Love by the Book

by Melissa Pimentel

  My dad spotted me first. “Good morning, sunshine. What time did you get in last night? We tried to stay up but both of us fell asleep.”

  I gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I got in around one thirty. Didn’t want to wake you so I just snuck in and went straight to bed. Hi, Mom.”

  My mom got up from the kitchen table and gave me a hug. I sank into her familiar warmth and realized suddenly how much I’d missed them.

  “Lulu! I’m so glad you’re home. Look at you, you’re so thin! What have they been feeding you in England? I thought it was all fish and chips and—what do you call it—spotted dick over there!”

  “It’s not all that bad, Mom. And I have never once seen a spotted dick, if that’s any consolation.”

  I heard my dad stifle a laugh behind me. My mom swatted him with a dish towel.

  “Well, let me get you some breakfast. What do you want? I’ve got pancakes, eggs, toast, English muffins . . . and I sent your father out to get doughnuts earlier on, so there’s a half-dozen in the pantry.”

  I poured myself a cup of coffee and looked at the clock on the microwave: 7:13 a.m. “What the hell time does the doughnut place open?”

  “Language, Lulu. And it’s one of those twenty-four-hour ones in the Market Basket.”

  Market Basket. I made a silent promise to myself to visit an American grocery store when I was home. Aisle upon aisle of snack-food nirvana, heaps of produce buffed and waxed to a high shine: a consumerist promised land, and very different from the three limp lettuce leaves and half a loaf of thin-sliced white bread to be found in my local Co-op back in London.

  I sat down with my coffee and my parents sat opposite me, the pages of the Portland Daily Sun spread out between us. My dad put his hand over mine and gave me a sad smile.

  “We missed you.”

  “I missed you, too. Both of you. I’m sorry it’s been so long.”

  My dad shook his head. “No need to explain, sunshine.”

  “Has Meghan told you about Sue?”

  He nodded. “They came around yesterday. I have to say, Sue looked like hell.”

  “Good. She should look like hell after what she put Meghan through.” She and I had had a long conversation on the drive home last night, and while I could see that Meghan was determined to take Sue back and to work on their marriage, I couldn’t bring myself to forgive Sue for what she’d done. To me, she was still dead meat.

  My dad shrugged. “Marriage is tough, Lu. You never know what happens behind closed doors. And your sister . . . well, she can be stubborn as an old mule.”

  “How can you say that? Sue was the one who left!”

  My mother piped up. “Your father is right, Lauren. It’s none of our beeswax what happened between those two. I was as mad as anyone when I heard that Sue had left, and Lord knows Meggy was heartbroken, poor thing, but if she wants to take her back, that’s her decision.”

  “I still think Sue sucks,” I said sullenly. Seven hours at home and I was already reverting to my teenaged self.

  My dad patted me on the hand. “You’re gonna have to buck up, buckaroo, because they’re both coming over for dinner tonight.”

  The rest of the day was spent unpacking, doing laundry and catching up on American television. My mom and I got sucked into a Property Wars marathon and, before I knew it, Meghan was pulling up in the drive, a pale-looking Sue sitting in the passenger seat.

  “Oh, shoot!” my mom exclaimed, leaping off the couch and running toward the kitchen. “I forgot to defrost the chicken!”

  My dad opened the door for them and enveloped them both in a bear hug. “C’mere, Lu!” he called to me. “I want to get all my girls together in one hug!”

  I skulked over to them and allowed myself to be wrapped up in the embrace. Once released from my dad’s vice-grip, Meghan gave me a hug and pointed me toward Sue, who was looking suitably nervous. “Say hi to Sue,” she said, giving me a shove.

  “Hey,” I mumbled.

  “Hi, Lauren! Great to see you!” She tried to pull me in for a hug but I kept my arms tucked neatly by my sides. Meghan gave me a sharp poke in the back.

  My mom returned from the kitchen looking slightly harried. She wrapped her arms around Meghan and Sue in another double hug. “Hello, girls. Now, what would you like to drink? The chicken is still frozen solid so dinner might be a while.”

