Time of My Life_ A Novel - Allison Winn Scotch [92]
I peel off my coat, hang it on the front doorknob, and exhale. Relax! Just freaking relax!
“Wow, eggnog!” I say, moving into his living room to survey the place. “You really went all out.”
“Full confession,” he says, hands up like a newly disarmed bank robber. “I ran down to the deli downstairs and picked up whatever they had.” He laughs. “We will be decidedly ungourmet tonight.” He pauses to survey me now that I’ve peeled off the protective elements. “You look great.”
“Well, I’ll take an eggnog,” I answer, deflecting the compliment. You are not supposed to like me dressed like a rodent! That is not your thing! “Deli style or not.”
I watch him for a moment in his tiny galley kitchen, barefoot in his faded jeans and rumpled navy cable sweater, then turn back toward the expanse of the apartment. It is spare, more so than I remember it, with a black leather couch and an oversized TV screen that is on but muted, and a beige rug with a tiny ribbon pattern that’s only noticeable if you’re sitting on the floor. Honey-colored built-in bookshelves line the back wall, and they’re gorged with stacks and piles of hardcovers, most of which, I already know, are autobiographies of famous explorers or historians or politicians or examinations of science and medicine and the world at large. A wooden desk peers out over his living room window, and other than a computer, it is virtually bare: no picture frames, no cluttered mail.
Is this how I became so linear? I think. Is this why I flitted around the house to ensure that nothing was out of place, so nothing ever shifted for him? I twist my engagement ring around my finger, and remember how, when we moved to the suburbs, I was determined to pull together a magazine-worthy home, how desperately I needed to leave behind my scars from my mother and the mess of my old closet and my desk and, really, of my former life. No, I say to myself now. Henry isn’t why you became what you became. It‘s not so simple as that. Though maybe his need for order is what drew you to him in the first place.
Henry nudges me from behind. “Your drink, ma’am.”
I turn, taking the eggnog, foamy in a glass beer mug, from him, and smile.
“A toast,” he says, raising his bottle of Amstel.
“To what?” I ask, though I raise my glass just the same.
“To . . .” He hesitates and thinks. “To life. To time. To 2001. To the way that we got here and the places we’re going.”
A rush of tears floods my eyes, but I blink them back before he can take notice. “I’ll drink to that,” I say, then sip my actually pretty-good eggnog, though not as good as the homemade version that I’d eventually make for our various neighborhood Christmas events.
“So what happened with your mom?” Henry asks, depositing himself on the couch.
“Well, what’s more interesting is what happened with my dad, actually,” I reply and join him. “Turns out, he forgave her a long time ago.” I shrug. “I guess he feels like he holds some responsibility in all of it.”
“He probably did,” Henry says simply. “Where there’s an effect, there’s usually a cause.”
“So says your professor of a father,” I say with a grin.
“So says he.” He smiles back. “But, I mean, for the most part, it’s true. That’s always what I’ve found most difficult about relationships, how . . .”—he swigs from his beer and searches for the phrasing—“how tough it can be to change in conformance to the other person. It just seems like one person is always changing too much and the other not enough. And then the cause and effect just makes it worse. You feel like you’ve given too much, but then keep giving because the other person doesn’t . . .” He drifts off. “It’s just never easy. Not for me, at least.”
“Not for me, either,” I say, wondering why Henry and I have never spoken frankly like this before, or, if we did, back in the whirlwind days of our dating life, why I’d forgotten such conversations when life pushed us in other directions.
“But you’re marrying Jack,” he offers. “It must