“No. More like, you know I’m your girl and the fact of that tickles you.”
He leans down and kisses me deeply, and I can taste myself on his lips. “So you’re my girl, huh?”
I reach up and cup his cheek in my hand. “I’m your girl.”
He looks at me very seriously. “I love you, Mel.”
I smile, even as the tears prick my eyes. “I love you too, Nate.”
He grins. I grin. Pretty soon we are laughing and hugging, and kissing, and we drag off the rest of each other’s clothes and make love there on the kitchen floor.
I wake up early and sneak out of Nathan’s bed. I pad naked to the bathroom, pee for what feels like ten minutes, wash my hands and face and then head to the kitchen. I pass up my bedraggled dress in favor of Nate’s shirt, realizing that I’m finally at a size where I can actually fit into my boyfriend’s shirt, another new experience, and I prance a little bit in the kitchen. I see my cell phone light blinking, and pick it up to check my messages.
“Mel, it’s Nadia. It’s about midnight. I guess you are staying at Nate’s tonight. I wish you had let me know that you were sleeping out. I thought you were supposed to come home, so I sent Daniel back to his place after dinner. It would be great if you could give me a heads-up next time. See you tomorrow, I guess.”
She sounds hurt and disappointed, and I feel at once ashamed that I didn’t think to call her when I realized I wasn’t coming home, and irritated that this child who I am allowing to live with me is so presumptuous as to try to make me feel guilty for living my life like a grown-up.
I put on the teapot for myself, and flip the switch on the coffeemaker for Nate, since he set it up last night before we went to bed. I look in the fridge for breakfast fixings, and spot a white paper butcher’s package. I look at the label. Thick-cut maple bacon from Gepperth’s. They smoke their own, and it is the food of the gods. And while I tend to shy away from bacon, which is my nemesis, I figure on a morning such as this, I’ve earned it. I’ll work out later.
I lay the bacon on a sheet pan and pop it in the oven, while I scramble some eggs with chives, and toast a couple of bagels. Nathan appears, drawn out of bed by the scent of coffee and bacon, and looks me up and down.
“Now that is a happy sight.”
He crosses the room, puts his arms around me and kisses me deeply. “Good morning, woman I love.”
I blush. “Good morning, man that I love.”
“You do know I’m going to have to ravish you again as soon as I get some coffee and breakfast in me.”
“Why do you think I got up early to get it ready?”
I look over at my phone, thinking that I should call Nadia to let her know I probably won’t be back until later, but she’s probably asleep. I’ll call her later, at a more human hour. I push all thoughts of guilt out of my head, and focus on breakfast, because I know what is coming after.
I let myself into the apartment in the early afternoon, having spent a gloriously luxurious morning with Nathan. In the kitchen I can see that Nadia must have had a peanut butter sandwich; the jar is still on the counter, open. I open the fridge to grab a bottle of water, and when I close the door I jump at the sight of Nadia, who is standing behind it. The bottle drops and rolls away. She bends and picks it up and hands it to me.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s okay, but damn you are quiet!” I accept the proffered bottle and crack it open, taking a long draught. All that sex and bacon is very dehydrating.
“Yeah,” she says, opening the fridge and grabbing a bottle of murky-looking green juice. “My grandma always threatened to put a bell on me.”
I try not to look at the crumbs on the counter, the knife, coated with peanut butter, resting on the side of the sink. I reach over and put the lid on the peanut butter jar, noticing that there is jam on the lip of the jar, and I take a deep breath, willing myself not to go mental over something as small as using the same knife in the peanut butter as she used in the jelly.
She pointedly ignores my cleaning up her mess, wanders over into the living room, plops on the couch, and picks up a magazine. Her whole body language is of someone who has been stewing on something. And I hate that I feel so guilty, so resentful. Who the hell is she to give me guilt about anything? This interloper in my house, here out of the goodness of my heart. Even though I know that as generous as I like to think I am being, I’m also benefitting from her being here. It isn’t pure philanthropy that places me in this situation. But I refuse to let the joy of this wonderful night and morning be marred by a whole bunch of hurt feelings and resentments on either end.
