Choose Your Own Love Story

by Ilyse Mimoun

  “You know, Dad,” J. P. beams at you, “she loves literature. She used to teach at a high school.” J. P. loves hearing stories about your early work as an emergency substitute English teacher. He loves hearing everything about you.

  Mr. Moretti’s eye twitches. “I know your generation has to be politically correct with all the female authors, but you can’t leave out the greats.” He pours more wine in your glass.

  “Oh, I didn’t, sir,” you say obediently. “We did Fitzgerald, Faulkner . . . but, yes, we did include important women authors like Flannery O’Connor, Eudora Welty, Toni Morrison . . .” J. P.’s parents exchange a knowing snort.

  “Toni Morrison—ugh!” Mother pushes the air with her hands.

  “You don’t like Toni Morrison?” You hadn’t realized this was a debatable issue.

  “Garbage!” Mr. Moretti says.

  You don’t know if it is possible to dislike Toni Morrison without being racist, but at the moment you’re scrambling to determine if you should just shrug sweetly or showcase the “spunk” J. P. said they would enjoy.

  Keep drinking and stay quiet.

  Continue to page 93, section 27.

  27

  You guzzle your wine and smile.

  “Ever fuck any of your students?” Steve asks, laughing. J. P. shares his mother’s fair skin and fine hair, whereas Steve has his dad’s olive complexion and thick black hair. There’s some resemblance in the brothers’ faces, but Steve’s is more brooding. You blush.

  “Shut up,” J. P. warns.

  “It’s a legitimate question! I mean, they’re almost of age.”

  “Don’t listen to him,” Mrs. Moretti says. “THERE’S NOTHING WRONG WITH IT!”

  “Well . . . even if that were the case . . .” you falter. “I’d never have . . .”

  “I’m sure young boys tried to seduce you,” Mr. Moretti says, his eye twitching. “No one ever wants to talk honestly about how seductive students can be. Look at all the little temptresses ruining our country.”

  “Well . . . I’m not sure that’s true . . .” You’re getting a little light-headed.

  “Don’t worry, sweetie,” Mother says. “We’re just busting your balls!” The family all laughs, so you join in. Frankly, you don’t know what the hell is going on.

  Mother whisks away your salad bowls and replaces them with larger plates teeming with broiled beef ribs smothered in barbeque sauce.

  “Jeez, Mom, I told you I’m trying to take it easy on that stuff,” J. P. says.

  “IT’S LIGHT!” Mother says.

  “You like the art in here?” Steve asks, winking at you.

  It’s only at this moment that you get a closer look at the giant paintings on the wall in front of you. You had noticed their bright red splashes and even the somber look in the faces of the men painted. You hadn’t noticed that they are naked and holding their erect penises.

  “Wow,” you say. “Those certainly . . . make a statement.”

  Mr. Moretti refills your wine glass again. “They were painted by a dear friend of ours. Some of it may seem over-the-top, but his brushwork is really quite accomplished. That’s his stuff behind you as well.” You scan a large black-and-white drawing of a party filled with beautiful naked guests having an orgy that includes wolves and pigs. The guests are male, female, and some have both sets of genitals.

  “I’m sure that’s amazing . . . I don’t know that much about art.” Nor do you know how to eat ribs without floss, a mirror, and a bib.

  “She’s churning out food reviews on weekends when she should be going to museums,” J. P. says fondly.

  “Why should she go to a museum? Your generation has no WORK ETHIC!” Mother pushes the air again, “your generation” now bumping into “Toni Morrison.”

  “Is that a jab at me?” Steve asks.

  “You’re not her generation,” J. P. says.

  “These ribs are terrific,” you say.

  “Well done, Mom,” J. P. agrees.

  “So many barbeque sauces are just political bullshit!” Mr. Moretti says pleasantly. You’re beginning to think J. P. is the only sane one in his bunch, but his membership to the herd is disconcerting. Why has he not talked about them more? Why has he not mentioned their eccentricities? What do you really know about J. P. anyway?

