Husband Material

by Emily Belden

  calmer. I am under control.

  “Should we go to bed, little buddy?” I whisper while pet-

  ting him softly.

  Before retreating to the bedroom, I stare once more at the

  urn, still not over the fact he’s in there.

  “How about you, Decker? Do you want to go bed?” With-

  out much hesitation or thought, I grab the urn and carry it

  to my room. I set it next to Leno’s collar on the nightstand.

  He sniffs it as if it’s a new toy. I shoo him away so he doesn’t knock it over.

  It’s not going to stay here permanently. I just want to see

  what it feels like. What it feels like to get ready for bed with my husband in the same room as me for the first time in five

  years. To experience a routine that we should have been en-

  joying together all this time.

  Feeling like the medicine is kicking in, I do one more task

  before climbing into bed.

  I locate the USC lacrosse hoodie. The things I have of

  Decker’s are starting to get sparse, but I still have a couple of his worn-out USC hoodies in my sweatshirt drawer for easy

  access. Even after college, the lacrosse hoodie was a regular

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  part of his wardrobe. I would steal it from him when I wanted

  to relax on the couch in something baggy and comfy. It’s soft

  and worn out, and even though I’ve washed it several times

  since he’s passed, I’m convinced it still smells like him if I

  just close my eyes and inhale hard enough. When I wear it,

  it feels like I’m putting on a hug from him. And that’s what I

  want right now as I throw it on over my head and shimmy my

  arms through the too-big sleeves. I want a hug from Decker.

  “Well, good night, babe. See you tomorrow,” I say as I turn

  off the bedside lamp. I kiss my D tattoo and touch it to the urn. In this moment, I’m glad I never had it removed.

  I know it could be the pills talking, because this is by far

  the strangest conversation I’ve had with a guy recently, but I

  suddenly don’t feel anxious.

  In fact, I feel married. Or something.

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  5

  I pop in my earbuds, leash up Leno, and make a quick left at

  the corner toward a neighborhood coffee shop with a dog-

  friendly walk-up window. But just then, like the way your

  mind spins thinking about whether or not you left your flat

  iron plugged in, I second-guess if I locked the door to my

  apartment. Involuntarily, I tighten up Leno’s retractable leash and head home.

  In the lobby, I obsessively press the up button for the eleva-

  tor three times in quick succession. While waiting, I visualize how easy it would be for thieves to jack my computer, my one pair of ill-fitting-but-stylish Louboutins, even the fifty-five-inch flat screen TV. But what if they take the urn?

  Dings from faraway floors indicate the morning church-

  going rush is clogging up the shaft. So I scoop up Leno like

  he’s a frozen grocery store turkey and head straight for the

  stairwell. There’s no choice but to take them two at a time. I

  need to get to back my apartment.

  Once at the fifth floor, I fling myself into the hallway and

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  erupt in an all-out sprint to apartment 518. Leno must be get-

  ting whiplash. I grab the handle and it flies open with ease.

  I left it unlocked just as I had feared. Except once I’m inside, nothing seems to be missing. There aren’t thieves robbing the

  place. There’s just one man sitting there.

  “Hey, honey. Can you please tell my mom I’m back and I’m

  okay?” Decker says from the couch while watching SportsCen-

  ter.

  At the mere sound of his voice, soft-spoken and genuine,

  I spring up in my bed and put my hand to my chest to calm

  my heavy breathing.

  I reach for a glass of water on my nightstand that I don’t

  remember getting and chug the room-temperature liquid.

  The door to my bedroom is cracked open and Leno isn’t

  in my bed anymore, which means he’s probably sitting in the

  foyer in front of the door, his way of letting me know he’s

  ready to go outside for a morning potty walk. But I’m not

  ready for anything other than a triple-shot latte and an Advil

  or two. I toss my sweaty covers off, put on a robe over Decker’s USC sweatshirt, and head toward the Keurig in the kitchen.

  “Morning Char, what’s good?” Casey is eating a plate of

  scrambled eggs at the kitchen counter.

  I rub my eyes and realize I never took my contacts out last

  night. I’m sure I look like a bloodshot mess. Good thing Casey

  doesn’t care how I look. Or that I just borrowed her fork and

  shoveled a scoop of her breakfast into my mouth.

  “Coffee. Now,” I say with my mouth full of rubbery eggs.

  “The Keurig is tits up again. We need a new one. But I

  brewed a regular pot over there, help yourself. Are you okay?”

  I pour a generous serving of blond roast into a mug mono-

  grammed with the letter C on it. Casey’s mom got us a set of four for a housewarming gift when we signed our lease

  five Octobers ago. It’s cute how we can both use them inter-

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  changeably since our first names start with the same letter, but it’s clear Casey uses them most often from her plum-colored

  lipstick, a shade she says is called “Black Eye,” which has permanently stained the tan ceramic rims.

