Apart at the Seams

by Melissa Ford

  I deep-breathe until I can send the image of my wedding to the back of my brain.

  My phone buzzes, and I glance at the screen. What do you think of that Thanksgiving dinner? Could you pull together a dress in time?

  I slip the phone back into my pocket without giving Noah an answer. He’s texted me several times in the last few days to ask what I’m working on, giving me updates on his Great American novel, a heads-up about an upcoming Nightly sketch, or just making me laugh at the loft to break up the workday. I still crack up thinking about the barrage of photos he texted me of fashion ideas, from a discreetly snapped picture of a man’s crotch-torn sweatpants on the subway to a pair of tan Uggs that the wearer had covered in florescent pink hearts.

  I start pinning the dress, looking for places I can let it out and give Rachel a little breathing room. The dress is snug, the material across the back stretched uncomfortably. She’s put on weight, never a good sign. She’s one of those people who stay the same size year after year. The only time I saw her weight change was the year she spent divorced, when she was practically having butter stick chasers before pints of ice cream. She lost all the weight soon after they started dating, but it’s been slowly creeping on since Adam proposed.

  “Pretty bracelet,” she tells me as I pass in front of her, taking a pin out of my mouth and slipping it into the fabric of her dress.

  I look down at the hammered-gold bracelet that I bought that day in Soho. My reminder bracelet, the one that’s supposed to make me feel warm and happy inside, thinking about what I accomplished with the Emmy outfits. “I bought it for myself recently. I’ll have to get you one.”

  I can tell that Rachel knows there is more to the story by the way her eyes follow the bracelet under the fabric as I shake out my sleeve over it.

  That is why she’s my best friend; she notices everything. And I don’t know why I don’t feel like talking about it, why I’m not telling Rachel all my thoughts about starting a design house.

  As I work, we talk about Beckett and her blog, small talk that fills the air like unpopped bubbles. My phone buzzes again, and I take it out to peek at the screen. The main character in my book is going to the Oscars for fashion. What are they called? I quickly tap back a message. It’s the CFDAs. Google it. I drop the phone in my pocket, feeling him still speaking to me from that space against my thigh.

  Rachel watches my face as I work, making me feel self-conscious, as if she’s a scientist examining my cells under a microscope. For once, she is inscrutable, her gaze revealing nothing. Her lack of conversation is unnerving, especially since she usually fills the space between us with navel-gazing.

  “How are the wedding plans going?” I chirp. Any chance you’ll be postponing it for a few weeks so it doesn’t fall so close to Thanksgiving, let’s say?

  Rachel morphs into Eeyore bride. She mournfully scrolls through her to-do list, procuring a photographer and picking out bridesmaid dresses, and flowers—oh my God, how can someone sound that down about flowers? Which catapults me back into my role of helpful best friend. It feels as if I can’t break free of the centripetal force of that mind-set, always spiraling toward her rescue. Within minutes, I’ve ticked off solutions to the photographer and the dresses.

  And then I switch into distraction mode, taking her mind off wedding stress by loading on my computer Noah’s latest video, which he sent along with the Thanksgiving-party invite. He told me that their Thanksgiving episode is their highest watched episode on non-election years, and he wants it to be perfect, knowing the expectations will be high after last year’s musical video featuring Kristen Stewart, Robert Pattinson, and Taylor Lautner in a Twilight-themed Thanksgiving with vampire turkeys with glowing red eyes turning on the dining guests. I didn’t see it when it first aired, but I Googled it and found a copy of the video embedded on a website. I watched it a few times, dancing with Beckett in the living room while it played in the background, dipping him upside down every time the line popped up, “blood for all my friends.”

  “What did you think of Noah?” I ask as my computer slowly opens the attachment. “Did you know that he makes these short videos? They’re hysterical. Do you want to see one of them? He emailed me the one they’re working on now. It hasn’t aired yet.”