  Mr. Moretti continues: “So Uncle William’s PSA tests came back in. The cancer is gone for now.” The family raises their glasses in unison to toast the good news. You wonder if there is something genetic to worry about.

  “Now all I need is my cash flow straightened out,” says Steve, running his fingers through his thick hair, “and the whole family is back on track.”

  “Unbelievable—he can even make our uncle’s cancer about him,” J. P. mutters.

  “What? I’m thrilled for Uncle William. I forgot that the great legal scholar never thinks of himself––he’s too busy saving the lives of overprivileged law-school wannabes.”

  “Brothers shouldn’t fight,” Mr. Moretti says. “It leads to indigestion. William and I never fight, even though he is a complete idiot. I mean, he’s fucking useless, that guy.”

  “Well, he loves the cat,” Mother says.

  You choose this moment to excuse yourself and stumble drunkenly to the bathroom. You tug your short black dress down so as not to be too exposed. You stare at the painting of a woman framed above the towel rack. The subject is topless with nipples so big and bright red, you feel visually assaulted. The background paper is marbled with a light psychedelic paisley. J. P. once joked that the whole family dropped acid together on New Year’s Eve. The realization that he might have been serious suddenly twists your stomach.

  You remind yourself that your own family is a few cupcakes shy of a picnic. But will you ever fit into the Moretti clan? What will happen on Christmas—you’ll all take mushrooms together and look at pornographic pictures of Santa? Don’t get ahead of yourself, you tell your reflection. Just get through the night. Stop judging so much! Your eye makeup is still holding up well, but you unzip your purse to reapply your lipstick. The action steadies you. J. P. is a wonderful guy, and this is a great relationship. Lighten up!

  You stride with more confidence out of the bathroom and march straight into Steve’s chest. It is broad and stretches his thin green T-shirt. He smells like wine and grime mixed together.

  “Watch where you’re going, babe,” Steve says roughly. “I wouldn’t want J. P. to see you pressing up against me.”

  “Ha ha––I’m staying out of it,” you say, not quite meeting his gaze. But Steve steps in your direction again so you can’t get past him without looking right into his dark, gleaming eyes. He pushes you against the wall and kisses you searchingly. You gasp in his mouth but don’t push him off. You let the kiss unfold, let Steve slide his hand up your dress and squeeze your ass. Then he breaks off from you and casually strolls into the bathroom.

  What have you done, you brazen monster?

  Confess your sins to J. P. and beg forgiveness!

  Turn to page 103, section 29.

  You are an idiot but not stupid enough to say anything.

  Keep your mouth shut and get back to your man!

  Turn to page 120, section 34.

  28

  Kicking Shelly out is awkward but necessary. You claim to have suddenly developed a migraine headache and need to lie down immediately. Shelly doesn’t seem perturbed by the change in plans––now she’ll be able to make it to an AA meeting. Max actually seems relieved and believes you about the headache. Later, when he comes to bed, you pretend you’re already asleep.

  And life returns to normal. You’re working from home and taking care of your son. Max is working long hours at the courthouse now, so you’re both still exhausted all the time. But it’s perfectly pleasant between you, and if there are invisible resentments hanging in the air, they don’t seem worth mentioning.

  A few months later there is dried puke on your nightgown when you discover your husband is cheatin
g.

  Max has a file on his computer titled L. You’re not supposed to go on his computer, and he doesn’t even know you know the password—“workingovertime.” It’s a terrible password. But you are snooping, and that’s how you find L.

  L is a series of digital photos of a glowing young woman in various states of undress. In a see-through nightie. In black lace bra and panties with a garter belt. Totally naked. Totally naked and touching herself.

  L looks twenty years old. You are now in your late thirties. L is tan with perfect skin. You are pale with stretch marks. L looks insouciant. You feel pretty souciant. Is it just that simple?

  The room won’t stop spinning. Your muscles feel like sandbags. You are weighted down to the chair. There’s adrenaline going, but you’re also exhausted. You guys have a three-year-old. This is not okay. That’s what you tell your son, Artie, sometimes too: This is not okay.

