by Penny Reid
“I suspected that might be the case.” Sandra shook her head, giving me a sympathizing smile. “Dearest, Kat. You’re an overachiever in every part of your life, including empathy and—yes—guilt.”
“I’m an overachiever?”
Sandra gave me a bitch, please look and snorted. “You know you’re an overachiever. You’re living two lives, maybe two and a half. You go to school, you work full time, you fly back and forth to Boston and are learning the whole majority shareholder rigmarole, you visit and manage your parents and their illnesses. Dearest, you need to let go of the guilt.”
I was . . . conflicted. And I’m sure it showed on my face.
I agreed with her, that I needed to let go of the guilt. But what about Dan? I worried for him. Caleb was going to do everything in his power to make Dan’s life miserable, and that was entirely because of me.
“What’s wrong?” Sandra tilted her head to the side as she inspected me. “What’s holding you back from letting go?”
“I—” Gah! “I like someone.”
Sandra’s eyebrows shot up on her forehead and she straightened. “Oh.”
“Yes. And, how can I ask him to become involved with me in any capacity when this is my life? When what’s ahead of me is, as you say, a trial by fire.”
She pushed her lips together, puckering them thoughtfully. “This man, does his name rhyme with fan?”
I laughed, rubbing my forehead. “I can’t tell you.”
“Will you tell me if it rhymes with pan?”
I laughed harder, but chided, “Sandra. I can’t tell you.”
“Hmm.” She looked like she was trying not to smile, her green eyes bright and happy. “Okay, fine. You’re not going to tell me. Fine. So, this man, let’s call him Dan—”
“Sandra—”
“Hypothetically!”
I glared at her.
She giggled.
“Anyway, you like hypothetical Dan. I’m pretty sure non-hypothetical Dan likes you, too. So what’s the problem?”
“Firstly, he doesn’t like me.”
“Oh, come on!” She rolled her eyes.
“Not in that way.”
“Hmm.” The hmm sounded more like a growl.
“And secondly, if I were going to enter into a relationship with anyone, shouldn’t I tell that person about my past? Shouldn’t I be completely honest?”
“Of course.” Sandra appeared confused by my question.
“That’s what I thought.” I nodded, then to myself said, “Good.”
“Wait a minute.” She took a step closer and lowered her voice. “There’s a difference between being honest with someone, and trying to drive someone away in the name of honesty. So tell me, specifically, how you intend to be completely honest with Dan the hypothetical frying pan.”
I hesitated, hating how perceptive she was.
Sandra turned her head, giving me the side-eye. “Are you putting together a PowerPoint presentation about your past?”
“No!”
“Kat . . .”
I scoffed. “Not a PowerPoint.”
“A handout? With charts?”
“No. A list of misdeeds on my phone.”
“Ah-ha!” She lifted a finger between us again. “Why? Why does he need to know the details? Why not just provide a general idea, or list them in aggregate?”
“He has to know what kind of person he’s agreeing to—” I stopped myself before I said help.
Sandra’s eyes became slits. “Kat, you need to stop punishing yourself for mistakes you made when you were a teenager. This is self-flagellation.”
“Owning my choices isn’t self-flagellation.”
“This is another case of overachieving. Confessing your ‘list of misdeeds’ as you call them, to a man you have deep feelings for—”
“I don’t have deep feelings for him.” I had lots of feelings for Dan O’Malley, mostly about his body, and very few of them were deep.
And yet, despite his body, you do really like him as a person . . .
“—deep, deep, deeeeeeeeeep feelings for, is self-flagellation. Stop trying to reprimand yourself. You’ve already paid your debt to society, you’ve already served your time.”
“He needs to know everything before he can make an informed decision. I’m attempting to be responsible.”
Her whisper turned harsh. “You’ve said many times that you wish you’d never tried drugs, you hate that you stole from others, that you believe you were too young—mentally and emotionally too young—to be sexually active, and you regret that you were drunk or inebriated for all your early sexual experiences.”