  My dad shuffled off toward the kitchen. “I’ll get the menu for the Chinese place!” he called.

  Dinner was a slightly stilted affair. I sat as far away from Sue as I could get, and every time she reached out for another spring roll, I dove across the table and snatched it before her fork could get there. I ate all of the Kung Pao chicken because I knew it was her favorite. Meghan continually kicked me under the table and my mom kept whispering to me sharply about manners, but I was filled with righteous indignation. I didn’t care if this bunch of saps were going to sit around and pretend like nothing happened. For me, this was war. And by the end of it, I would be the bloated, MSG-laden victor.

  I was polishing off the last of the crab rangoons when Sue grabbed me by the elbow and steered me toward the study. “Can I talk to you for a sec?” she said. “Alone?” I looked at her properly for the first time that evening and was pleased to see that Dad was right: she did look like hell.

  I shrugged. “I guess,” I said. I looked over at Meg, who was glaring at me and mouthing BE NICE. I stuck my tongue out at her and reluctantly followed Sue into the study.

  Sue shut the door behind us. “Look, I know you’re pissed at me, but I love your sister.”

  I made a spluttering noise that surprised both of us. “I know all about your little flirtation,” I spat. “How can you call that love? And you go and fucking disappear without so much as a word for a week and a half and expect you can just walk back into her life and pretend it never happened? Do you have any idea how hurt she was? How scared?”

  “Lauren, I know that what I did was shitty, and I’ve apologized a thousand times and will continue to apologize until I make things right but . . . Christ, you know better than most that marriage can be hard.”

  “Don’t you dare bring my shit into this,” I hissed.

  She put her hands up. “I’m not trying to compare us. I’m just saying . . . sometimes things break, and sometimes they can be fixed. I promise you, I am going to fix this.”

  I studied her for a minute. Her eyes were rubbed red and raw, her blond hair was shot through with white strands and there were fine lines around her mouth. She looked like she’d aged ten years. I knew that look. I understood it.

  I stood up and hugged her. “Okay, okay. I believe you.” I pulled back and looked her in the eyes. “But I promise you this: if you ever hurt her again, I will beat you up. Like, for real. I will go Schwarzenegger on your ass.”

  She smiled and I could see the relief in her eyes. “Deal.”

  “And I get dibs on the last spring roll. You’re not out of the doghouse yet.”

  October 29

  I spent my days splitting my time between Meghan and Sue’s place and my parents’, living off a steady diet of inventive snack foods (M&Ms and pretzels, you say?), cable television and US Weekly.

  It was nice to be back in the comforting bosom of family. My mom fussed over me, plying me with grilled cheeses and strawberry milk and giving me long, searching looks. I knew what she wanted to ask—What happened with Dylan?—but she never did, and I loved her all the more for it.

  Some nights, when Sue was on a late shift at the hospital, Meg came over for dinner and my dad would come in from working in the yard, open a couple of beers and silently hand one to each of us with a nod before retreating to his den to watch the Red Sox. After dinner, Meghan and I went on Facebook to look at photos of people we went to high school with, checking who’d got fat, who’d had kids, who’d been to jail.

&nb
sp; Last night, after we inspected the former prom queen’s terrible dye job, I showed Meg my Victorian calling cards. I was on the verge of throwing them out; there were only a few days left with Mrs. Humphry, and it looked unlikely that I’d be able to road test my Victorian wiles at home. The project, like an unsuccessful sitcom, was temporarily on hiatus.

  “These are awesome!” she said, holding one of the cards up to the light, the gold embossed lettering glinting. “You can’t chuck these away. They might come in handy some day!”

  “In what possible way could a hundred cards with just my name come in handy?”

  She shrugged. “You never know.” A wicked little grin appeared on her face. “You should leave one at Dylan’s house.”

  I shoved her away. “Are you insane?”

  “Come on, you can’t hide from him forever! When are you going to see him?”

  I threw a tortilla chip at her. “Never, if I can help it. Besides, I thought he was off on his cycling quest.”

