Unstrung

by Laura Spinella

  “Thanks. Of course, I did choose it with a bread-based dish in mind.” I smile, the two of us having segued smoothly from burnt beef Wellington to stale bread that Rob repurposed on a miracle level not far from fishes and loaves. “The French toast was outstanding. Is breakfast your forte?”

  “Maybe. If we make it to tomorrow morning and eggs Benedict, you can let me know.” I don’t smile but breathe deep.

  I retreat from the table to the window. A light snowfall is in the process of turning into something less than charming, a blustery storm that, by morning, will disrupt usual patterns and require heavy machinery to correct. The whole thing will be not only costly but forgotten by June. It’s beautiful but pointless.

  “Sorry,” Rob says, following. “That was presumptuous. I can, um . . . Maybe I should get going.” A moment later, he’s gathered his coat and said good-bye to the dog. He offers a parting remark. “For what it’s worth, Liv, thanks for the attempt.”

  “The attempt?” I turn, ready to inform him that the playing he heard was nothing short of virtuoso quality.

  “Yes. The beef Wellington. I appreciate the trouble you went to, even if it didn’t work out.”

  “Oh. I didn’t think you meant . . .” Since the smell of burnt pastry has faded, I’d nearly forgotten my initial attempt to impress Rob. “Right. Thank you—for coming . . . For cooking. Not too many people . . . men make it as far as my kitchen.”

  “Doesn’t look like you do either. But that’s okay; nothing pisses me off more than a person who excels at everything. I mean, we all have certain gifts, right?”

  “I suppose. I’m guessing yours isn’t necessarily cooking.” He continues to scratch Dumpling’s head, closer to the exit than me. “Despite your knack for crotchety canines, I assume it’s not that either.”

  “You’re the dog whisperer, not me.” He flashes a quick smile. “If I said I’m still trying to figure it out, would that sound lame, especially to someone whose talent is so obvious?”

  “Ah, now you’re talking about the violin.” I raise a brow at him. “No. I’d say it sounds disturbingly honest.”

  “For the most part . . .” He hesitates for a moment. “With the exception of one recent incident, you can put a check mark in my honesty box.”

  “I wasn’t keeping score.”

  “Liv, why don’t you want . . . ?” He appears to rework his thought. “I was going to ask why you don’t want this to go any further, but I’ll keep it simple: Why don’t you want to date me?”

  “I never said . . .” He is prepared to leave, and I have, once again, hit my Rob wall. “Honest, right?” I say hurriedly.

  “Probably might be best, given the moment.” I look curiously at him. Rob cocks his chin toward the bedroom. “I don’t need to spend the night, nothing like that. But if we leave it like this, I’m not going to call again. I don’t do vicious circles.”

  I stride away from the icy window and toward him. “What happened earlier, with the dinner I was going to make—it was just kind of comical, right? Not really a big deal. I can’t cook.”

  “I hate to break it to you, but there are other ways to a man’s heart than through his stomach.”

  I ignore his attempt at mid-century humor. “If we went on more . . . dates”—I focus on his hand, which continues to stroke a softly snoring Dumpling—“it wouldn’t take many to find out I’m not exactly, or even close to . . . perfect.”

  “Wow. You’re kidding?” He frowns, nodding deeply. “Spoiler alert, Liv . . . I was already kind of betting on less than perfect. And the imperfect part—just so you know—that’s the part I’ve been wanting . . . waiting to get to.” My gaze jerks to his. “After a third date and a fourth . . . It’s really all I’ve been thinking about. Who is the woman beneath the one that is so carefully—and not with great success—watching her every move? The glimmers of you, in case no one has ever said, are spellbinding.”

  “Thank you . . . or not.” I half laugh. “But seriously, Rob, be aware, I’m more trouble than—”

  He leans past the dog and kisses me. For a moment I indulge in the exquisite feel of Rob’s mouth, the smell of him, which is precisely the scent you’d want to find on your sheets, and the feel—the words hot and steady come to mind.

  “Here’s an idea. Why don’t you let me decide about imperfections for myself?”

