Page 63 of Good at Being Alive
“You know you don’t actuallyhaveto guess the time. We’realwaysfive hours earlier than London in the summer.”
“And the couch?” he asks. “The donut holes?”
“You’re batting fifty percent, if that’s how batting percentages work, though you wouldn’t know either, being British.” I stretch out, as if making myself comfortable for a long chat. “Iamon the couch, but I ate all the donut holes yesterday. I’d better order more before dinner.”
“Here’s a thought,” he says, and I already know that I will hate the words that come next. “Maybe you should go for a run.”
Yep, I knew I would hate them. “For your information, I went for a run already. I go early, so I don’t have to talk to the neighbors.”
“When I come there, we’re doing ten miles,” he says. “You’ve got to get your mileage up.”
“Brian just said this week isn’t good,” I reply. “We’ll get back to you with a date.”
The next day he sends me an article entitled “What to Do with That Kid Who Won’t Get Off Your Couch” and, though I’m probably pushing the boundaries of our friendship, I call him. “Thank you for the article, but I can’t waste money on therapy, and the other solutions it offered sound dull.”
He laughs. “You realize you’ve called me at eleven p.m., yes?”
“Oh, sorry. Is thecomplicationcurrently sucking your dick? If you’re close, I can just hold.”
“You must give an incredibly bad blow job if you think a man would answer the phoneduringone.”
He may have a point.
“Hmmm, I don’t think they’re bad. Let me ask.” I hold my hand over the phone and shout to the far corners of the house. “Hey, Brian? How are my blow jobs?”
“Now,” says Theo, “we’re running twelve miles when I get there.”
I’m laughing as I hang up the phone. I’m also wishing I didn’t have to hang up, that we could just…shoot the shit. That he could continue being rude and uptight and say British stuff until I finally drifted off to sleep, which would probably happen fast, as he’s not that interesting.
A full day passes without any contact and the minutes feel infinite. I wake early Wednesday, my heart doing this weirdtripping thing when I picture his arrival. I run, shower, then spend a full hour deciding what to wear before choosing to wear as little as possible. His flight is delayed getting into Newark—the waiting is unbearable—and it’s late when the cab pulls up in front of the house. I stand at the door, hungry for his reaction…which doesn’t disappoint.
His eyes close and he releases a heavy sigh as he walks up to the house. “Rebecca,” he says in that teacher-scolding-a-student voice I love.
I’m so happy to see him that it’s as if I’m fizzing over with it, a champagne bottle shaken too hard. “I’m not happy to see you,” I tell him, returning to the couch and turning on the TV. “Stay out of all the rooms and stay out of the kitchen.”
“I’m not happy to see you either,” he says, “and I’m beginning to worry I’m going to find a head in your freezer one day.”
“That’s impossible, because I’ve already told you not to look.”
He laughs as he adjusts the bag on his shoulder. “Seven a.m., Rebecca. Be ready to run.”
“I’m not running ten miles with you,” I reply. “I don’t know how many times I need to say this.”
• • •
Running ten miles with the tall, dreamy Theo Porter sucks. I expected this. But I didn’t expect it to suck before we’d made it a full block down the street, thanks to Mrs. Johnson waving us over. She played pickleball with Jessie and Jessie said she cheated. This probably just means Jessie resented losing, but I certainly was left with the impression that this chick and Jessie weren’tactualfriends but “women who hated each other” friends.
“Let me meet your young man, Rebecca,” she calls, walking down her driveway.
“Fuck my life,” I sigh.
“Rebecca,” warns my “young man.”
I’mBexwhen I’m funny-bad andRebeccawhen I’m just bad-bad.
“I’d heard you got married, but wow, you really shot for the moon, didn’t you?” Mrs. Johnson asks, clutching her newspaper to her chest as she looks at Theo with starry eyes. She’s one of those women who was pretty once and hasn’t quite grasped that her seductress era has come to an end. I’ll be like that too, one day, humiliating myself as I hit on men I could have given birthto.
“Mrs. Johnson, this is my husband, Theo,” I say dully. “Theo, Mrs. Johnson was a friend of Jessie’s.”
