Page 39 of The One Where They Fall in Love

“Have you looked in a mirror? You look like the young, hotter guy they should have cast as Michael Corleone instead of Al Pacino.”

“And that means I know the mafia?”

“Definitely,” she nods, bouncing Thor like he’s a baby.

“Have you eaten breakfast yet? You’re being weird.”

“No comment,” she mumbles, visibly annoyed that I canmake such a deduction about her.

“Alright,God-willing,I’ll be back by five, maybe six o’clock. Lay off the treats and don’t let him bite his leash so much,” I say, a little too commanding. I place a hand on Thor’s head and scratch behind his ears.

“Remember the wholefreedog-sitting thing? This is a no-rules zone. Take your treat-limiting talk somewhere else, pal,” she says, taking a step back and closing the door on me.

A second later she opens it again, a remorseful look on her face. “I’m sorry, say a proper goodbye. I was just trying to be dramatic.”

“How unlike you,” I say, giving Thor a pat on the head. As I get closer to Elle, I’m hit with a wave of vanilla and citrus. I have to swallow hard before leaning back. Our eyes lock, but the moment ends quickly when Elle takes a more pronounced step back, adjusts Thor to one hip, reaches her hand out slowly, and whips the door closed. I try to muffle my laughter.

As I stand facing the closed white door, I imagine what it would be like to forgo the trip home, stay here with Elle and watch Netflix all day. Maybe take a walk to the park. Get some take-out. Friends can do that, can’t they?

But instead, I get on the Long Island Railroad—my own personal monorail to hell.

Oliver

How did it go with Elle?

Casual message. Hard to read anything into it. Just a friend checking in with a friend.

Henry

Didn’t work out. She’s super cool tho.

I jerk forward in my seat, the few passengers around me giving me a sideways glance.

Didn’t work out? What does that mean? She thought it didn’t work out? Or him?

I can’t ask any of that. I’m notthatneedy. I’m just overthinking this whole thing. I’m being obsessive. I have to get Elle and her yoga class and her cute pajamas out of my head. I have to break the cycle of thinking. Becausethisis the very reason why I’m not the guy for her.

And what better way to get my mind off of it than to spend the day crammed into a small house with my extended family?

It’s my mother’s birthday, so everyone and their second cousin are coming. Literally. My grandparents and two aunts live within a two-block radius of my parents. We have a little monopoly on the zip code, especially given that my twootheraunts live next door to my parents. It’s a lot.

And I feel like every time I go away and come back to my family home, they get louder.

Like,muchlouder.

Come to think of it, maybe this is why I’m so sensitive to the volume of music playing in my headphones or the volume of the TV. I’ve been audio-traumatized by my overly loud family. I can’t be the only one. I should form a support group for this to go with the one for residents.

When I arrive, I take a deep breath and embrace my fate. Two minutes later, I wish I had brought face wash, because I have layers of grandma and auntie lipstick smothered on my cheeks.

“You look tired, Ollie,” my mother says, forgoing any niceties and wrapping her arms around my midsection.She’s the smallest of our family, with coarse black hair that has strands of gray strewn throughout. It’s a wonder that Sophia and I got my dad’s height.

Once I greet everyone and slyly wipe my hands down my face, I take a spot on the most uncomfortable leather couch in the world, next to my dad. He’s already parked himself in the corner recliner and has the TV remote in hand. He must be on call today because he has a Diet Coke beside him rather than a beer. I dread the following conversation before it’s even begun.

“Dr. Cole,” he says. He holds a hand out to me.

“Dr. Cole,” I repeat, indulging him. He looks thinner than the last time I saw him, not that I can recall when that was. Christmas maybe? His face is more drawn, and there’s more gray than black in his hair. His hair is gelled back and his thick glasses are high on his nose. He’s wearing a collared golf shirt and dockers, eerily similar to my own attire.

Is this my future? This—sitting on a recliner waiting to be paged for an emergency? Tired from hours of working, only to be called to work some more? And for what, a good salary? What about everything else?