by Mariah Dietz
I devote my Saturday morning to cleaning, washing and folding laundry, scrubbing bathrooms, creating a grocery list, vacuuming and mopping, and then get showered and dressed, and brave the grocery store. By the time I’ve finished putting away the groceries it’s already late afternoon, and it’s begun raining, making the air outside so thick and heavy that it’s difficult to breathe and more difficult to want to move.
I sprawl out on the area rug in the family room, debating my options for the evening, when my phone beeps with a text.
Rachel: What’s the update with Outdoorsyman?
My stomach twists. I had forgotten all about Outdoorsyman, and feel guilty for both making him wait and not following up on my end of the bargain when I had committed to making an effort.
Me: I am still trying to decide how to reply.
Rachel: Why don’t you ask him about his business? Or maybe just volunteer information about yourself.
Rachel: I can help you create something super cryptic so he’s intrigued and has to ask a bunch of questions.
Me: I want him to ask questions because he WANTS to get to know me, not because I’m being cryptic.
Rachel: He’s a guy, Ella.
Me: What happened to not lowering my standards?
Rachel: What happened to trying?
Annoyed, I wander over to my laptop that I’ve spent way too much time with over the past week, and boot it up. I minimize my work email window that I sort via my phone as emails come in, and pull open the dating site. There aren’t any new messages from Outdoorsyman, but there are a dozen new messages that I open cautiously, waiting to scroll down before I know if any pictures have been attached.
The first one is from ÉclairMaestro. Intrigued, I scroll through his profile and learn he’s a chef, something that piques my interest and makes me want to learn more. He’s well-traveled, speaks French, has a friendly smile, and gentle eyes. His message is brief:
From: ÉclairMaestro
To: Shakespearian
Subject: Hey
How are you, Shakespearian?
I feel like this is a given, but I’m guessing you like Shakespeare? What are your favorite foods?
I think back to my date with Lars—the veterinarian—and how he took my thoughts of Shakespeare the writer being a woman.
From: Shakespearian
To: ÉclairMaestro
Subject: Re: Hey
Hi, ÉclairMaestro.
I am a Shakespeare fan. I think he/she was very brave for their time to show how there is no comedy without tragedy and no tragedy without comedy.
My favorite foods…
I pause, considering what Coen had told me when I asked him to choose where we ate. He had read the entire menu aloud, pausing after each one to read my expression. When I told him to also pick the pizza, he glared at me before rustling his cell phone out of his pocket and ordering two different pizzas, one with red sauce filled with meats, and a BBQ chicken pizza that he never touched which I devoured.
…breakfast foods. I love all breakfast foods from French toast to eggs benedict. I could eat them all day every day.
The next inbox message has already been read. I open it and see how long the thread is, discovering Rachel has been replying on my behalf again, and see that I have a date scheduled for tomorrow afternoon.
With irritation coursing through me, I grab my phone and text Rachel.
Me: You set up a date for me to go on tomorrow?
Rachel: It’s before Hayden will be home.
Me: What if I already have plans?
Rachel: What if I become a millionaire?
I scowl at my phone for several minutes.
Rachel: You’ll like him. I swear.
Me: He better be Chris Evans if I have to get up and dressed on a Sunday morning.
Rachel: It’s good for you.
Me: :(
Rachel: Tough love, babe. Tough love.
Rachel: Do you need me to send you details, or you got it covered?
Me: I can’t believe you didn’t even tell me.
Rachel: I tried calling you earlier. You ignored me.
I hadn’t ignored her; I just knew it would be better if I didn’t answer while Coen was over. I didn’t know how to explain to her that he and I were spending more time together, and since I had been having a rough day, I didn’t want to make an excuse for him to leave. Usually after talking about Patrick with someone, I have the desire to avoid them, knowing they’ll think less of me, wonder why I would think it was okay to have any kind of relationship with someone who was fourteen years my senior. But this morning I don’t feel the need to avoid Coen. I don’t even regret telling him.
Me: Tell me he’s not a veterinarian.
Rachel: He’s not a veterinarian.
Me: Did you tell him I think Shakespeare was a woman yet?
Rachel: You do a good enough job of sabotaging dates all on your own.
“Sabotage?” I mutter. “Really?”
I don’t reply back to her, not knowing if I’m being extra sensitive or if her sarcasm is riding the bitchy line like I’m interpreting it to.
Rachel: Stop replying to guys on the dating site tonight.
Me: Why?
Rachel: Because it’s Saturday night, and you’re going to look desperate.
Me: According to you and my mom, I AM desperate.
Rachel: Still not considered attractive to someone you don’t know.
