Modern Lovers (22 page)

T
he tops of Dr. Amelia's feet were tan except for the crisscrossing flesh that had been hidden underneath the straps of her sandals, which made her look like she was sitting in the shadow of venetian blinds. Zoe thought someone ought to tell her that her whole body needed SPF 30, not just her face and arms, but it seemed awkward to give a doctor medical advice, and so she kept her mouth shut.

There was a lot that Zoe wanted to keep her mouth shut about—she knew that Ruby and Harry had been fooling around whenever they thought she and Jane were asleep, and she didn't care. She and Jane had been fooling around whenever Ruby was out, which was like when she was a baby, and they'd have sex during her naps because they were too tired and/or busy after she went to sleep for the night. She didn't want to tell Elizabeth about Jane, which was ridiculous, because Jane was her wife and Elizabeth was her friend—but Zoe was worried that Elizabeth would be disappointed if she and Jane stayed together, like she was chickening out.

Dr. Amelia liked to sit cross-legged in her Aeron chair. “How's it going, guys?” she asked. “Seems like it's been a good summer?”

“We just had a fire at the restaurant,” Jane said. “The restaurant itself, actually.”

“And Ruby still hasn't gotten into college,” Zoe said, and then corrected herself. “Isn't going to college, I guess.”

“And she got hauled into the police station for having sex in Prospect Park,” Jane added.

“Oh,” said Dr. Amelia. She wrote something down on her notepad. “And are you two getting along? That seems like a lot of additional stress.”

“We are,” said Zoe. She looked at Jane, who was sitting to her left. Jane hated therapy—her mother was a therapist and had seen patients in her home office in Massapequa, and it had soured her on the whole thing, all those afternoons when she and her siblings weren't allowed to watch television because the den was connected to her mother's office with French doors. But now Jane looked completely happy to be there, even smiling for no particular reason.

“And have you talked about the problems you were having? It's great to get in a good spot, of course, but I want to make sure that it's not just a passing mood—have you two spoken about the issues that caused the space in the first place?”

Jane closed her mouth.

“Well, we haven't really had time,” Zoe said. And they hadn't—after the fire there was a lot of busywork to be done, and meals to be cooked, and they were two seasons behind on
Damages
, which they were watching on Netflix. Every day, Zoe thought about having a Talk, but every day she thought better of it.

“We've been really busy,” Jane said. “And plus, I don't know, it feels like it would be a jinx or something. Rock the boat. You know what I mean.”

“I do know what you mean,” Dr. Amelia said. “You're afraid to frighten the natives. To muddy the water. To poke the bear.” She tapped her pen cap against her chin.

“Right.” Jane clasped her hands in her lap. “Something like that.”

“Well,” Dr. Amelia said, “why don't we start now? This is a safe
space, remember, and all feelings are valid. Zoe, do you want to start?”

“Okaaaaay,” Zoe said. She crossed her legs one way, then switched. Her hair was in her eyes, and she tucked it back behind her ears. “I guess I feel like things have been going really well, but maybe my fear is that it's because Jane is maybe afraid of being lonely? And so she's more interested in me right now than normal? And in a little while it'll just die down again? And then we'll be right back where we were?” She covered her eyes. “Don't kill me,” she said to Jane.

“I'm not going to kill you,” Jane said. “You're right. I don't want to be lonely. But the reason I don't want to be lonely is because I love you. It's not just that I want to have
someone
around, I want to have
you
around.” She rolled her eyes. “You're really making us do this here?” Jane cleared her throat. “I think we should talk about Elizabeth.”

Zoe was genuinely surprised. “You're joking.”

“I'm not saying it's sexual, Zo. But I do think there's some weird stuff there. Is that a thing, Dr. Amelia, even if it's not about, like, doing it?”

“Of course,” Dr. Amelia said. “There are all kinds of betrayals—physical, emotional, spiritual. What exactly do you think is going on, Jane?”

“We used to fight about this, years ago. I just think that Zoe has someone else to go to, for whenever she's upset, or happy, or whatever. I know it's not as big a deal as it used to be, but still, I think that it's messing with us. There's a reason people don't live close to their parents, you know, or next door to their best friends. It's weird. People need space. Or at least I need space.”