  Meghan had the good grace to look sheepish. “I think he’s back in town.”

  “What?!” I stood up, sending the bowl of Doritos nestled between us flying. “Have you seen him? Does he know I’m here?”

  “Calm down! I haven’t seen him, but I ran into his cousin the other day and he said he just got back.”

  “And when the hell were you going to share this little gem of knowledge with me? Jesus, Meg.”

  “Uh, have you forgotten about my recent extreme emotional turmoil? Sorry if I’ve been a little distracted from yours.” She tugged on my arm and I sat back down next to her. “Look, if you don’t want to see him, don’t see him. There’s no law saying you have to make your presence known when you’re in the New England area, and considering you’ve spent most of your time here so far on my couch or this one, I think you’re safe.” She shifted so she was facing me and looked at me evenly. “But I think you should see him. It’ll be good for you. He’s not an asshole—he’s not going to make a big scene or anything. But you guys should talk it out.”

  “He sent me a letter.”

  “I thought he might. What did it say?”

  “All is forgiven,” I said in a fake-menacing voice.

  “Do you believe him?”

  I shrugged. “How can I?” I could barely forgive myself.

  The thought of seeing him again, or digging up all those old bones and laying them out for the two of us to examine and discard . . .

  Meghan frowned at me. “He deserves at least a phone call.”

  I knew she was right. I had hurt him, badly. The least I could do was allow him the opportunity to tell me as much. But still, the idea of facing him felt impossible.

  Meghan, as if sensing my thoughts, said, “I’m not saying you have to wear a hair shirt around town and beg forgiveness or anything. It’s just—you were married to the guy. And I think a little closure would be good for you, too.”

  I put my head on her shoulder. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Whatever you decide, I’m behind you. Now, have you seen how fat Greg Bellows is these days? Seriously, he looks like he swallowed an inner tube.”

  October 31

  I woke up this morning to discover that I’d gotten my period.

  I jumped in my mom’s car, not bothering to shower or put on matching socks, and headed straight for the drugstore. I fought my way through a horde of harried moms buying last-minute bags of candy and crêpe-paper skeletons. I picked a jumbo-sized bag of mini-Snickers out of a display bin, ostensibly for tonight’s trick-or-treaters but more accurately for the car ride home.

  Anyway, I think we can guess how this goes: me, looking bloodless and miserable, in sweatpants in the tampon aisle. And as I stood there, wielding a box of Tampax like a really useless weapon, I heard it.

  “Lauren?”

  I knew it was him immediately. He approached me with quiet caution, as though if he moved too quickly I might dematerialize, which was a fair point. He looked good. Tanned and blond, like a G.I. JOE action figure. He was wearing a pair of battered gray trousers and a navy-blue University of Maine sweatshirt I used to steal from him all the time. I’d wear it on weekend afternoons on the dock. I felt sick.

  “Dylan!” I trilled, like this was a pleasant surprise. “I thought you were pedaling through Wyoming!” My voice was a full octave higher than usual. “What are you doing here?”

  “I think that’s my line in this case,” he said. There was an edge to his voice, but he looked like he was trying to swallow it.

  “Meghan and Sue broke up.”

  “Shit.” His eyes did that crinkly concerned thing I loved and a fresh wave of nausea swept over me. “Poor Meg. How is she?”

  “Fine now. They got back together while I was on the plane.”

  He laughed. “I see your timing hasn’t gotten any better. They okay now?”

  “Yeah, I think so. They’re solid.”

  A stretch of empty silence yawned before us. We were each the deer and the headlights.

  He cracked first. “How long have you been in town?”

  “About a week,” I said.

  “Were you gonna call me?” he asked, quietly. He sounded wounded and—oh God—maybe a little hopeful.

  I thought about lying, but I knew he’d see through me. “No.”

  “Oh.” Another endless pause.