  I start playing this year’s video, waiting for her mouth to drop open in excitement, especially when she sees some of the celebrities that Noah lined up to perform. But she barely glances at the screen. She’s too busy looking down at her way-too-small original Shoshana Shalom, playing with the double layer of fabric.

  “Ari, what is happening here? Do you have a crush on Noah?”

  It’s a simple question that should have a simple answer, but it feels like a figurative punch to my throat, crushing the words inside like a dented can. At first I’m just stunned that she would ask me that. I would never cheat, especially not on her brother. Is that what she thinks of me? Is this why she’s been watching me so strangely? She thinks I’m hooking up with Noah Reiser?

  But now that the question has been asked, I realize that I do have a crush on Noah, and not just an unattainable celebrity crush. It’s a very real, I-wonder-what-my-life-would-be-like-with-Noah-type crush. Maybe telling me that he liked me planted the seed, but it’s definitely been burgeoning since coffee in Soho when I realized just how much he understands this side of me that Ethan completely misses.

  But I would never act on that crush, and I’ve pushed it mostly out of my mind. Is it so terrible to have a teensy little crush if I never act on it?

  Still, if Rachel has figured it out, is it possible that Ethan has picked up on something? Is that why he’s been so down about having Noah help me jump-start my career? I’m terrified of how close she has gotten to the truth, and I launch into an explanation for why I don’t want to marry her brother and it has nothing to do with Noah.

  And, of course, Rachel starts crying, wailing over the idea of me hurting her brother, and I end up having to comfort her, even though she just accused me of cheating. I feel sick to my stomach, cold sweat beading up on my back.

  “I don’t know if I really believe that there is one person out there that we’re supposed to remain with forever,” I babble. Am I supposed to cut off all contact now with Noah? I love his daily text messages and the fact that I finally have an outlet to talk about creative things. Someone who understands my ambition.

  “I think there are people we should be with at different stages in our life, and maybe those stages stretch on for fifty years or maybe they’re over in few months. But not knowing how long you’ll be compatible with that person, something as permanent as marriage seems like a dangerous choice. And with Beckett in the picture, it makes things ten times more complicated because divorce would affect him, too. So that’s why I don’t want to get married. It has nothing to do with Ethan and everything to do with me and Beckett.”

  I cross the room to hang up the wedding dress, wishing I believed my own words. As I zip up the bag, I want to cry, too. Why is it always Rachel who gets to be the comforted, and why am I always the one who is supposed to do the comforting? We both startle when we hear Ethan’s key in the lock, and I straighten up, not wanting Ethan to think anything is wrong.

  “Hey, Rach, is everything okay?” he asks, setting his bag down slowly, noting that his sister has been sobbing.

  “Ari is going to do some alterations on my dress,” Rachel tells him.

  Ethan and I stand there uncomfortably until he finally tells me that he’s going to go pick up Beckett. “I’ll go with you,” I tell him, partly to escape his sister and her scrutiny over my life. Rachel leaves while I’m slipping on my shoes in the bedroom, pressing the heels of my palms against my eyes.

  “How is stuff with Rach? I feel like I walked into weirdness,” Ethan asks me as he locks the door and we start walking to the nanny share to pick up Beckett. He slips his han
d through mine, and it grounds me. My crush on Noah is harmless; it’s just a fun outlet, a place to daydream. This is where I’m meant to be, walking with Ethan Katz to pick up my son. As much as Noah understands my drive, it’s Ethan who knows a part of me that Noah will never be able to see—the history that comes with seventeen years of knowing another person.

  “It’s okay. She just doesn’t really fit in her dress. Maybe she feels guilty that she didn’t ask me to design something.”

  My phone buzzes in my pocket and I reach for it, scared that it’s going to be Noah. But it’s Rachel with a two-word message: “we’re okay?” I flip the phone around so Ethan can read it. See, I have nothing to hide. I type back the same message, exchanging the question mark for a period.