“Correct, with one clarification. I’ve been inebriated for all of my sexual experiences.”
“Let me remind you that it is not uncommon for individuals—no matter the gender—who are sexually active at a young age, and who have not received appropriate education and guidance on the subject, to experience difficulty when they’re older. Obviously, not all individuals experience difficulty, but many do.”
“I’m a block of fromage that’s been shredded when the recipe calls for sliced. You can’t slice shredded cheese.”
Sandra wrinkled her nose in obvious confusion. “What?”
“And before you ask, yes, I know the word for cheese in many languages. I can’t be going about saying cheese all the time. With as much as I think about it, I need word replacement options. And fromage is among my favorites.”
“You can call it whatever you like.” Sandra picked up the same yarn she’d made a face at earlier, then quickly put it back. “You’ve used enough cheese analogies around me that I grasp it’s forefront in your mind. What I need you to explain is the meaning of the fromage analogy.”
“How can I ask anyone to sign on to a relationship with me, not knowing if I will bring shredded cheese to the table when the recipe calls for sliced? And keeping my past from hypothetical Dan would be like asking for cheddar on a hamburger and getting Limburger instead.”
“Let’s tackle one issue—and fromage analogy—at a time. First, do you want to be in a sexy-relationship with Dan? Yes or no?”
“No,” I blurted. Forcefully. And I meant it.
“Really?” Her voice pitched high and disbelieving. “Then what are we talking about?”
“I just mean, if Dan had feelings for me—which he doesn’t—I would only disappoint him.”
“Please take a moment here to listen to yourself. No one expects you to be perfect.”
I glanced at the yarn I’d inadvertently picked up; I was twisting it between my fingers. I stopped and put it back.
“I know no one expects me to be perfect. I’m pleased with the progress I’ve made in therapy. I have a place at work and I’m doing well. I love you and all the knitting ladies. I value and feel valued in our relationships. School is going well—”
“Better than well. Aren’t you top of the class?”
I ignored her question. “I’m also resolved to taking my place at Caravel, and my sense is that I’ve been progressing towards that goal. Despite seeing my future laid out before me, with very little room for deviation, I feel steady and capable. I like who I am and the choices I’ve made, and I accept that my past is part of me, it has contributed to who I am today. Except . . .”
“Except?”
“Except . . .” I gave Sandra my gaze and, with my heart in my throat, admitted the truth to both her and myself, “I doubt I’ll ever be able to fulfill the needs of a romantic partner.”
She stared at me, and I got the sense she was trying to clear her face of any expression. At length, she nodded. “You know what I think?”
“What?” I couldn’t help but be a little afraid, Sandra’s thoughts were usually poignant and difficult to hear.
“I think you should do some research.”
“Research?”
“Sexy research.”
I lifted an eyebrow at my friend. “What are you talking about? Like, watch porn?”
<
br /> “If porn dings your dong, go for it. But porn is rarely research because it’s rarely realistic. My suggestion is to look up positions, approaches to intimacy. Try touching yourself without the goal being a one-way ticket to ‘O’ town. Enjoy the physical sensations. Figure out what you like and what you don’t so you can communicate those likes and dislikes when the time comes.”
“When the time comes? You’re suggesting I should keep a list and give it to—to my partner?” My intention was for the question to be amusing, but Sandra didn’t laugh.
Her gaze steady and serious, she nodded her head just once. “Yep. That’s exactly what I mean.” Sandra turned back to the yarn, reaching for a Madelinetosh worsted weight in bright red. “Delete your list of misdeeds, replace it with a list of sexy fantasies, and show that to your hypothetical Dan the ceiling fan.”
Chapter Six
Keynesian economics (/ˈkeɪnziən/ KAYN-zee-ən; or Keynesianism) are the various theories about how in the short run – and especially during recessions – economic output is strongly influenced by demand (total spending in the economy).
