thought he was
pretending
to be annoyed about my plans to meet an ex-boyfriend for drinks. (I had since admitted
to Dave that I was wrong about that fight; we were still in the early stage and had
the roles been flip-flopped, I would have been insecure too.)
Still, that face. I probably found it cute at the time, but I was long over that now.
I smiled back to mitigate the flash of resentment I felt.
It was late afternoon on Friday, July 4; Duane Covington and all other corporate Midtown
offices had shut down hours before, but Dave, stubbornly, perversely, remained in
the office/guest room, turned three-quarters away from me, his arms folded over his
chest and his lower lip stuck out.
“So basically,” I said, “you’ll shower and leave the house for my parents but not
for me.”
He sighed, deeply and slowly, an inhalation that seemed to take roughly five seconds
to travel up through his nose, expand visibly through his chest and be expelled, in
a rush of dramatic frustration, through his mouth.
“That’s okay.” I leaned against the doorframe of his office and tried not to be bothered
by the vaguely moldy smell that had bloomed over the past four days. His current diet
was Coke, Eskimo bars, Cap’n Crunch and Pink Floyd on a loop—nothing capable of decaying.
Was the smell possibly from
him
? “I understand. Not gonna pretend it’s not annoying, but I get it.”
“So you’d prefer that I fake it with you?”
“Of course not.”
“Then schlepping to see some lame fireworks along with five million strangers is about
the least compelling thing I can think of to do right now.”
“I understand why we can’t leave the city for the holiday weekend, even though everyone
else has—”
“You could’ve gone.”
“Right. Like I’d desert you now.”
“Come on, Paige. It’s not about me. You have to stay for Sloane anyway.”
“You’ve been in this room for four days. You need to leave. Just for an hour or two.”
I desperately needed an evening out as well. “Welcome to tough love, Dave. How many
times have you left the apartment since Tuesday?”
He shrugged.
“You’ve left once.”
“I’ve left twice.”
“What was the second?”
“Mail room.”
“As in the one in the lobby of this building?” Eyebrows raised, I walked over to his
desk, where a newspaper was carefully folded up next to his keyboard.
I pressed my finger hard against the headline about the financial scandal, and Dave
recoiled, like his nerves had annexed the paper. “Did you just wince?” I poked the
article and kept my finger on it, feeling like a locker room bully. Dave regarded
me warily.
“Are you getting your work done?”
“Yes.”
“Has anyone complained that you’ve missed deadlines?”
“No.”
“Has Herb said anything new to make you worried this won’t blow over?”
“No.”
“I am doing my best here not to push you.” No response. “But it’s time. You. Need.
To. Go. Out.”
Dave tilted his head to the side for a moment before giving me the briefest nod. Displaying
a shred of self-awareness that I had feared extinct, he got up out of his chair and
walked past me. Two minutes later I heard the shower running.
My victory was short-lived. Dave emerged from our bedroom freshly shaved and cleanly
dressed in a button-down shirt and Bermuda shorts, staring down at his work phone
and grumbling about missing a call while in the shower.
I ignored him and grabbed our picnic basket with two hands. I had ordered it in February—right
after we put down our deposit on the Quogue house—fueled by fantasies of sipping wine
on the beach, our grapes and cheese protected from the sand by a little red checkered
blanket. The thing was ridiculously heavy, intended for riding in the backseat of
a convertible along roads bordered in sea grass. We were taking the subway; Dave had
made clear that if he was going to be so stupid and weak as to
pretending
to be annoyed about my plans to meet an ex-boyfriend for drinks. (I had since admitted
to Dave that I was wrong about that fight; we were still in the early stage and had
the roles been flip-flopped, I would have been insecure too.)
Still, that face. I probably found it cute at the time, but I was long over that now.
I smiled back to mitigate the flash of resentment I felt.
It was late afternoon on Friday, July 4; Duane Covington and all other corporate Midtown
offices had shut down hours before, but Dave, stubbornly, perversely, remained in
the office/guest room, turned three-quarters away from me, his arms folded over his
chest and his lower lip stuck out.
“So basically,” I said, “you’ll shower and leave the house for my parents but not
for me.”
He sighed, deeply and slowly, an inhalation that seemed to take roughly five seconds
to travel up through his nose, expand visibly through his chest and be expelled, in
a rush of dramatic frustration, through his mouth.
“That’s okay.” I leaned against the doorframe of his office and tried not to be bothered
by the vaguely moldy smell that had bloomed over the past four days. His current diet
was Coke, Eskimo bars, Cap’n Crunch and Pink Floyd on a loop—nothing capable of decaying.
Was the smell possibly from
him
? “I understand. Not gonna pretend it’s not annoying, but I get it.”
“So you’d prefer that I fake it with you?”
“Of course not.”
“Then schlepping to see some lame fireworks along with five million strangers is about
the least compelling thing I can think of to do right now.”
“I understand why we can’t leave the city for the holiday weekend, even though everyone
else has—”
“You could’ve gone.”
“Right. Like I’d desert you now.”
“Come on, Paige. It’s not about me. You have to stay for Sloane anyway.”
“You’ve been in this room for four days. You need to leave. Just for an hour or two.”
I desperately needed an evening out as well. “Welcome to tough love, Dave. How many
times have you left the apartment since Tuesday?”
He shrugged.
“You’ve left once.”
“I’ve left twice.”
“What was the second?”
“Mail room.”
“As in the one in the lobby of this building?” Eyebrows raised, I walked over to his
desk, where a newspaper was carefully folded up next to his keyboard.
I pressed my finger hard against the headline about the financial scandal, and Dave
recoiled, like his nerves had annexed the paper. “Did you just wince?” I poked the
article and kept my finger on it, feeling like a locker room bully. Dave regarded
me warily.
“Are you getting your work done?”
“Yes.”
“Has anyone complained that you’ve missed deadlines?”
“No.”
“Has Herb said anything new to make you worried this won’t blow over?”
“No.”
“I am doing my best here not to push you.” No response. “But it’s time. You. Need.
To. Go. Out.”
Dave tilted his head to the side for a moment before giving me the briefest nod. Displaying
a shred of self-awareness that I had feared extinct, he got up out of his chair and
walked past me. Two minutes later I heard the shower running.
My victory was short-lived. Dave emerged from our bedroom freshly shaved and cleanly
dressed in a button-down shirt and Bermuda shorts, staring down at his work phone
and grumbling about missing a call while in the shower.
I ignored him and grabbed our picnic basket with two hands. I had ordered it in February—right
after we put down our deposit on the Quogue house—fueled by fantasies of sipping wine
on the beach, our grapes and cheese protected from the sand by a little red checkered
blanket. The thing was ridiculously heavy, intended for riding in the backseat of
a convertible along roads bordered in sea grass. We were taking the subway; Dave had
made clear that if he was going to be so stupid and weak as to
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