Page 32 of Good at Being Alive
“Man, twenty-four hours sharing a roof and you’re already acting like a real husband. Next you’ll be commenting on my weight.”
His sigh is heavy with disgust. “I’ll be leaving straight for the airport from the office tomorrow. So you won’t have to continue putting yourself out on my behalf.”
He’s leaving far sooner than I’d expected. I’m not sure why there’s this pinch of disappointment at the news instead of outright glee.
“Excellent,” I reply, unpausing the TV. “I’m tired of wearing panties in my own home.”
His downward gaze appears to be involuntary. I’m pretty sure he’s looking for the panties.
“I had an interesting chat with Lars last night by the way. He told me your mother was a really famous physicist.”
I stiffen, pausing the TV once more. “And?”
“And at first I thought,There’s no way that Rebecca is the product of a famous physicist,and then I realized that you and your mother are two sides of the same coin: she’s what happens if you do too much with your intellect, and you’re what happens if you do nothing with it.”
“I’d suggest that Jessie was possessing your body again, but Jessie would never have said anything flattering about my mom.” I hit play on the remote and crank the volume. I got the last word, but somehow I’ve still lost.
I always lose when my mother enters the conversation. Because what does it say when your mother was a terrible person who was going to leave your father—and probably you—and people still think you’re even worse?
Bex
I leave for my seven-hour flightto Amsterdam clad in aridiculousoutfit: skin-tight white jeans, Chanel ballet flats, a white blouse, and a cashmere pashmina in the palest beige. Someone needs to tell Mindy how much I eat and how poorly I doit.
I restrict myself mostly to candy and Sprite simply because it won’t stain. Conveniently, I was going to consume mostly candy and Sprite anyhow.
They’ve forewarned me that my ecstatic reunion with Theo will be caught on camera. His flight landed only twenty minutes before my own, so he’ll be waiting in baggage claim. The pressure to make this look legit is intense, but harder on him, given that he undoubtedly hasn’t forgiven me for the interview debacle and for being such a dick to him at my home last week. I’m still mad at him too, though I’m not sure why, and I’m weirdly eager to see him in spite of that. I hope he hasn’t shaved. I like when that hint of savagery has been allowed to see the light of day.
No, wait. I hope hehasshaved. I don’t need to be any more attracted to him than I alreadyam.
Lars:Okay, guys: you’re newlyweds and you’ve been separated for a week so please act like it. Bex, Theo is standing toward the back of the luggage carousel. It would be nice if you could sort of run toward him?
Me:You clearly aren’t aware how tight these pants are.
Lars:Fast walk then. Smile on your face. Theo, you might want to pick her up off the ground when you hug her.
Theo:I’d have to put down my coffee for that. Though Rebecca’s probably already spilled coffee on herself so perhaps it’s not an issue.
Me:Go fuck yourself, Theo.
It’s not my best work, but I’m busy getting through customs.
The camera crew makes it easy to spy my handsome husband amidst the people and bags and shouting. He’s wearing khaki pants and a button-down with the sleeves rolledup.
His smile is irritatingly, intoxicatingly smug.
He has not shaved.
I force my mouth to mimic his. His smile grows even more mocking, alerting me to the fact that I’ve failed, and the camera is memorializing this horrifying rictus grin I now wear.
He’s trying not to laugh. My irritation grows.
I didn’t want to hug him before but now I can barely stand the idea. What I’d like to do is yank him down by the collar so hard he chokes. I want to watch fear and desire fight in his expression. And then I will push him into that closet to his left and hate-fuck him until he’s got no energy left for disdain. I will hate-fuck him until he’s a useless shell who simply laughs when I suggest he jerk off to eighteenth-century poets or that his mother’s Instagram handle is @cumslut69. I will force him into a chair, climb in his lap, and bite his lip while I ride him until his perfect scruff has abraded my skin and we’ve both come so hard that our bones ache. And when that happens, I want him tolaugh at every joke I’ve ever made, all the jokes he’s heretofore rolled his eyes at, and beg me toreallymarry him.
All so I can tell himno.
He steps forward when I get close. We collide rather than connect and maybe it appears passionate but more likely we just look like two dorks who’ve never engaged with the opposite sex in any way. I wrap my arms around his neck, his go around my waist, and when I look up at him, his eyes mirror the same dark realization I’ve just arrived at myself: we have to kiss, even if it’s brief. Wehaveto. What newlywed couple reunites at the airport after being separated for a week and doesn’t kiss?
My dread as I go on my toes and he leans down is oddly like eagerness, warm and raw in my belly, bleeding heat into my veins. His lips press to mine. He tastes like coffee, which should be gross except I love coffee, and his lips are lovely and soft and warm, and I’m suddenly a bottomless pit of need, a girl who hasn’t been kissed by anyone but him in months and hasn’t been kissed sober in a year at least. For a half second my eyes fall closed, and I would like to stay…but I definitely cannot.