Me: Well, I’m going to reply to Outdoorsyman.
Rachel: Saboteur.
I ignore Rachel but don’t reply to Outdoorsyman, electing to head downstairs and focus on compiling more facts and statistics needed for the Weile account, where things make sense even if I have to triple-check everything.
Hours pass before Shakespeare breaks my concentration with the need to go outside. It’s still too hot out, even with the sun down, so I stay inside while she roams around the yard. My thoughts wander to Coen, knowing he’s at work today and all night. He’s been over the past two nights, and I hate admitting to myself that it’s become a short routine that I’ve enjoyed far too much. It’s good that he has to work tonight because otherwise, I think I would be considering asking him to come over again or taking him up on teaching me how to play pool.
My phone beeps, and I’m hoping it’s Hayden again. We generally talk twice a day, once in the morning and once before he goes to bed, but I caved and bought him a cell phone that doesn’t have “smart” in the title so he can use it to call or text me whenever he needs to.
Coen: What do you get when you cross Hades and Poseidon?
Me: What?
Coen: The fucking South. Jesus, it’s hot out.
Me: I’m going to forward that text to your mother.
Coen: You want me to die a slow and painful death?
I laugh so loudly, Shakespeare turns from where she’s sniffing one of our blueberry bushes to see if she’s missing out on something.
Me: Has it been a busy night?
Coen: Yeah. Saturdays tend to be. Strange calls though.
Me: There is a full moon.
Coen: It’s this damn heat. It makes people cagey and strange.
Coen: Download Trivia Junkie on your phone.
Me: Is it going to stream porn?
Coen: You wish.
Me: Give my phone a virus?
Coen: I’m waiting…
I close the window to find the app he mentioned, and go through downloading it before I reply back to him with confirmation that I have.
Coen: What’s your email address so I can find you?
Me: You aren’t going to be embarrassed when you lose, right?
Coen: IF I lose, I’ll streak in front of Mrs. Grant’s house.
Me: I’m not running naked in front of Mrs. Grant if I lose.
Coen: Not so confident now, are you?
I send him my email address, and it’s only seconds before the game prompts me to play.
We are a dozen games in, him winn
ing by one because I keep getting sports questions that I don’t have a single clue on, when he texts me again.
Coen: On route to a call. I’ll message you when I’m back.
My thumb hovers over the screen, considering how to respond. Do I tell him to be safe? Good luck? Is that too personal? Do I sound like more than just a friend? I consider if it were Rachel who was going and what I would tell her before I send a reply that I don’t know if he’ll be able to see.
Me: Be safe.
Coen: I will. Eat some leftover pizza for me.
And so I do.
14
Coen
I head out of the station with two hours of sleep to my name and a fresh bandage on my thumb. Last night I ripped open the cut I had gotten earlier in the week when I inspected Rachel’s chimney for no goddamn reason other than to save face, and not look like a creeper thanks to Justin.
The cab of my truck is so hot it’s difficult to breathe. I crank on the air conditioner and turn up the fan. Showered, and in fresh street clothes, I head north, driving until I hit the border of Washington DC. Every week I make this drive unless I’m working, and every week it seems a little longer.
“There he is!” My brother Joey shouts.
“Finally!” My sister Sofia doesn’t sound forgiving of my being an hour late.
“He was working!” My mom defends me. “He was up all night.”
I pull open the screen door and though I’d heard their discussion while I made my way up to the house, they all yell out to me again like I didn’t.
Mom kisses both of my cheeks, and I hers, and then my sisters, Sofia, Arianna, and Mia as well before I reach my dad and brother, where we share the same greeting.
“You missed such a beautiful sermon this morning,” Mom says. “Priest Michael was talking about family and love, and all I could think was that you needed to hear it.”
“Did Joey like it?” I ask, deflecting the attention and reminding everyone I’m not the only single one here.
My older brother shoots me a look that warns me he’ll spit in my food if I hang him out to dry alone. So I remove some of the heat. “What about you, Arianna? Did you like the sermon?” I ask my youngest sister. Her dark hair whips as she turns to scowl at me.
Dad pats my cheek twice, chuckling as he does so, knowing my angle. He slowly walks to the head of the table and takes his seat. The rest of us carry bowls and platters over from the kitchen and take our seats.
“Coen, you have a dangerous job,” Mom starts off. “You need to find someone who is going to be your inspiration to keep surviving when you go to work every day to fight the devil.”
“He doesn’t go to work every day, Ma,” Joey says as our middle sister, Sofia, bats his hand away from a bowl of potato salad. “He only works twice a week.”
“That’s ’cause he works for twenty-four hours at a time, Neanderthal,” Sofia says.