“Hey, Nadia, I’m really sorry I didn’t call. I just got caught up, and didn’t think. I’m not used to having someone to be responsible to, so I have to remember to take you into consideration.”
“It’s okay. No big deal.” And even though everything about her says that this is a lie, I’m in no mood and have no inclination to do anything other than pretend that she means it.
“Well, good.”
The silence is fraught with the things unsaid. She flips pages and drinks her bilious concoction.
“I’m going to do some laundry, do you have anything you want me to throw in?” A small peace offering.
“Nah, thanks. Daniel and I are meeting at the Laundromat later tonight to do it.”
“Wow, that’s great!”
“Yeah, I guess.”
I’m not going to do this. I’m not going to play this game. She isn’t my kid; I don’t have to placate and smooth her ruffled feathers and cajole her into telling me what’s wrong. If she wants to share her feelings like a grown-up, she can reach out. I’ve done what I can.
“Okay, well, I’m going to get some stuff organized, and then maybe go to the gym.”
“Okay.”
I head back to my bedroom, feeling dismissed, and rapidly losing the elation that I felt before coming home. I hate all that passive-aggressive crap. I take a deep breath and close the door behind me, knowing that I’m hiding, and refusing to care.
SPAGHETTI AND MEATBALLS
Once or twice a month my mom would come home and tell us to get ourselves ready. We didn’t go out for dinner that often, but when we did, we almost always went to Rosebud in Little Italy. Dad had met the owner, Alex, at the little luncheonette he had opened downtown near Dad’s office, and they became friends. When the new place opened in Little Italy, going there seemed like a way to keep Dad alive for us. Alex greeted us like family, brought my mom special reserve glasses of Chianti, sent extra nibbles of things. Once we were there and Frank Sinatra came in and had dinner and Alex introduced us. Every time we went, Gillian and I always got spaghetti and meatballs, even as we got older and our palates got more sophisticated. If we went to other Italian restaurants we might get veal piccata or braciole or risotto. But to this day, if I go to Rosebud, I get spaghetti and meatballs. And to this day, if Alex happens to be there, he always sends me a glass of reserve Chianti and something extra to taste.
“Sounds like it is going fantastic!” Carey says. “I’m so thrilled for you. I think this is all so wonderful and romantic.”
“Thanks. I’m trying to live in the moment and not overthink or look too far ahead. I was just a little worried about how lax I’ve been about exercising and being careful about my eating.”
“Look, it sounds like you’re getting plenty of extra exercise, missing a few sessions on the treadmill isn’t going to kill you. And while you should pay attention to eating when you aren’t hungry, indulging a little here and there isn’t going to derail you in any meaningful way.”
“I know, and I don’t think I’ve gained any significant weight, maybe a couple of pounds. It just makes me nervous. We go out for late dinners after I get off of work, he wakes me with fresh croissants in bed, his fridge is full of great cheeses and olives and BACON, for chrissakes.”
“Moderation, and honesty. You know how to order in a restaurant, and you know how to eat a
sensible portion of any food under the sun. If you’re spending that much time at his place, bring some stuff from the store to leave in his fridge. And mostly, don’t get too much in your head.”
“Will do.”
“Good for you. We’ll chat in a couple weeks?”
“Yeah. Thanks, Carey!”
“I’m proud of you, keep up the good work!”
I hang up the phone in my little office and head back into the store kitchen. Delia is mixing something in a large bowl.
“What’s going on with Strawberry Shortcake?” she asks, using her nickname for Nadia, who reminds her of the cartoon due to her age and the shades of pink in her hair. “She seems to be in some sort of mood lately.”
I sigh. It’s true that Nadia has been withdrawn of late, not sullen, exactly, but not her usual bubbly self. “I’m not really sure. Everything seems to be going fine for her, she and that guy Daniel have been, to use her vernacular, hanging out, and I think she likes him even though he’s a little bit strange and not her usual flavor. And she’s certainly doing well here, the customers love her. But I haven’t really seen her that much lately. I’ve been spending most of my time outside the store with Nate.”