  “I’ve been better.”

  “Well, I’m sure the middle-of-the-night wine chaser prob-

  ably wasn’t the best choice,” she says, nodding in the direction of the empty bottle on the counter.

  “I’ll replace your wine, I promise.”

  “Can you get me a bottle of rosé when you do? I’m not basic

  enough to buy a bottle myself, but I’m really in the mood for

  it. By the way, what are you up to today? Some friends from

  the expo are going to the beach if you—”

  “Can’t,” I say, holding my hand up to signal she should

  save her breath. Since my little escapade into the kitchen led

  to a full-blown fucked-up dream, I’ve come to realize that

  this normal day of rest is going to be anything but. “I’ve got

  a lot on my plate.”

  “Hey, I was wondering, can I see a picture of him?”

  Of all the questions Casey has asked so far since Decker’s

  return, this one hits me the hardest.

  “A picture?”

  “Yeah. I’m curious what the guy who did it for you looked

  like.”

  If I do this, if I show her a picture of Decker, it’ll be the

  most vulnerable I’ve been with anyone who isn’t family, a ther-

  apist, or a stranger from a support group. But I’ve lived with

  Casey for five years, and if anything, she’s been the constant

  in my life since Decker’s death. Always there to offer a pick-

  me-up bottle of wine (which I normally accept) or funky new

  eyeshadow to try (which I normal
ly decline). I should meet

  her in the middle.

  A warmth washes over me—perhaps because I’ve just slowly

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  shut the fridge door like it was made of a thin, fragile sheet

  of glass—like the way you pull thick covers over your cold

  shoulder at night. It feels comfortable. It feels safe. Hell, I just saw him in my dream. Maybe seeing him on my screen won’t

  feel as foreign. What’s there to be afraid of?

  “Okay. Gimme a sec,” I say, pulling my phone out of the

  pocket of my robe.

  I pause, briefly, thinking how to navigate the ask. I could

  visit his Facebook page. It’s still there, along with all the photos of him, us, and everything in between. But I don’t go to

  that anymore. Not after I mistakenly decided to read through

  all the messages people left him on his wall after he died, then again on his birthday. They wrote these things to him as if he

  were still alive, as if he could read them. I guess it was sweet.

  But to the one person who wished more than anyone that

  Decker was still alive, it wasn’t sweet. It was scary. I’m not

  going to let my heart get tricked like that again.

  So instead I choose to show her a photo of the two of us in

  Punta Cana that I keep in my “favorites” folder on my phone.

  We went there one time on a whim—a quick Friday through

  Monday getaway. We weren’t living together yet, so getting

  an email from him in the middle of my workday saying he

  booked the Travelzoo deal turned me into that cliché lunatic

  you see in public cheesing at their phone. On the last day of

  our vacation, after two too many margaritas in, he convinced

  me to rent a Jet Ski. Decker drove fast—really fast—and I…

  I held on for dear life and screamed bloody murder, white-

  knuckling him from behind. Admittedly I was having an ab-

  solute blast, and at one point he took his cell phone out of its plastic bag and we fired off a few quick selfies on the open

  water. When I look at him in that picture, a few crow’s feet

  surrounding his smiling bright blue eyes, I am reminded of

  all the ease with which he navigated this complex world. His

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  worries capped at appreciating the moment and doing things

  that scared him so he could learn and grow.

  “Holy shit, he’s hot,” Casey exclaims after I tilt the phone

  her way. “Wait. Is that kosher to say about a dead guy?”

  “Yes, it’s fine.” I sort of smile as I watch Casey awkwardly

  navigate what is kosher or not in a situation like this. Ironically, that is the same conundrum I have faced since he died.

  I may be a widow, but I don’t have the rule book. In fact, I’m

  pretty sure there isn’t one.

  And, yes. Decker is—well, was—hot. He was a six-foot-

  three lacrosse player. All-in-all just your healthy, Cali-boy

  who liked french fries in his burritos and occasionally called

  in sick for a surf day when the waves were just right. I re-

  member thinking, “They don’t make them like this in NYC.”

  I’m already ready for a refill of my coffee when my eye

  catches a dish towel draped on top of the stove.

  “Why is the towel like this?” I ask as I look over to the

  oven.

  “Like what?” Casey responds.

  “Crumpled on top the top of the stove. Did you do that?

  Did you put it there like that?”

  When Decker used to wash his hands at the kitchen sink,

  he would use the decorative dish towels I threaded through

  the handle of the oven to dry them off, but never put the

  towel back on the handle. Instead, he’d leave the expensive

  Anthropologie linens I was gifted at my bridal shower just

  strewn about the top of the stove. Not only a fire hazard,

  but his most signature, lovingly annoying habit. It is truly as if someone has broken in here. Someone I once knew—was

  married to, actually.