  He takes my hand again and squeezes it, and I’m comforted when he brings our joined hands to his lips to give my knuckles a light kiss. He wouldn’t do that if he thought I was cheating on him. The sun is starting to set behind the buildings, sending a red haze around the bricks and making Manhattan feel as if it is on the verge of something, a transformation.

  “It’s not like you have time to make something that quickly. I mean, a November wedding date didn’t leave her with a lot of options.”

  “I know. I wonder why they’re rushing things,” I question aloud.

  “They know it’s right,” Ethan responds. “You don’t need to wait a long time, planning things, when you know that something is right.”

  He looks at me pointedly, but refrains from bringing up our wedding again. I sigh and stare at the traffic rushing by on my other side. I could never talk myself out of being in love with Ethan. His gentle pressure kneading my hand as we walk, the quiet that he lets descend over us as if he knows that what I need right now is time to think. I can’t imagine my life without Ethan, but sometimes I wish it weren’t quite so messy, our conversations speckled with so many land mines.

  In the quiet, I ask myself if I could ever be as happy with Noah. Not immediately, but maybe one day, after we’ve known each other for a while. Things are so easy with him, so comfortable. He, for one, would never put pressure on me to get married because he doesn’t want to walk down the aisle himself. Noah wouldn’t question my work hours or tell me it’s time to put down the sketchpad. And more than that, Noah seems dependable whereas Ethan fluctuates between being the world’s best boyfriend, offering to pick up Beckett for me when I’m with his sister, and my second child, happily daydreaming up unrealistic ways for the two of us to play when there’s work to be done. Why do I always have to be the responsible one when I’m dealing with the Katzes?

  As if he can read my mind, Ethan smiles, childlike, and says, “Now that life has calmed down, maybe we want to talk about what to get Beckett for Christmas. Don’t you Christian kids start plotting out your holiday months in advance?”

  It’s hard to feel frustrated at him when he’s smiling so gleefully. His excitement has a tendency to be infectious, and I laugh in spite of myself, shoving any questions about Noah out of my head. “I want to do something big. This is going to be the first Christmas Beckett has a chance of understanding.”

  “What about a train table? I had a train table that I loved when I was little.”

  “Uh, you lived in suburban New Jersey with all the room in the world. We live in a tiny apartment in Manhattan.”

  “Okay, so no train table. What about a robot?”

  “Are these toys for you or for Beckett,” I tease, feeling my guard coming down. He swings our hands in the air between our two bodies.

  “Well, I figure we have to get him something that he can open that day, but I had an idea of something sort of big that could serve as our family gift.”

  I cringe, waiting for him to tell me that we could throw ourselves a huge wedding and have Beckett as our ring bearer, but he says something that makes no sense. “Nepal.”

  “What?” I ask.

  He moves his left hand in front of his face, as if he’s revealing the end of a magic trick and grins at me. “You said you wanted to travel somewhere together before we undertake something huge like covering the whole globe.”

  “I think I said Canada,” I say.

  “Well, yeah, Canada. Or what about Nepal? Hear me out. Do you know what Gwen and Gael are doing this summer while she’s off? They’re spending three months in Southeast Asia. For no reason other than to be in Southeast Asia. Gwen is going to work on her book, and Gael is going on some photography expeditions. But for the most part, they’re just existing in Thailand, Cambodia, and Vietnam. One month for each country.”

  “That sounds great for them,” I say as we turn the corner and see the nanny-share building.

  “Well, don’t you want to do something like that? I don’t mean Southeast Asia. We could go anywhere. But I thought Nepal would be amazing. Nepalis love kids. It’s supposed to be one of the most kid-friendly countries in Asia.”

  “I have no clue what that even means,” I say. “What, you want to take Beckett to Mount Everest base camp?”

  “No,” Ethan snaps. “I’m not stupid, Ari. I may not be a parent but I have some sense of the limits with kids.”

