I need another DVD player by morning, when Eleanor will mainline her episode ofBarbie: Life in the Dreamhousewhile eating raisin bran.
Which means I have to text Tobin.
If he’s even home. He was a partier when we first got together, one of the rare straight guys I knew who loved to dance. After a few years, he turned into a homebody because that’s what I am. I’d encourage him to go to the bar without me, he’d demur, and I’d feel bad.
I’m torn between hoping he’s out living the life he gave up for me, or hoping he’s at home because he’s the only one who can help me.
Are you at the house? So sorry but I need a favor.
Everything okay?
I can almost hear the concern in Tobin’s voice.
Nothing serious. Can I borrow our DVD player?
My parents bought themselves the same machine they gave me and Tobin. I can swap them out with nobody the wiser.
Sure. You coming over now?
Is there an internal organ that manufactures guilt? His immediate yes pokes me right where it lives. I both love and hate that I knew he’d never say no, no matter what I asked.
Babysitting E. Put it on the back porch? I’ll come by first thing.
I’ll take care of it.
Five minutes later, I’m on hands and knees scanning for popcorn kernels under the couch when a soft rap sounds at the front door.
Tobin stands there, clutching our DVD player.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, though it’s obvious. “Agh, Yeti.” I scoop up the cat before he can escape.
When I straighten up, Tobin’s eyes are popping.
I forgot I’m wearing my new, very pretty, very V-necked sleep romper, bought in a spiral of feeling like I’d never get laid ever again. It was stupid expensive, but it helps me imagine I’m one step closer to being my new self.
We stand there staring for far too long. He looks rumpled, like he’s been lying on the couch, too. He smells like Ben & Jerry’s New York Super Fudge Chunk, which he only eats when he’s sad. I’d bet my organic cotton romper he’s been on the seed websites, buying a million kinds of zucchini we don’t have room to plant.
His face rests in an easy, neutral expression, but his eyes are working to stay above my neck. I’m all too aware of how little clothing I’m wearing, and how easily he could take it off. It’sthe kind of thing you can’t help but know when you’ve been with someone as long as he and I have been together. Or maybe as long as he and Iweretogether?
I don’t know anymore.
“Can I come in?”
No, he may not. I’m having too many gigantic feelings; there isn’t room in the house for Tobin, too.
Someone outside says, “Tobin? Did I get the time wrong?”
McHuge stands in the middle of the road, looking bemused. Bizarrely, he’s carrying a nylon mesh laptop bag. Was the real McHuge abducted by aliens? The one I know doesn’t have a phone, much less a computer.
“Hi, McHuge.” I wave with one hand, gesturing frantically with the other for Tobin to get inside. “One second.”
“No, that’s fine, I can see you’re, uh. Busy. With, uh.Repairs,” McHuge calls, loud enough to notify the entire neighborhood.
He makes it sound like Tobin and I are role-playing a low-budget porno. I clock Tobin’s low-slung jeans and thigh-weakening T-shirt. Also my adorably detailed romper, worn with no bra.
This does look pretty porny.
I yank Tobin across the threshold. “He’ll be home in a minute,” I sing, through the closing door.