  “No. Not that I know of. Why? Is something wrong?”

  Upon closer inspection, I see there’s a brush of red lip-

  stick, along with some wine, right through the middle of it.

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  It matches the color Monica had me swipe on at her wedding

  mixed with a bit of pinot noir. I’m the culprit—and I must be

  losing my mind, thinking this was some kind of a sign that

  he’s back and he wanted my attention.

  I thread the cloth through the handle, where it belongs.

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  6

  On my way into The Influencer Firm, an incoming call rings

  through my car speakers and I answer with a click of a but-

  ton on the steering wheel. Sure, it may burn your thighs, but

  I have to give credit to a car that makes it this easy to pick up my mom’s call.

  I have a standing Sunday morning phone call with The

  Jeaner, something we’ve been doing since I moved out west

  after graduating college. But I admittedly missed her call yes-

  terday. I was too busy nursing an ugly hangover that left me

  with little more energy than that required to lie in bed and

  avoid any conversation about the recent turn of events. It’s

  a horrible thing to slice your own flesh and blood’s incom-

  ing call, especially when it’s from a woman who has always

  understood what you’re going through, had your back, and

  supported you.

  “Hi, Mom,” I say through the echoey Bluetooth in my car.

  “Hi honey, how are you? We’re thinking of painting your

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  room. What do you think about a nice shade of lilac?” She

  cuts right to it.

  It doesn’t matter what I think of a nice shade of lilac. My parents still live in the Brooklyn apartment I grew up in, and

  every time I go back to visit, nothing about the place has

  changed. My room still has the same twin mattress I slept on

  as a teenager, the hot-pink-corded landline, and faded boy

  band posters taped over the closet door. Despite acting like

  they intend to modernize it—or even just repaint it—I know

  that what they’re really hoping is that one day I will find my-

  self living with them again and they can pride themselves on

  having not touched a thing in my old bedroom. As if they are

  preserving an exhibit for the Smithsonian. I don’t know how

  to break it to them, but if I didn’t move home, if I didn’t come crying to mommy and daddy after my husband died, then

  why would I now? I’m already over the hard part. Aren’t I?

  “Lilac sounds great,” I say.

  “I’m not sure. That room doesn’t get a lot of sunlight.

  Could end up being very dark. Anyhow, what’s new with

  you? How’s your love life?” Unlike the boy band posters in

  my room, Jean’s “mom antics” and thick New York accent

  have not faded one bit.

  “No
thing new, really,” I say with a hard swallow. “Sorry I

  missed your call yesterday.”

  “That’s quite alright. Were ya on another date?”

  I love the way my mom says “ya” instead of “you” when

  she wants to sprinkle a little extra sugar on things.

  “No, I was just sleeping, actually. Things have been…kind

  of crazy around here,” I say, merging into the middle lane as if that’s the one that’ll allow me to go faster than seven miles per hour.

  “You’re not overexerting yourself, I hope?”

  Since Decker died, my mom has never stopped oscillating

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  between what if and who’s next. Telling her things are crazy concerns her, and I get it. She wants to make sure I’m not rais-ing my blood pressure or doing anything that might cause me

  to have a stroke out of nowhere. That outcome sounds extreme

  and she sounds overbearing, both of which actually describe

  my mother perfectly, but once you watch your daughter lose

  her otherwise-healthy husband that way, the instinct kicks in

  and doesn’t really go away. At least it hasn’t for Jean. So I cut her some slack and insist that I’m fine.

  “Everything’s good. I’ve just been putting in some longer

  hours at work recently. It’s kind of like how it is in New York, except us LA peeps can’t all jet off to the Hamptons on the

  weekends, you know?”

  “Oh, bless it,” she mutters, one of her famous Jean Rosen

  sayings.

  In hindsight, blaming my exhaustion on “LA things” was

  probably not the right move. I don’t want her to be sad. She

  didn’t take it well when I decided to move to Los Angeles

  three weeks after graduating from NYU, and she still hasn’t

  fully accepted that I moved to a place that doesn’t sell pizza by the slice on every street corner. I know I’m not the first native New Yorker to up and move three thousand miles away from

  celebrated carbs and public transportation for some bullshit

  “job in entertainment” on the West Coast, but I could bet

  Jean Rosen took it the hardest.

  I never had it in me to direct or produce, which is why

  I didn’t go to school for that kind of a thing. But I knew

  I’d be good at coordinating all the back-of-house happen-

  ings like…rounding up the production assistants, constantly

  walkie-talkie-ing with the crew about stuff, overseeing craft