Time of My Life_ A Novel - Allison Winn Scotch [46]
“Seeing her there, you know, stuck in bed, and looking so frail,” Jack says tonight between sips of a Heineken, “you know, I just realized. It’s time to shit or get off the pot.”
“That sounds fantastic,” I answer, only mildly engaged; I’ve heard this false start before. Many, many times before. I lace up my sneakers to head out for a late run.
“Oh, by the way,” he says, “Leigh told me you guys had a great time at the zoo yesterday. I’ve officially been given my family’s seal of approval.”
“You needed a seal of approval?” I stand upright and try to sound less offended than I am. “You’re twenty-seven years old, Jack. You seriously need their approval?”
I think of Henry and how after he proposed, he told me that he’d taken my father for drinks before our Paris trip, not so much to ask for his permission, but to assure my dad that he’d watch over me for the rest of my days. It wasn’t approval that he sought, and I admired him, always, for that confidence, of never second-guessing, of being sure of his choices because for him, his choices were sensical, like a math problem resolving itself as it was intended to be solved.
“Well, of course I need their approval,” Jack says, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Family comes first, and if you’re going to be a part of my family, I’d just want to be sure that we all jelled.”
“We’ve been dating for two years. And only now you’re worried about jelling?” I say tersely. The lace on my left shoe feels too loose, and I wiggle my heel to secure my foothold.
“Well, maybe now,” he says, moving toward me and placing his hands on my hips, “I’m ready to make it more than two years.”
I open my mouth to say more but I’m so stunned by his innuendo—that was innuendo, right? I think—that I opt to overlook my irritation at his need for familial approval. I’d grown so accustomed to turning a blind eye that it wasn’t hard to do.
“Okay, get going on your run,” he continues. “I want to fire up the computer and get writing. I figure if I crank every night after work for the next month, I might be able to get this to agents by Thanksgiving.”
“Sounds great,” I answer. “Dive back in there. Just like you always say.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he says, cocking his head in question.
“Nothing.” I shrug, too late. The tiny slip of judgment flew out of me before I could clamp down on it.
“Nice try. What did you mean by that?” he says.
“Forget it,” I answer, heading toward the door to squeeze in the jog before the sun disappears completely.
“No, seriously, Jill, what the hell was that supposed to mean?”
Oh fuck it, I think. His earlier comments about Leigh are still sticking under my skin like a wayward flea, but more so, I’m still broiling with resentment at his refusal to take me along to aid his mother the previous weekend. I can feel my anger pulsing through my blood, even as I try to pretend that I’ve washed it clean. His in-ability to acknowledge any wrongdoing riles me further.
So why don’t you just say that? I ask myself. Why don’t you just launch in and tell him the goddamn truth?
“It’s just that this is a pattern, you know; you stop, you start, you flounder, you get back up, but it never amounts to anything.” I pause, considering. “I guess I just wonder why you bother, when it doesn’t seem like you’re really that interested in writing in the first place.” I exhale, relieved to nick his armor in the same way that he nicked mine, even while knowing that this is the very thing, these whittling arguments, that I’ve been dodging—like tiptoeing around broken glass—since my return.
“Well, that’s awfully below the belt,” he says, his voice elevated, his eyebrows askew. “And for the record, you couldn’t be more wrong.”
“Fine,” I sigh. “I’m wrong.” I’m struck with an odd sensation of not caring too much either way, a passivity that feels unfamiliar, like I might have actually neutered myself.
“No,” he escalates. “I can’t even believe that you have that little faith in