Zoe scrunched up her mouth. Space was her line.

“What?” Jane said. “Do you really think I'm so off base?”

Dr. Amelia waited expectantly, her toes wiggling with excitement.

“I think that's completely ridiculous,” Zoe said, and then she tried
to slow down and think about whether or not she actually did. She felt herself heat up for an argument, the way matadors probably felt before striding into the bullring. The more she thought about it, the more she realized that Jane was a lot like a bull—angry and immovable, sharp and prone to snorting. Zoe knew that it wasn't only Jane's fault, though, whatever had happened to them. And maybe she was right. Zoe thought about all the times she'd gone to Elizabeth instead of her wife, for any number of reasons. It hadn't happened that often recently, except to talk about the house, really, but years ago it had happened all the time. When she and Jane were first together, she and Elizabeth had been inseparable, and Zoe had often started sentences, “Well, I was just telling Elizabeth,” or “Elizabeth just told me . . .” which was obviously tedious and annoying. She thought about how she would feel if Jane had someone like that, a confidante she really loved, and if that person lived next door. They weren't in college anymore—they weren't Jerry Seinfeld and his bachelor(ette) friends, always popping in and out with no notice or reason. They were adults, with families and taxes and mortgages. Zoe had the horrifying realization that her wife might be right. The specifics were all wrong, but Jane was right that Elizabeth had always been there, hovering at the edges, eager to answer the phone.

“I think we should set up a few more appointments,” Zoe said. Dr. Amelia nodded and made a note.

D
ave could surf—he was from Southern California, as Andrew had suspected—and Andrew agreed to give it a try. Dave had a friend who rented boards and wet suits a few blocks from the hotel property, and they had everything they needed in fifteen minutes. He recommended a nine-foot foam soft top, and Andrew nodded like he knew what that meant. “We're gonna get you right up, man,” Dave said.

He'd taken a lesson once before, when he and Elizabeth went to Hawaii for their honeymoon, which was otherwise nothing but reading paperbacks in the sand, stopping every now and then to kiss each other and twirl their rings. More than anything, Andrew had spent his days feeling
lucky—
lucky that Elizabeth, so light and good, had chosen
him
, this lump of coal. He was sure from the start that he didn't deserve her, but he was going to try, and that was how they'd spent their honeymoon—having sex and getting sunburns and walking nowhere, holding hands. Maybe they should go back—maybe Harry could stay at home. He was old enough. Andrew was still upset about the movie, but maybe if he looked deeper into it, he
could
see what she was trying to do.

They—EVOLVEment, Andrew, Dave, the Waves, whatever they were going to be called—had made an offer on the hotel. There was
some due-diligence zoning work to be done, so the process would take a few months. Dave and Phillip were taking care of everything. The first check had gone to the realtor's escrow account, along with some other money from investors, where it would sit until they signed the contract. In the meantime, Andrew had written a second check, this time straight to Dave, for another fifty thousand. EVOLVEment was growing so fast—they needed money to pay for the teachers and for the equipment, cases of bottles for the kombucha and reams of plastic cups for the juices, and to continue to make improvements to the house—and all of Dave's capital was earmarked for improvements to the hotel. He'd asked so sheepishly, as if Andrew would object, when EVOLVEment was the clearest and easiest of all his responsibilities.

Together they paddled out into the water. Andrew quickly remembered the feeling from so many years ago, all those dormant muscles in his chest and shoulders suddenly squeaking awake. It was hard to keep the board flat underneath him—he felt like a Weeble Wobble, only with no weight keeping him down. They made it past the break, and Dave gave him a few pointers—not to try to leap up to stand but to sort of drag his feet into place, which sounded easier but wasn't, not really. Leaping was for people like Dave, whose stomachs were circuit boards of muscles, each tiny piece clicking together with purpose.

“It's not about instruction,” Dave said. “It's just about feeling it, you know? The wave, the vibe. That's what surfing is all about. The ocean tells you when it's your time, and then you go.”