Sofia and Mia are ten and twelve years older than me. I was as much their son as Mom’s. I think because Joey and Arianna are twins and have always had each other, everyone tends to forget they’re only three years older than me—especially our older sisters.
“Ma, Coen’s too young to get married,” Mia says.
“I had you by the time I was twenty!” our mom cries. “He’s thirty.”
“They’re almost thirty-four,” I point out. My brother and sister look nearly nothing alike. Where my brother is tall and wide, my sister, Arianna is tiny and petite. It’s a running joke in our family that Joey was never good at sharing, even while in the womb. Yet, when you piss them off, they have identical glares that will make most people shut up. But I’m not most people, and the look doesn’t deter me in the least, though I know my smallest sister will try and hang from my neck like a goddamn monkey so Joey can get in an easy shot. Been there. Done that. Still not afraid.
My phone beeps and the entire table turns to me with accusation, stilling the conversation.
“I have to keep it on me,” I remind them. “If there was an emergency, I have to respond.”
Sofia grabs it from her seat beside me. “Ella, Hayden, hot neighbor?” she reads aloud. “That doesn’t sound like an emergency, Coen.”
“Ella, Hayden, hot neighbor?” Mia repeats.
Mom’s brow furrows. “You aren’t having an affair with a married woman, are you?” Her brown eyes are already lit for a fight.
“No. Settle down.” I mean the warning for all of them as I reach to grab my phone back. Sofia pushes away from the table, reading our texts from this morning and last night aloud.
“Good luck on your date? I hope you sleep well? I look forward to you streaking in front of Mrs. Grant’s?” She reads them each like a question.
“Coen,” Mom says, calling all of us to attention. “What’s going on?”
“She’s just a friend, Ma,” I tell her.
“There are millions of texts here. No one texts someone that’s just a friend this many times. Try again,” Sofia says. “She has a son?” she asks, continuing to read the messages.
“Who is she?” Mia asks.
“She’s a neighbor.”
“A neighbor!” Joey hoots. “You’re breaking your own rules, man.”
“We’re just friends,” I repeat.
Joey laughs, shaking his head.
“You guys can tease Junior later. I’m starving. Let’s eat.” Dad isn’t trying to come to my rescue. I’m sure if I wasn’t an hour late, he’d be leading the charge against me, but since we pray as a family before every meal, antagonizing me is just slowing him down.
Reluctance is visible in each of their eyes as their smiles wan and they sit up straighter in their seats and closer to the table.
Meatballs, spareribs, pastas, and salads are passed around as soon as Dad finishes the prayer. We used to get together for dinner on Sundays, but recently our oldest sister, Mia, suggested we change it to be while the kids are in Bible study. Personally, I’m sad not to have them around anymore, not only because they often offered a welcomed distraction, but my nieces and nephews are the coolest kids on Earth. Sometimes my sisters’ husbands will join us, but it’s not as common. I think we overwhelm them, and that’s fine with me. I find both of them to be rigid and uptight.
Lunch is a production. Every meal is with my family. Mom always makes way too much food, and we talk and eat slowly, enjoying the company and stories that are passed around, stretching meals so they’re usually a few hours, creating another excuse for my brothers-in-law not to join, because they have to go pick up the kids from Bible study before we’re done. Sometimes they’ll drop by and stick around for dessert and watch a game of whatever sport is in season, or to watch a movie, but with the weather being so hot, I doubt they will.
I dodge a dozen more questions about Ella, turning them into jokes, which I fire at my siblings at random, and then turn the conversation to some of the calls we responded to last night.
When the last lunch dish has been rinsed and placed into the dishwasher, Dad heads to his recliner and sits down for what inevitably will be his afternoon nap. The girls have begun discussing potty training, something I want no part in, when my brother grabs two glasses filled with lemonade and vodka. He cocks his head to the screened in porch.
Joey and I sit across from each other, each releasing a heavy sigh as our stomachs adjust to being so full.
“So what’s the real deal with this chick?”
I scrub a hand down my face, my lack of sleep and too much food making it difficult for me to think straight.
“She’s cool,” I tell him. “She’s got a son who’s really cool too.”
“How’d you guys meet?”
“Justin, trying to be Mister Smooth went over to my neighbor’s house while Ella was there, claiming there might be something wrong with Rachel’s chimney.”
“Was there?” Joey asks, a smile making his lips twitch because he already knows the answer.
My forehead creases. “Hell no.”
“But I had to go up there this week because I didn’t know how to admit that he was just trying to get in my neighbor’s house and meet them.”
Still laughing, Joey moves his hands in a rolling motion, urging me to continue. “So they fell for it?”