—International Monetary Fund
**Kat**
As it was the week before fall semester, I needed to read through my class materials. Therefore, I spent the weekend studying, trying to get ahead in my courses just in case I had a work emergency during the semester.
Yet, I was distracted. Sandra’s suggestion that I do sexy research distracted me. Plus, I didn’t know whether I should call Dan or text him or what. My habit of avoiding him had become ingrained. We still had a great deal to discuss. Yet, I couldn’t bring myself to make contact.
Instead, needing the diversion, I baked Janie a lemon loaf and took it to her—and her husband Quinn—on Sunday night. He spent the first half hour hovering, which wasn’t a surprise. He’d been hovering since Janie had been placed on bed rest earlier in the summer.
I endeavored to distract them both, discussing various and sundry topics such as the rise of cryptocurrencies amid the volatility of global markets, and the applicability of Keynesian economics in the current political climate.
This worked. He was drawn out of his broody shell for an evening, and she seemed in better spirits when I left. Quinn insisted on calling a car for me, and I didn’t turn him down. It was late and I’d loitered too long, enjoying their company.
While being chauffeured home, I received a call from Dan.
Except, it wasn’t Dan.
I mean, it was.
But it wasn’t.
I stared for a good four or five seconds at my phone before answering, as I was completely confounded by the word flashing on the screen. It read, Husband.
Bringing the cell to my ear, I asked tentatively, “Hello?”
“Hey,” a masculine voice responded, like I should know who he was.
And I did. But my confusion lingered.
“Dan?”
“Yeah.”
But how . . .
“My phone, it said—I mean—did you change your contact information in my phone?”
“No, I didn’t.” If I wasn’t mistaken, his voice held a smile. “Why?”
I pulled the cell from my ear and, sure enough, instead of Dan O’Malley, he was listed in my phone as Husband.
“Kat?”
“Yes. I’m here.”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because—” I stopped myself, nagging dread clawing at the back of my neck.
I must’ve changed it.
But I didn’t remember changing it.
And for someone with my family history, this was a troubling realization.
“Hey? Are you still there?”
“Yes.” I swallowed my trepidation, pushing it to the back of my mind. I would have to deal with it later. Much later. One emergency at a time. “You called?”
“Are you okay?” Now he sounded concerned.
“Yes. Fine,” I answered tightly. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he said, then paused. I heard someone in the background call him Mr. O’Malley, and tell him they were almost ready to take off, and would he please buckle his seat belt. “Listen, I’m just about to leave London for New York, but I’ll be back in town a day earlier than I thought, late Wednesday night.”
“Oh.” I held my breath for some reason. I didn’t have a clue as to why.
Actually, I did know why. Part of me—a sliver of me—thought he might be about to ask me on a date. A real date. And that was weird, right?
. . . Right? Because, if he did ask me out, it wouldn’t be a real date. It would be more like a work meeting than a date.
Yet, still, the sliver was excited.
It was times like these I wished I had a direct line to someone who could triage my perceptions, maybe even a committee, to tell me if my train of thought was on track or derailed.
“I called Luis,” he continued. “He can’t move the ceremony to Thursday because the officiant, Mr. Lee, is off. And he wants us to use that guy ’cause I guess he always wears the same suit. So we’re still on for Friday.”
“Oh. Okay.” I glanced around the interior of the car, absorbing nothing of my surroundings. “I think that’s fine—I mean—as long as that still works for you?”
“Yeah, yeah. That works for me. But I was thinking, since I’m back early, we should probably try to, you know, touch base.”
“Yes. Absolutely.” I was nodding, even as a spike of restlessness flared within me.
“Okay, yeah. Good. Thursday night?”
Preposterously, my sliver of self was happy with the non-date, because it would still be time spent over food and in each other’s company. Apparently, my sliver was easy to please.
I couldn’t decide whether the rest of me was excited for the non-date, or dreading it. I still needed to review my list of misdeeds with Dan and I knew it would be uncomfortably awkward.
