Time of My Life_ A Novel - Allison Winn Scotch [74]
Or perhaps not. The edges are so blurred these days between reality and fiction, between this life and the other, that nothing seems linear anymore. Nothing seems concrete, and I often find myself trying to decipher what is real, as if I might have dreamed or imagined all the rest.
I am arched over my desk, my shoulder blades cramped and deep into comparing a gray-hued font with a grayish-silver-hued font, when Gene buzzes from his desk.
“Cute boy here to see you,” he says, masking his enthusiasm to let me know that he’s still annoyed that I kept him here until 11:30 the night before.
“Jack,” I answer. “Send him in.” I reach my hand over my shoulder to massage a throbbing knot.
“Not Jack,” Gene answers. “Definitely not Jack. And I already sent him back.”
Before I can reply, knuckles rap on my doorjamb, and Henry pokes his head inside. I jolt like a rat away from a trap. Even when we dated the first time around, Henry didn’t make office calls, so seeing him here, out of his element in so many ways, is both disconcerting and welcome. Not that in my prior life, Henry needed to stop by: Back then, I was home by 7:00, and he was never later than 8:00. The balance, at least for the first few years, was still there.
“Hey.” He smiles and his entire face illuminates. It’s a smile that I barely remember. When did you lose that? I think. Did I stop noticing or did I seep the happiness right out of you? “I was in the building at a meeting and remembered that you worked here. Thought I’d stop by.” He saunters in and sits, that loopy grin still splashed across him.
“Hey,” I say back. “Sure, of course, I could use a distraction.” I gesture to the mountains of work stacked atop my desk. “Er, it’s nice to see you.” Too nice, I realize, as my blood pressure noticeably skyrockets.
“You, too. How’s your couch?” Is that a euphemism for my boyfriend? I wonder. My forehead wrinkles.
“Good,” I say. “Comfortable. Yours?”
“Oh, well, I wasn’t looking for one that day. Celeste was. But she didn’t end up getting anything.” Is that a euphemism for they broke up?
“Too bad.” I shrug. “They had nice couches.”
“Yes, they did,” he answers and grins. Is that a euphemism for you want me? My eyebrows dart down. This coding system was beginning to confuse me.
“So how did things go with your mother?” Henry asks.
I can’t believe that he remembers! The Henry I married wasn’t nearly this thoughtful.
“Oh, I can’t believe that you remembered,” I say aloud.
“Of course.” He folds his hands underneath his chin, as if his remembering were the most natural thing in the world.
Then why couldn’t you remember to bring home fucking milk when I asked you to? Why couldn’t you remember when I had a goddamn girls’ night out, which I so desperately needed to reconnect with my old self, and you’d schedule a work dinner anyway?
“I met her for lunch, and . . .” I pause. “It was complicated.”
“How so?” he asks.
“In a lot of ways, but, you know, I’ll manage,” I say, as I feel myself slipping into my old married patterns with Henry. Talking about a lot of things, revealing very little.
“Hit me with ’em.” He shifts his legs in the chair. “Come on, spill.” Who are you and what have you done with the man I married?
I sigh. “My mother has a daughter, which I guess means that I have a sister. And this girl is the same age now as when my mother left . . .” My voice drifts. “She told me about her, and, I don’t know, it all seemed like too much. Like she was maybe trying to repay her debt to me because of this girl whom she looked at every day and felt guilty about, not because it was the right thing to do by me.”
“Man, I’m