, took a deep, girding breath, and opened the door.

“Rory!” They both threw their arms around me.

Thanksgiving weekend they’d waited until Blake caught a cab to the bus station, then deluged me with logistical questions until I screamed, “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know!” and sunk to the floor with oven mitts over my ears.

“How are you?” Mom asked intently.

“Hanging in there,” I lied. Because this was Not The Time. I had gotten it together and now I needed to Keep It Together.

“Dodi!” Maya called, running from the back in her mermaid costume and red wig so Mom could scoop her up. We collectively had no idea why she called my mother that. We expected, as she got older, it would morph into what she’d been trying, since eighteen months, to say. But no. Dodi it was. “I’m Ariel!”

“I see that.”

My dad made fish faces at her as I heard the key in the lock. I tensed all my tense places. But then the key turned back because the lock was already unlocked—then to locked again—then unlocked—and . . .

“Val!” I greeted her. “I thought you might be Blake.”

She wedged herself in the door, carrying her usual assortment of totes with one or two old Duane Reade plastic bags thrown in, even though she probably hadn’t shopped at a Duane Reade in a dozen years.

“He said he’d meet me.” She turned to Maya. “Are you Bette Midler?”

“I’m The Little Mermaid!”

“Oh, the one who has her tongue cut out in exchange for legs?”

“Yup,” I answered, taking my dad’s coat.

“They feel like walking on knives,” Val mused. “I’ll never forget that—that’s the translation of the German original. Walking on knives.”

“Val, why don’t you throw your stuff on our bed and get yourself a soda?” I asked as my mom’s eyes welled up because I’d said
our
. “Maya, show Grandma Val where your presents go.” She skibbled off, and I grabbed my mom’s arm. “This is a four-year-old’s birthday party, not a funeral for my shitty life, got it?” She reached for a Flounder napkin and dabbed her eyes.

“Got it.”

“And when Blake gets here, behave.
Please?
For Maya’s sake.”

My dad nodded. I imagined him slipping his brass knuckles off in his pants pocket.

In my mind I dared Blake, dared him to see our beautiful home, the one I had personally sanded; see our beautiful girl, the one I had personally birthed, wig askew, frosting on her fin; see our beautiful life; the relationships I had personally nurtured, friends packed into our living room; and not see we were worth digging in for.

Maybe he saw all of that—maybe none of that. It would be impossible for me to know because the apartment was so crowded by the time I saw the back of his head that he managed to stay out of my sight line for the entire hour. He may, in fact, have been in the linen closet.

I periodically shot my father warning glares,
donotdonotdonot
, and kept the games moving, my lash extensions batting unwitnessed. Until it was time to blow out the candles. I knew what I was going to wish.

“Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you—”
I walked the flaming cake into the living room, past Val and my parents, past Jess and Claire, past Gavin—

“Whoa, there,” Jess said, steadying me before I set the carpet alight.

“Happy Birthday, dear Maya!”

Gavin was carrying a large box and had the most—hopeful—look on his face. I started to sweat as I set the cake down. Oh my God, he was crazy. He was crazy, and in the box was a gun and he was going to mow down my daughter’s fourth birthday party and we would be the cover of the
Post
, and Taylor would take a personal day.

“Yay!”
Everyone was clapping. I tried to keep my eyes focused on Maya, who spat her wish all over the front half of the cake.

“Who’s that?” Blake raised me by my elbow and asked through clenched teeth.

“A colleague.” My hand was shaking. “I think he’s making a delivery—”

“—dating Rory,” Gavin was across the room, simultaneously explaining himself to Jess and everyone in earshot. “I brought Maya a gift. I make light fixtures for children.”

“I think it’s a little soon,” Blake whispered angrily.

“I did not invite him.” Maybe this was the thing. Maybe Blake would gallantly come to our rescue, like Cape Fear, and this would bring us back together.

“I would have brought Cecily.”
Wait—what?

I whipped back. “Who’s Cecily?”

“Who’s this guy?” Blake pointed.

“Possibly a stalker here to kill us all. Happy?”

“You know, Cecily wanted to come and meet the kids, but I—”

“Oh my God. I have a cake to cut. Twenty four-year-olds to entertain, small talk to make, a house to clean up, and I cannot be thinking about a Cecily right now.”

“Rory!” Val was holding the landline. “It’s for you—someone named Kathryn—says it’s urgent.”

“Where should I put this?” Gavin was suddenly beside me with his present.

“This is not cool,” Blake added.

“Going to cut the cake!” I trilled, walking past everyone back to the kitchen, through the kitchen, out the back door and up the fire stairs, hoping I was luring Gavin out like the Pied Piper.