Regardless, I was determined. It had to be done. I was just about to say yes when I remembered that the fall semester started next week.
“Oh shoot.” I made a fist with my hand. “I have class on Thursday night.”
“No biggie. Lunch?”
“I eat lunch!” I immediately scrunched my face at my overeager response.
Dan made a sound that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “Oh, really? You do?”
“Yes. I do.” My eyes still closed, I shook my head at myself.
“What a coincidence. I—also—eat lunch.”
“That is a coincidence.” I twisted my lips to the side, accepting his teasing.
“What are the chances?”
“I couldn’t tell you.” I smiled, though I was still distracted by Dan’s name being changed to Husband in my phone. I honestly didn’t remember doing it.
“Do you eat sandwiches?” he asked, as though the future of the world hung in the balance.
“I have been known to eat sandwiches on occasion, yes.”
“Get out. Because—you’re not going to believe this, but I swear it’s true—I eat sandwiches.”
Despite my attention being split, I smiled. He really was quite gifted at distracting me. “Unbelievable.”
“We have so much in common, Kit-Kat. First lunch, now sandwiches.” It might have been my imagination, but it sounded like his voice deepened when he called me by the nickname, his tone low and familiar. And then he applied that same tone to every subsequent word, including when he added, “We should probably just get married.”
My heart did a little twisty thing. I tried to breathe normally. Tried and failed.
“Kat?”
“Yes, I’m—” I had to clear my throat so I wouldn’t gulp air. “I’m here. Sorry. We just pulled up to my place.”
“Oh? . . . We?”
“Nicolas is driving me home. I was visiting Janie and Quinn. I made them a lemon loaf.” I rolled my lips between my teeth before I volunteered any of the additional information that was on the tip of my tongue, like what kind of lemons I’d us
ed (Meyer) and when I’d bought the lemons (on Wednesday).
“That’s nice. I’m sure Janie appreciated it. Quinn has been such a fucking—excuse my profanity—asshole recently.”
“He’s just worried.”
Nicolas had pulled to a stop in front of my building and glanced at me in the rearview mirror. I covered the receiver with my hand and whispered, “Can I have a minute?”
He nodded. “Sure. Tell Dan I say hi.”
I gave Nicolas a grateful smile.
“There’s worried, and then there’s being-a-giant-pain-in-the-ass-and-making-everyone’s-lives-miserable worried.” Dan sounded grouchy.
“Nicolas says hi by the way.”
“He’s good people.”
We were quiet for a short moment, during which a deluge of apprehensions fought for dominance in my forebrain: How did I not remember reprogramming the name for Dan’s number? Dan’s life was already hectic and demanding enough, and now I was adding to it. Although I would do as Sandra recommended and allow Dan to help—if that’s what he wanted to do—I still wanted to do something nice for him, to make it up to him, to show him how grateful I was.
This last thought had me asking, “Regarding Quinn, is there anything I can do? To help you? To make your life easier?”
He didn’t answer right away, and for a minute I thought the call had been dropped. But then he said, “I have to go, the plane is taking off and you need to get to sleep. Make me a lemon loaf. And have lunch with me on Thursday. That’ll help.”
Oh jeez. My heart didn’t just flip, it pined. A burst of something—a wish, desire, dread—sent zinging sensations outward from my chest to my limbs.
I wanted to respond with a loud, I’ll eat lunch with you every day of my life and make you eleventy hundred lemons loaves!
But I didn’t.
Because even I knew that wouldn’t be normal.
Monday night I made three more lemon loaves: two for Dan, and one for my Tuesday night knitting group meetup. Tuesdays were always my favorite day of the week because of knit nights.
Several years ago, when I was new to the architecture firm and Janie worked in the accounting department, she’d noticed me knitting one day during lunch. She didn’t knit, but she was part of a knitting group. This was mostly because her best friend from college was part of the knitting group and they’d made her an honorary member.