  “Do you?” I question, pressing the buzzer so Martina can let me in. “Because Nepal doesn’t sound very practical to me. When would Beckett nap? Where would Beckett nap? What would we eat? What would happen if any of us got sick? We don’t speak the language. I barely know anything about the country. And I don’t have sabbatical months from my job, or whatever you call Gwen’s schedule.”

  “You have to make those sabbatical months if you don’t work in academia,” Ethan says. “Or else your life becomes your job.”

  “Yes,” I practically shout. “My life is my job. My job and my son and my apartment and you.”

  “So this is it?” he says. The door clicks, and I grab the handle, holding it open without stepping inside. “For the rest of our lives, we’re never going to travel again because it’s not practical with kids and your job?”

  “Of course we’ll travel. But not to Nepal for three months. That isn’t responsible. It’s not what adults do, Ethan.”

  “I think I’m an adult, too, Arianna,” he spits. “You don’t need to infantilize me.”

  How has this conversation spiraled so far out of control? I thought we were talking about Christmas and making it special for Beckett. When did this become a full-on fight? “I’m sorry, I’m not trying to infantilize you. Instead of jumping straight to three months in Nepal, what if we did a long weekend in Canada?”

  “A long weekend in Canada? Come on, Ari. Where is the adventure in a long weekend in Canada? You need to be married less to your routine and shake things up.”

  “Ethan, I’m not married to my routine. I’m realistic. Adults get jobs and keep them for years. We sometimes raise children or own an apartment. What we don’t do is pick up and follow every whim. We don’t change jobs the second we get bored. We live our lives, the ones that we worked hard to set up and get started. I have everything I want right here in Manhattan. My life here is thrilling enough without needing to shake everything up to create excitement. Being in love with you is exciting. Raising Beckett is exciting. Seeing my career take off is exciting, and I’m not willing to potentially choke it to death by taking time off before I’ve given it a chance to happen.”

  “So, that’s what I do? I choke things to death?”

  “You give up on things before you’ve given them a chance,” I point out. “And it sounds as if you want to give up on us when you’re constantly talking about changing things in our relationship or running away.”

  “Are you hearing anything I’m saying? I’m trying to make things better for us. Cement us together in some way. I don’t want to travel on my own, I want Beckett and you there with me.”

  “Isn’t this exciting enough for you?” I ask him, moti
oning to the space between us. “Are we exciting enough for you?”

  I don’t wait for his answer. This is everything I would never have to deal with if I just dated Noah. I wrench open the door that I’ve been holding ajar for the last minute and take the stairs two at a time toward Beckett, all the while knowing that what goes up must come down.

  IT’S LISBETH. WE have to plan the world’s best bachelorette party for Rachel today.

  The text message comes while I’m strapping Beckett into his stroller for a trip to the grocery store. I’m crumpling my shopping list in one hand with my phone, while I wrestle with the straps against a bucking toddler. “Don’t you want to make chili with me?” I ask him, clicking the last lock into place and straightening up. “How can we make chili if we don’t go to the grocery store?”

  Why me? I think as we walk outside. Why do I have to be the one who plans this? I was planning to make a few meals we could eat during the week, and then cut out a pattern while Beckett napped. Now that plan is out the window if I need to call up places that make penis-shaped cakes.

  I had already convinced myself that it was okay not to use my one free afternoon to work on Rachel’s wedding dress adjustments, and to instead give myself those hours while Ethan is out for his students’ photography fundraiser: Portraits for Pennies. His students set up backdrops, and they collect donations in exchange for family portraits. It’s a huge yearly event, and he told me not to count on him until much later tonight since he plans to stay and start downloading the images. Things have definitely been overly polite between us since our fight yesterday, as we try to communicate in as few words as possible. It was actually nice to know that he’d be tied up until evening, and I would have two straight hours to think of no one but myself while Beckett slept.