  “Mommy!” Artie cries. Artie has a poopie in his diaper. Artie makes a lot of poopies. “Yay!” you and Max say because you’re supposed to encourage it. Max calls them Superman poopies. Or the person you thought was Max said that. The person you thought was Max now seems blurry. You have no idea what anything is. You could let your son marinate in his own shit for hours while you try to reassemble your brain, but you aren’t that person. You tend to your son.

  You change his diaper and pour on the baby powder when he begs for more “fairy dust.” You make him honey wheat toast with sweet potatoes and spinach. You snuggle him and watch Clifford the Big Red Dog. You bury your face into his soft, powdered neck. You hug his little body, and he puts his tiny hand on your knee. It’s enough to make you sob, but you choke it back. Meanwhile, Clifford’s loyalty to Emily Elizabeth knows no bounds. He’d do anything for her, even dip himself in paint. That dog is fucking amazing. You wish you could jump on Clifford’s big red back and ride off into the sunset with him.

  Instead, you put on jeans and a crummy T-shirt and take Artie to the park. The kids say, Gimme! I want it! I don’t want to be a good boy! Everything has a double meaning now. Your stomach churns. You should probably eat something today, but you can’t.

  The other moms don’t seem as exhausted. They’re younger. They have personal trainers. Or they’re nannies. Some nannies are pretty hot these days. Is L a nanny? A stripper? A bad tipper?

  In earlier times there would be no digital pictures. Even simple e-mails would have been better. You can never unsee those photos. A ruddy-cheeked mom agrees to watch Artie so you can run to the bathroom and throw up. Then you rinse your mouth and come right back out to watch your son.

  Maybe e-mails would have been worse. E-mails could say, “I can’t stop thinking about you.” E-mails could say, “I can barely look at my wife—she’s so disgusting and tired all the time. If only we didn’t have that idiot kid, I’d leave her in a heartbeat.” E-mails could say, “I love you.”

  On the other hand, now Max is in control of the narrative. He can say, “Those are an office joke!” He can say, “I felt bad for her—her mother has a wooden leg.” He can say, “It was a terrible mistake—I’ll never see her again,” but that can be a lie.

  Mommy, push me, so you push Artie on the swing. Higher than an airplane! Higher than a tree! Higher than a giant fish! Higher than a giant meatball!

  During naptime you take a shower but don’t wash anything. You just stand under the hot water and wish today wasn’t happening. You wish it were yesterday or six months ago. Max had started coming home late, but Max came home late sometimes. You weren’t having a lot of sex, but that happens too. You felt off, but you can feel off. There was nothing to put your finger on. And you would never suspect Max of doing something like this. It was completely surreal; he was such a stand-up guy. Whatever his faults—controlling, whiny, grumpy—he wasn’t this.

  In fact, you had been snooping to see if anything was going on with Max financially. Max was the type to hide any concerns in this department. This wouldn’t have occurred to you. Your mom always said you are too trusting. You try to take in the information, but your mind keeps rejecting it, like a body that rejects an organ transplant. The information does not belong in your cells. It is wrong. It is so wrong, it maybe isn’t true? But it is true. It is L. He wouldn’t title the folder L if it weren’t true.

  You stand naked in front of your closet after the shower. What should you wear? What do you wear the day you discover your wonderful stand-up guy is an alien? Is a destroyer of trust? Do you wear something pretty to make him regret it? But this isn’t eighth grade—this is marriage. There is a mortgage, there is a child, there is supposed to be an understanding here. So you just put on your green terrycloth robe because there will probably be more puking today, from Artie and from yourself. You put your dirty wet hair up in bobby pins. You make yourself tea and plain toast but can only take two bites. You feel a million years old.

  After naptime Artie plays with his toys as you watch from the couch. You feel like mostly a zombie, but you smile when he looks over at you. Artie is being very good, not throwing anything like usual, only making a medium-sized mess. He seems pleased you’re not working like you usually are during this period. Or maybe he senses your sadness and is trying to be extra cute. And what are you going to do—run away with your son and raise him by yourself with no money and no father? Move back in with your Vicodin-zonked mother? You’re trapped, aren’t you? Whatever Max says, it will be words from the mouth of the New Max, so you won’t understand them. It’s like someone put a giant ox on the table and asked you to eat it. You don’t know where to begin.