  “Look, Dylan, I know I owe you a—”

  “Lo. I can’t do this here,” he said, gesturing around him. “Whatever you’re gonna say, I don’t want to hear it while standing in front of a bunch of fucking tampons and adult diapers. Let’s go for a drink before you go. Talk things out.”

  “I . . . I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

  Dylan gave me a long, steady look. “C’mon, Lauren. One drink. One hour.”

  I met his gaze. “Okay,” I said. “But not Sangillo’s.” I couldn’t face the idea of sitting in our old haunt, rehashing all this shit while some drunks downed Jäeger meister shots at the table next to us.

  “Deal. Should I just call your folks’ place?”

  “No!” I yelped. The thought of him calling my parents’ house for a long, emotional, not-particularly-flattering-to-me conversation with my mom filled me with horror. “I—I’ll give you my mobile number. International fees for texting aren’t bad.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Mobile, eh? Whatever happened to your plain old cell phone?”

  “Sorry, force of habit.” I dug around in my bag and could only come up with an eyeliner and one of my Victorian calling cards. I scribbled my number on the back and handed it to him. “Watch out, it might smudge. It’s kohl.”

  He looked at the number and then flipped it over to see my name embossed in gold. “Shit, you’re fancy now, huh?”

  “They’re for work,” I said quickly, hands flapping toward the card in his hands. “I’m just as un-fancy as ever.”

  “I don’t know about that,” he said with a slight smile. “It was good to see you, Lauren.” He nodded toward the box of tampons and his smile widened. “I’m glad you were—uh—unprepared.”

  I smacked him on the arm. “This is a dangerous time to tease a girl, you know.”

  We looked at each other and, for a split second, it all came back to us. We came back to us. And then I felt a tap on my shoulder.

  “Excuse me.” I turned to find a minuscule elderly woman clutching a handbag. She beckoned me to come closer and whispered, “Would you help me get one of those down from up there?” She pointed discreetly to a bumper pack of adult diapers balanced precariously on the top shelf. She peered around me and saw Dylan lurking in the background. She pressed her finger to her lips. “Sshhh!” she said, nodding toward him.

  I heard Dylan chuckle quietly behind me and turned back to see him walking away. “See you later,” he called from over his sh
oulder. “Tell your folks I said hello. I’ll call you in the next couple of days!”

  I handed the old lady her Depends and immediately high-tailed it over to the health and beauty section, where I pulled every face mask, hot roller, body lotion, epilator, loofah, salt scrub and volumizing mousse into the basket alongside the tampons. If I was going to have to see him again, I was going to make damn well sure I looked good this time.

  Which is why I’m now locked in my parents’ bathroom, covered in Nair.

  As I’ve got some time on my hands and as it’s the last day of the month, I guess it’s time for a little round-up of Manners for Women, even though it’s been a sort of truncated experiment. Still, I think I managed to squeeze a lot in: there was a canoe, embossed stationery, a full roast chicken . . .

  Manners for Women in Conclusion

  Mrs. Humphry wasn’t nearly as restrictive as I thought she’d be, and basically didn’t seem to care what I got up to as long as I did it with excellent manners. And I think we can all agree that I have an innate knowledge of proper social etiquette.

  Works best on . . .

  Bike Guy seemed completely nonplussed by my Victorian ways, though that might have been due to all the weed he smokes. I’m pretty sure I could have revealed myself as some sort of shape-shifting dragon, or a Republican, and he wouldn’t have batted an eyelid. I can’t see it working particularly well on the more skittish man—I can imagine Adrian getting the hell out of Dodge if I presented him with a formal invitation to a boating party. Still, I think the enforced propriety—and the general sense that I was doing things correctly in the eyes of society, albeit outmoded society—was strangely reassuring. Plus, I got all that nice stationery.

  To be used by . . .

  Women who love customized stationery.

  BOOK EIGHT

  FIND A HUSBAND AFTER 35

  by Rachel Greenwald

  November 1

  I spent the morning browsing my favorite used bookstore in Portland, hoping to find a guide for this month. I was determined not to let the project stall despite my brief American adventure; at this point, it was the only thing keeping me sane.