  “Really, you don’t understand—”

  “Liv, listen to me, we’re all imperfect.” His head tips back and forth. “Granted, varying degrees of imperfect . . . So let’s get a few basics out of the way. Have you committed a felony?” I shake my head. “Are you wanted for murder, grand theft auto, or forgery in this hemisphere? Have you committed treason? Do you have a drug habit I should know about or walk thoughtlessly past homeless people muttering, ‘Let them eat cake’?”

  “No, not recently . . .”

  “The drug habit or homeless people?”

  “I’ve smoked my share of pot; I always give to the homeless.”

  “Okay then. Like I said, we all have flaws—I might even have a few of my own. I think it’s more about deciding who you want to be imperfect with.”

  “You make it sound so easy.”

  “Only if you want it to be.”

  I glance back at the snowy view. “One thing I have to insist on.”

  “What’s that?”

  “No eggs Benedict. If we’re going to move on from dating, I’d like to start off right, do my share in this relationship. Out of thirty-three takeout menus, six deliver breakfast. After this storm, one might be open tomorrow morning.”

  Rob glances between me and a dimly lit bedroom where the door is slightly ajar. “You can totally be the judge here—but so you know, I don’t really consider French toast a high-ranking item on my list of usable gifts.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS

  PRESENT DAY

  Theo

  Theo and his mother are finishing a pleasant downtown lunch on Newbury Street. It’s a Saturday, and Theo has promised for two straight weeks that he would make time for this. Post India, he’s gained a better understanding of his mother’s love and loss. After his father died and life was nothing but the two of them and devastation, Theo was uplifted by his mother’s devotion. It appears she’s trying to do the same thing again, fix the gaping hole India’s left. When he was ten, her dedication made a tremendous difference. At twenty-six, Theo isn’t sure Claire’s effort will have the same result.

  “How’s the new book you’re editing? A romance, right?” Theo asks, downing a mouthful of the brownie sundae his mother insisted they split. She has taken two minuscule bites, nudging the plate closer to Theo with each one.

  “Upmarket literary fiction,” Claire corrects as her phone rings. “Debut novel. Ah, there’s my young author now.” Reluctantly, she surrenders to the call. Theo knows Claire does not like the interruption, but she’s committed to everything she takes on—work, charitable causes, her son.

  He wants to look at his own phone, but he’d only be looking for a missed call from India. Theo is growing tired of self-inflicted disappointment, so instead he half listens to his mother’s conversation. The young novelist is fresh out of Sarah Lawrence and younger than Theo. After his mother’s lunch meeting with the girl at Booktini—a Manhattan bistro she frequents when in New York—Claire was quick to voice her displeasure. The new author arrived late, ordered a drink out of the gate, and used words like awesome and stressed. Yet his mother did accept the freelance assignment of editing her book. Claire is only being Claire. “One must choose their battles, Theo. Carefully assess, then choose,” is a common Claire idiom.

  She holds her hand over the phone and mouths “One minute,” to Theo, though the pitch of her voice tightens as she continues the call. Their back-and-forth exchange exceeds a minute and Theo’s interest.

  As his mother prattles on, Theo thinks back to his freshman year at Cornell. It’s when he learned that, after his
father died, his mother turned down offers to return to her former life with New York publishers. She refused to uproot Theo. Perhaps she had no desire to be so close to ground zero, or move him on top of it. When Theo went off to college, he thought it might be a signal to Claire that she had done a good job. Her life could be about more than overseeing his. But after college, when Theo returned to Boston, Claire was firm in her choice to remain there as well. His attention reverts to his mother as she ends the call.

  “I’m too old and out of touch for this,” she says. “Most authors are less than half my age. So are in-house editors. Neither has a clue.” She stabs at the brownie sundae, taking a more believable bite.

  “Maybe the key is to get more involved with your publishing house.” Theo does not want to be the reason, twice, that his mother puts her life on hold. “Years ago, after Dad . . .” A lump lodges in Theo’s throat. “You could have gone back to your career. It bothers me—you didn’t get your chance because you chose me over your work.”

  “Theo! I can’t believe you’d even think such a thing.” She smiles. This is a gesture Theo associates with warmth and protection. “You know how difficult you were to come by in the first place.”