  You got over Greg, you threw out a mermaid—you will get through this too. If you want to leave Max a note and begin a new life, turn to page 196, section 53.

  If you’d like to hear what Max has to say for himself, turn to page 149, section 41.

  29

  You stumble back into the dining room, tears streaming down your face and nose.

  “Honey, what’s wrong?” J. P. rushes over to you.

  “I kissed your brother!” you blurt. “He cornered me against a wall and I just—I don’t know what I was doing. It’s like I was purposely trying to ruin things, like I’m just so scared to try again, and you’re so great, and I just really love you—I think I love you!”

  While you’re babbling J. P. has turned as white as the wolf in the orgy painting. His parents’ mouths hang open, aghast. Steve is smirking.

  “I love you too,” J. P. whispers, and sweet relief restores breath to your lungs.

  “Thank god,” you murmur gratefully. “I’m so––”

  “In fact, I was sure you were the girl I was going to marry,” J. P. continues. “But this is the one thing I can’t forgive. Not my brother. I’m sorry.”

  Mrs. Moretti shakes her head in disapproval with this knowing look like she knew all along you were no good.

  “Ah, who cares, bro? Don’t throw her away over my stupid ass,” Steve offers.

  You look at J. P., praying his brother’s words will make a difference. You can see by his stony face that they don’t.

  “I’m so sorry,” you gurgle, but tears are making it hard to talk. “At least I told––”

  J. P. is not listening. There is nothing to give except up.

  You Uber a ride home, and as you sit in the backseat, your whole romantic life flashes before you in grand majestic sweeps of dog shit. So many mistakes made. So many red flags that should have been noticed or opportunities that should have been seized. You’re always doing the wrong thing, aren’t you? Isn’t that why you’re alone? You tip the driver and trudge to your door to find . . .

  Turn to page 109, section 32.

  30

  A few years ago you might have even eaten up Zack’s story, hoping to be his Florence Nightingale. But by now you’ve learned something: it’s not his troubled history; it’s the fact that he’s putting it out there so soon. This is what separates the winners and losers in the dating world—who can keep their crazy quiet the l
ongest.

  Zack vaguely notices how much of his cake you’ve eaten and takes a bite himself. He continues with his mouth full.

  “I just didn’t know what I needed at the time. I didn’t recognize I needed emotional comfort. Even though my last wife left me, she also helped me realize how self-pitying I was, how self-indulgent. My father committed suicide. But my therapist explained that suicide was the peak of a narcissistic personality. I heard that, and it hit me very bad. I thought my problems were about everything around me, but I realize they weren’t . . . you know?”

  You have an urge to be honest. You’d like to say, “No, I don’t know, Zack. This is a crazy story, and you shouldn’t tell it to someone on the first date. And you shouldn’t lie on your profile. And yes, I’ve enjoyed this scone and cake, and yes, part of me wants to give you a blowie in the bathroom, but you should ask a woman something about herself sometime.”

  You’re neither mature nor brave enough to be so direct. So you say, “Oh my god, Zack, I’m so sorry, I think I left the oven on in my apartment!” and you run out of the bakery with your bra strap falling down your arm and your purse falling out of your hands.

  Relieved to be free of that mess, you set up some dates with guys who seem more stable.

  One soft-spoken Guatemalan guy drones on about electronic dance music for two hours straight—apparently he’s writing a dissertation about it. Snooze.

  Then a goose-pimpled milk-faced wannabe screenwriter doesn’t say a single word for ninety minutes. When you finally escape the tapas bar, he grabs your hand and says, “You look like you have really soft lips.” Eww!

  From that point on you keep dating but stop hoping. It’s amazing how many dates you can line up in a single week, even though they are mostly boring and exhausting. And sometimes you DO like a guy (or at least are willing to entertain liking him), and those ones never call you again. You never know why. Romance is a deep and annoying mystery.