“Perhaps she feels a little abandoned?” Delia asks, tasting her concoction and adding a pinch of salt and a grind of pepper and stirring some more.
“I’m not her mother; I’m her boss and roommate. If she thought that by moving in with me I was going to be responsible for spending all my time with her, she was mistaken.”
Delia’s head snaps up. “That was a little harsh and a lot defensive.” Not an accusation, just an observation, and I feel instantly chided and guilty.
“You’re right. I guess it is a little bit of what scared me about having her move in. She’s a great kid, but I don’t really know her. She doesn’t talk much about her past. All I really know is that she grew up somewhere in Indiana, was raised by her grandmother, was bulimic in high school, and has horrible taste in men. Janey met her a few years ago at some well-ness seminar in Indianapolis and they hit it off, but she seems unclear as to why Nadia was there.”
“What does her past have to do with anything?” Delia tastes again, and reaches for a handful of chopped parsley.
“It’s how you get to know someone; you share your past, you tell your stories, and you let someone know where you came from. All I know about Nadia is from the last couple of months before I met her. It’s weird.”
“Some people would rather leave the past in the past. It doesn’t mean anything bad necessarily.” Delia hands over the bowl. Inside is a salad and I grab a tasting spoon. There are black beans, shredded pork tenderloin, corn, red peppers, celery, scallions, and toasted pine nuts in a vinaigrette that tastes of lime and cumin and has some back-of-the-throat heat to it.
“D, this is delicious.”
She smiles sheepishly. “We had those few slices left of the pork from yesterday and I thought I could stretch it. I only used a quarter cup of oil.”
“It’s wonderful. Be sure to write down the recipe and let’s put it in the case today. Thank you.”
She beams, and starts to mound the salad on the white rectangular platters we use for selling. “Mel, if I may . . . I know your life hasn’t been a bowl of cherries, but there is nothing in your history that is particularly shameful. There is nothing in your history that you might think would prevent someone from liking or respecting you or being your friend. We all aren’t so lucky. I don’t know where Shortcake came from, and I don’t care. She’s a good kid, a little weird, but sweet and a nice addition to our strange little group, and I think something is going on here. You might not have wanted to be too involved with her, but she’s here now, and she’s hurting a little bit, and I don’t think you’ll lose your handsome new boyfriend if you’re a little sensitive to her. Maybe tell her to bring her boy around so you can meet him. Have a double date. Reach out to her to let her know you aren’t the kind of friend who disappears when you have a man in your life. Free advice, and worth what you pay for it.” She floats out of the kitchen to add her salad to the case, and I think about Nadia. Does it really matter if I don’t know who she was as long as I feel like I know who she is? And I’m not sure I know the answer to that. But I do know that Delia is right. I have taken her on, and in light of that, I need to figure out the best way to help mend this small rift.
“This is going to be so much fun, thanks Mel!” Nadia says, coming out of the bathroom twisting her chameleon hair into a loose bun with tendrils hanging down.
I reach over and tug a loose strand of deep magenta. “This new?”
She smiles. “Something I’m trying out. Too much?”
I laugh. “It’s all in the same pink family, I think it looks good.” I’ll never understand Nadia’s obsession with coloring her hair, but I have to admit it looks good and almost natural on her in a strangely unaffected way. As if it was supposed to be four shades of pink. Most kids I see with the punk hair colors always seem as if they are trying to scream some statement at me, political or otherwise, but Nadia just seems to need some pink in her hair, and it’s between her and her head as to what it means.
“You look great, Mel. I love that dress.”
I’m in one of my favorite things, a pale, sage green wrap dress that hides all my flaws and accentuates all my good spots, and is as comfortable as pajamas. It is made of some magical jersey material that moves with me, never clings, and never wrinkles. Plus it makes my eyes look almost olive green. “Thanks, sweetie. What time is Daniel expected?”