  Theo has heard the story many times. After a decade of failed traditional methods and advanced science, Theo’s parents decided to adopt. Claire often tells Theo she is sure he’s the reason all other avenues were unsuccessful—it was simply meant to be. Theo pushes the plate away. He is full to the brim and cannot eat another bite. Lunch is to include shopping, at the very least a stroll down Newbury Street. Theo isn’t much for shopping, but his mother likes to peruse store windows, always insisting on purchasing him some article of clothing.

  They exit the restaurant and walk all of twelve feet before Theo realizes the shopping pattern is in motion. She points to a sleek leather jacket in an upscale men’s clothing store. The jacket probably costs more than Theo’s entire paycheck. Claire makes good money with her editorial work, but it was David McAdams’s advance planning that made sure his family was provided for.

  “Do you like it?” she asks. “It looks like it belongs on the cover of GQ—maybe with you in it.” While it’s a typical Claire compliment, she will not force the issue. If Theo is opposed to her garment of choice, they will continue to shop until they find something he does like.

  Theo puffs out his cheeks and blows air, staring at the jacket. He does not agree with his mother’s GQ take. When it comes to her son, Claire sees an inspired oil painting. Theo sees more of an evolving sketch—a musician, who, if not for his mother’s steadfast guidance, then India’s input, would likely vanish into his music.

  His gaze drifts from the jacket, catching his reflection in the storefront glass. Claire is five-nine, so Theo’s five-eleven stature never looks particularly tall next to hers. There is enough of a plausible resemblance that no one has ever said, “How is she your mother?” Although she does have blue eyes and so did his father—a piece of biology that he recalls startling him in the eighth grade. Two blue-eyed parents cannot produce a brown-eyed child . . . In the classroom, for a moment, Theo wrestled with the sensation of falling—suddenly not so secure in the place he belonged. The feeling passed back then. It passes now as he refocuses on the jacket.

  But a moment later he blinks into his reflection and Claire’s, her blond bob bobbing. Surely his mother’s hair color says nothing about genes. Only her hairdresser would know that information. Their features are comparable—oval faces and Reese Witherspoon chins. His hair is a river of messy waves, the color of past-prime fall leaves. David McAdams had brown hair too. Theo wonders if he would be less secure had he been a redhead, like India, or a different ethnicity. What if his parents had adopted a baby from China or Mexico? Would that boy have stuck out on the McAdamses’ family Christmas card? Of course, if his parents had done that, a whole other person would be Theo McAdams. This bit of happenstance makes Theo’s head swim. They are the thoughts only adopted children will think.

  His mother interrupts Theo’s questions with one of her own. “Shall we go in and try it on?”

  Theo has forgotten the jacket. “You know, Mom, it might not be the best thing to wear to a place like Braemore.”

  “So wear it somewhere else, out with your friends or . . .” She doesn’t finish the sentence that should end with India’s name. Theo moves on to the next shop. They are mutually lost in a bookstore for a time, separated by genre—he scans the latest thriller titles while Claire plucks women’s fiction novels from an end cap. Theo does not know if she wants to size up the competition or simply enjoy a book.

  In some instances, Claire’s motivation can be hard to read, like the time she arranged a dinner with Sophia Beauregard and her mother, Pamela. Sophia is a ballerina, and the Beauregards are family acquaintances. Theo thought it odd, his mother’s sudden interest in the ballet and the need to have dinner with people he barely knew. But he didn’t think more than that. The matchmaker scheme only dawned on Theo afterward when his mother bluntly asked, “So what did you think, son? Sophia comes from such a fine family. Can’t you picture her on your arm, so smart and delicately boned?” Theo gave her a look and said, “Yeah, and we’d be on our way to a deli so I could buy her a sandwich, where we would continue to find nothing in common. What is Downtown Abbey anyway?”

  Standing in the bookstore, Theo snickers at the memory, which his mother was quick to correct: “It’s Downton Abbey, Theo.” Maybe encouraging his mother to take on more New York work wouldn’t be an awful idea.