“Rory?” I heard him call.

“Up here!” I tried to remember if I took self-defense in college or only talked about it.

Looking remorseful, he climbed to the landing where I stood. “I’m sorry. This is bad.”

“I didn’t invite you.”

“I overheard you ordering the balloons and I—I—I’m sorry, this was a super-dumb thing to do. It seemed, it seemed really not dumb this morning.”

Okay. Not crazy. Just twenty-four. I sat down. He sat beside me.

“Gavin.” I took his hands, thinking of Wynn picking out his shirt for Emily. “You’re gorgeous and young and any girl would be thrilled to have you surprise her. But I’m a woman. And my life is complicated. Too complicated for—this.”

He nodded, but held out the box to me anyway. “Will you at least open this? I made it for your daughter.”

I thought a gemstone sconce was the last thing this kid needed but pried the top off nonetheless. “Oh, Gavin, it’s lovely.” It was a Hello Kitty nightlight made out of milk glass. “Really lovely. And she will adore it.” I turned to him on the metal steps that hadn’t been mopped in far too long.

“You’re really pretty,” he said dejectedly. “Couldn’t we just have sex and kind of see where it goes?”

I had to laugh. “I’ve seen. Look, what you
really
want is to be a successful designer. I just look good right now because I’m easier to chase than a dream. This . . .” I twisted my wrist in the air between us, “is a distraction. Go be brilliant.”

He reluctantly walked down the steps and pressed for the service elevator.

I followed him down. “And stay away from women like Taylor. They will chew you up.” And fire my ass.

He shrugged. “I can’t help it.” He smiled as the elevator door opened. “My mom’s a total bitch.” He kissed me on the lips.

“Bye, Gavin.”

“Rory?” Blake stuck his head out the back door as the elevator closed on Gavin.

“Welcome to my office. Has anyone noticed I’m gone?” I dusted off my butt.

“Are you kidding? No one’s even talking. They’re all too busy eating cake.”

“That is my favorite five minutes of a party,” I said.

“It’s a great party.” It was the first nice thing he’d said to me in months.

“Well, she’s a great kid. She deserves it.”

He walked up to me. “Look, I’m sorry to throw that Cecily thing at you.”
Oh my God, it was working. The lashes were working.

“No, that’s okay,” I said breezily, afraid to scare the deer with questions like, Who the fuck is Cecily?! “We’re figuring this out,” I offered. “Maybe seeing other people is what we needed—” He cut me off before I could finish with,
to figure out that we don’t want to
.

“I’m glad you feel that way because I realized I shouldn’t be paying two rents, so . . .”

“Wait—you’re coming back?” I asked, confused, elated.

“No, I moved in with Cecily.”

“What?!”

“Not like that. She keeps her band’s recording equipment in the spare room and I can feed her cats when she tours so she’s cutting me a deal. It’s doable.” Looking back into the kitchen he clasped his hands over his head and blew out his cheeks. “What’s important is that I’m in new space right now.”

“With band equipment and cats.” That are preferable to me.

“I’m telling you because I’m not going to pay the rent anymore—since you’re making more than me and all. I mean, I’ll help out with the kids when I can.” I was stunned.

“Mommy!”

“I’ll be there in a minute!” I looked away from Blake. “Why don’t you go see what she needs?”

He went back in and I stood out there, with the stinky garbage bins, and the dust-caked pipes, wanting to shout inside,
You know what, Dad? Go for it!

He wanted to sleep in someone’s spare room??? My whole life I had felt like less than a grown-up next to my family, but next to Blake? Since when were the responsibilities of adulthood optional?

And I decided that, come Monday, I was going to fulfill mine. Impeccably.

I walked into the offices through the bullpen without even stopping to unzip my parka, and right into Kimmy’s office. “Kimmy,” I said.

“Yes?”

“I need our revenue stats.”

She sucked in hard with her mouth closed, making a rumble through her sinus cavity. “I can’t e-mail them.”

“Can you tell them to me?”

She clicked her mouse. “Pick them up at the printer.” She audibly swallowed some phlegm. “We guard our growth story very carefully.”

“Thank you. How are you feeling?”

“It’s back in my head.”

“I’m so sorry.”

I rushed back to my desk with the contraband pages in my hand. I had done it, I had done it, I had—wait—
What
exactly was I doing?

I stood over my computer, overheating. Was there a reason they guarded their growth story so closely? Could sharing this somehow hurt JeuneBug? Should I not give Kathryn Stossel what she wanted?