She checks her watch. “Seven.” She pauses, looking sheepish. “He might be a little late. He isn’t very good about timing.”
“That’s all right. The great thing about this meal is that the only thing that can get overcooked you don’t even make till the last minute, and everything else is all ready.” I’ve made one of my favorite salads, celery, green apple and shaved Parmesan, which will get a squirt of fresh lemon and a drizzle of olive oil at the last minute. Homemade tomato sauce is simmering lightly on the stove, and tiny veal meatballs have already been browned. The precooked meatballs are so small that they will heat through in the sauce in the time it takes for the pasta to cook. Nadia helped me make a thin-as-paper apple galette with fig glaze, which is cooling on a rack.
“I never knew spaghetti and meatballs could be so fancy! But I’m glad you suggested it. Daniel has sort of a limited palate. Very boring meat-and-potatoes kind of guy. The other night I wanted to go to this Chinese place and he ordered a hamburger! I didn’t even know they had it on the menu!”
“Not everyone is a foodie, or has to be. But I’m glad you think this dinner will meet with his approval. And I’m glad things are going well between you.”
“Well, I think they are.” Nadia pauses, eyebrows furrowing. “We haven’t, I mean he hasn’t, there isn’t exactly . . .” She trails off.
“No sex yet?” Poor thing. She seems a little bit stricken. “But I thought you’ve spent a couple nights together, when I was at Nate’s?”
“EXACTLY! We have. But we just SLEPT together, we haven’t done anything. Nothing. I mean, not totally nothing, we’ve kissed, you know, but that’s it. When we spent the night, we just cuddled.” She runs her hands through her hair. “I’ve never been in this situation. All the guys I’ve ever dated have, like, totally pounced on me the moment they got a chance. And I’m not so good at the whole taking-it-slow thing, I just feel like, sex, you know, it’s so natural and something our bodies were meant to do, and if it isn’t good, then you aren’t going to last anyway, so you might as well find out. . . .”
“I suppose that’s one way to look at it. But didn’t you ever think that maybe waiting, getting to know someone a little bit, letting the anticipation build, that might make the sex better?”
She looks at me as if I have offered up Einstein’s theory of relativity. In Mandarin. “I guess I never much thought about that. Usually I figured that if a guy wanted to sle
ep with me, my best shot at him hanging out with me again was to do it.”
My heart breaks for her. I was that girl. The one who assumed that if a guy was even momentarily attracted to a fat girl, she had better jump on that opportunity and hope it was good enough to keep him coming back for more. Luckily for me, more often than not, it was, and most of my boyfriends began as either a hookup at a party, or a late-night study session turned make-out session. I think it’s why I didn’t even know Andrew and I were dating at first; I’d never had that normal progression of someone asking you to do something and not making it immediately sexual.
“Nadia, there’s obviously nothing wrong with sex; I personally am a big advocate for sex. But there’s also nothing wrong with waiting. Do you feel like the relationship with Daniel is just building slowly, or do you feel like the chemistry isn’t there?”
She bites her lower lip gently. “I feel like when we first started hanging out, that he was totally into me, and I wasn’t that interested, but felt like I should try and break my bad-boy pattern for a change. And I liked the way he looked at me, the way I felt powerful around him, like, you know, that old saying, it is better to be the person in the relationship who is loved more than they are in love, or something like that, you know . . . like he looked at me as if I were some amazing thing, and that made me feel good, and even though I wasn’t totally, you know, hot for him, I thought it would be nice to be with someone who might just be nice to me for a change.” She shakes her head. “But the more we hang out, suddenly I feel all powerless again, and he doesn’t seem to really be that interested in me, you know, physically, and that makes me wonder what is wrong with me, that this total geeky guy, who is like, no one’s idea of a prize, isn’t at least attempting to get into my pants, even when we spend the night together!”
“Nadia, do you like him, or do you just want him to like you? Because if you don’t really like him, it isn’t very nice to . . .”
Good Enough to Eat Page 12