  After making their purchases they continue down Newbury Street. It’s the height of Saturday shopping in early October. People are shoulder to shoulder on a historic street meant for a much sparser population. So it’s amazing when, through the thick of crowds, Theo spies red hair from half a block away. Of course, Theo would likely spot her from the moon. His stride lengthens to close the gap. Moments later, his and India’s noses nearly mash in an almost head-on collision. Claire drops her package; books spill everywhere. He thinks Claire has said an unlikely expletive, but he’s not sure. It’s India’s voice that rings in his ears.

  “Theo,” she says, breathlessly, as if spying a Newbury Street ghost.

  “What . . . why are you here?” And for one glorious second, Theo entertains a lifetime’s worth of fantasy. India has come back to him. She’s driven like a madwoman from Long Island to Boston, and is just making a quick stop in Victoria’s Secret before surprising him at their apartment. They won’t emerge from the bedroom for days. Before and after they make love, she will tell him what a terrible mistake she’s made—that she’s realized her abrupt breakup was an overreaction to kissing an old boyfriend. She’s even feeding into his fantasy by saying the word wedding.

  “You remember . . . it’s tomorrow. Colleen and Jeff’s wedding.”

  Theo slams so hard into reality he’s too blindsided to speak. Claire steps in on his behalf.

  “That’s right. Your cousin’s wedding—you’re a bridesmaid.” India is clutching a garment bag. “Of course you’d need to be here for that, your parents are even doing the catering, right?”

  Theo hasn’t forgotten the wedding, only the date. Of course, looking at India, standing on the same slice of Newbury Street, Theo is lucky if he can recall his address. She is quite possibly more beautiful than he remembers.

  “Yes. And at a healthy discount,” India says, though she’s looking at Theo.

  He looks back, fighting an urge to step up and kiss her. Theo remembers everything about kissing India and the way her body fit perfectly between the bedsheets and him. He wants to believe she’s thinking the same thing. Her wavy red head swings toward Claire, and India takes a step back. It douses any ideas about sheets and day-dreamy kissing.

  “I’m sorry. I never imagined I’d run into . . . Boston’s a big city, and Theo doesn’t like to shop.”

  “Just the extension of a mother-son luncheon,” Claire tells her. “How’s your move back home,
India? Things working out?”

  Theo hears protective instinct.

  “Fine. Busy. The Boston leg of the business is doing good. Well, it is thanks to you.” There is uncomfortable silence. Not long before India and Theo broke up, Claire hired Take Me to Church Catering to host her upcoming fall fundraiser. It isn’t her personal fundraiser, but she is the committee chairperson. The event, for Boston Public Schools, was a boon for the small business, and it was magnanimous of his mother not to switch caterers after India broke her son’s heart.

  “Yes, well, I’ve been in touch with the woman they’ve hired to replace you. I’m sure the event will be fine. And your sister?” she says, changing subjects. “How is Helen doing?” It’s charitable small talk, at which his mother excels. She knows India and her parents dedicate themselves as much to Helen as Claire does to Theo. “I hope your parents continue to cope. I’ve thought about giving your mother a call . . .” Her words trail off.

  “Helen’s doing better—it’s difficult. It will be a lifelong struggle.”

  “Yes, it will,” Theo says, though he is hardly talking about India’s sister and her heroin addiction. Helen’s drug problems were the one thing that stuck out in his and India’s, otherwise, storybook relationship—three a.m. trips to the emergency room and panicked calls from Helen, who was always one good hit away from total self-destruction. But even with this, Theo viewed Helen as a strength. Not a strain on their relationship. He and India did life better as a twosome. Helen was proof that, together, he and India could navigate obstacles. It’s part of the reason Theo’s so stunned that one misplaced kiss was their final undoing. Theo cannot help himself, asking, “Will you be in town long—maybe we could get a cup of coffee or something?”

  He recognizes her reaction. India is a careful thinker—she weighs pros and cons. She will even make lists on a white board. Right now she is thinking how to say no without further crushing him. Theo swears her hazel gaze is watery, but it is likely the fall breeze in her face. “I don’t think it would be a good idea, Theo.” She has found the gentlest way to drive another nail through him.