“Right,” Andrew said.

Nearby, a surfing school was teaching lessons, and three girls in matching wet-suit tops and bikini bottoms giggled as they watched one another slide off their boards and into the shallow water. A large wave began to roll in, and Dave nodded at it, squinting. “That's
mine,” he said, and began to paddle. He was on his feet in another minute, his back flexing as he shifted his weight.

Andrew was on his stomach, bobbing up and down with the waves. August had come so quickly this year—the city was empty, but the beaches were full, dotted with people young and old. Andrew wished he'd taken Harry to the beach more as a kid—they went every so often, maybe once or twice a summer, but that was it. It struck him as a grand injustice, a wrong he had done. The kids playing on the sand were digging holes, they were building castles with plastic buckets. Harry was just like Elizabeth, prone to indoor activities, and Andrew thought it was all his fault for not intervening. They'd never gone camping without a car. They'd never driven a Winnebago. They'd never gone down a zip line or made a bonfire. Andrew wanted to cry, thinking of all the things he'd deprived his son of, just because he hadn't thought to do them. Up ahead, Dave had easily coasted all the way to the sand. The water was shallow, and by the time Dave reached the beach, he was just skimming the ground like he was on a giant skateboard, which he sort of was, more or less. It looked so easy. Dave was probably thirty-five, and Andrew wondered if he'd ever been married or if he had any kids. He surely would have mentioned a kid, unless it had been in some seriously bad situation and they weren't in touch, and Andrew couldn't imagine that being the case. Dave seemed like a bachelor, in a good way. Unencumbered.

A slightly bigger wave rolled out from underneath him, and Andrew pushed himself up so that he was straddling the board again, his legs dangling in the water on either side. Dave waved from the beach and shouted something that Andrew couldn't hear. He turned around to see what was coming—surfing was sort of like fishing in a lake, lots of waiting and watching, only with an increased likelihood of drowning. There was a wave coming, and Andrew decided to paddle. He flopped back onto his stomach too quickly, and it stung, but he
didn't have time to think about it—he started to paddle and paddle with his head and chest up, just like in yoga class, until the wave was underneath him and the board was doing what it was supposed to—keeping him and the wave apart. For a second, Andrew was doing it—he dragged his feet to a low crouch and then pushed himself up to stand, almost. His knees were bent and his arms were out. He felt like Philippe Petit walking between the Twin Towers. Andrew wanted to look for Dave and give a thumbs-up or a wave, but he knew that if he did, he would fall. But then he started to fall anyway, and as he was falling off to the left side of the board, Andrew looked toward the beach and thought he saw Harry and Ruby standing just behind Dave, her big curly hair wound up like a ball of yarn on top of her head. But then he hit the water, and he went for a short ride in the Atlantic Ocean washing machine, and when his head popped back up, they were gone. Andrew grabbed the board and used it to kick the rest of the way to the sand.

“You totally had it,” Dave said, offering Andrew a hand. “Next time will be even better.”

“I thought I just saw my kid,” Andrew said, looking around the beach. There were tons of young people on the sand, lying around with supermarket gossip magazines and cheap beach umbrellas, but he didn't see Harry. “I swear, he was just standing right behind you.”

“Like a vision,” Dave said, nodding. “Far out.”

“No, I mean, he was standing there, right there!” Andrew pointed, as if the sand would offer a map.

“I get it,” Dave said, his mouth flat, his eyes blank. So there it was—he didn't have kids, Andrew could tell. He was looking back at the water, his board sticking straight up toward the cloudless sky overhead. “Want to try again?”

“Sure,” Andrew said. He took one last sweep of the beach, looking for Ruby's hair, but still didn't see them. She was trouble, just like her mother, and Andrew was tired of pretending not to care. “Let's do
it,” he said, and threw his board back into the water, forgetting that it was still attached to his leg, which made him stumble and fall in the low, foamy surf.

“It's cool,” Dave said. “You're getting the hang of it already.”

Andrew was embarrassed but didn't let it show. “Let's go again.”