Seth:I know it’s juvenile playground stuff to antagonize a girl you like, and maybe that’s what I was doing last night, and I’m sorry. If you want to try talking again, I promise to do nothing but flirt with you and tell you how pretty you are. But I hear you, and I won’t bother you unless you tell me it’s okay… at least not until I collect my winnings at our 20th reunion. Take care.—Seth
Trust Seth to be the type of person who writes entire perfectly punctuated paragraphs by text message, and signs them with his name like my mom. The nerdiness of his prose styling, however, does not stop me from doing a deep textual analysis of his every word.
It’s the “carrying a torch” that gets me. It’s got a nice ring to it—courtly with an ache of regret, like it’s torn out of a Lyle Lovett song. There’s a large, wicked part of me that wants to tell him to keep sending me softhearted paragraph-length texts about how lovely I am.
But his sweetness is the clincher. I’m just not nice enough for him.
I wish, for a moment, that I was. That I believed in the logic of rom-coms: that Seth could shore up my faith and sand down my rough edges, andI could brace him with realism until we evolved into each other’s missing piece.
But that’s not how it works.
I send Seth one more message.
Molly:You’re sweet. But I can’t.
PART THREE
October 2019
CHAPTER 14Seth
Is there anything like a cold beer in a thirty-dollar novelty cup at a baseball game? What is it about that translucent hard plastic that makes beer taste so much better? Socrisp.Sofun.SoAmerican.And not the bad, dog-whistle kind of American. The America’s pastime, Fourth of July, peanut shells on the floor of the ballpark, type of American.
The only problem with novelty cups is the difficulty of carrying two of them, plus a giant tub of popcorn and a hot pretzel with extra mustard, back to the stands. Especially at a playoff game where everyone is screaming and stomping and jubilantly (or despairingly) bumping into one another.
I bid good day to the cheery concession stand worker, balance the pretzel over the popcorn, pinch two beers by the rim in my other hand, and begin my Herculean trek back to my seat.
I am lucky. It is a very, very good seat. Even though I am rooting for, some might say, the wrong team.
I am at Dodger Stadium, in Los Angeles, cheering on the Chicago Cubs in the seventh game of the National League Championship Series. Whoever wins goes to the World Series. It’s the sixth inning. The game is tied, 2–2. I am losing my mind. I had to leave and get snacks so I don’t have a stroke.
My seat is approximately thirty steps down a narrow staircase, so I’mpanicking a little about how to maneuver past the throng of highly charged fans. I feel vulnerable yet proud in my Cubs jersey. I know Dodger fans will throw popcorn, or worse, at me as I descend. I need to be physically and emotionally prepared. I take a deep breath.
“Seth!” someone calls from behind me. I pause but do not turn my head, because if I do I will spill something, and besides, all the people I know at this game are down in our seats. Surely no one is talking to me.
I take a few more precarious steps, pretzel wobbling on its perch.
A finger taps my shoulder.
I slowly turn around to see my high school friend Gloria and her wife, Emily.
Somehow,somehow, I manage not to spill my haul of concessions on any passersby as I say hello.
“Iknewit was you,” Gloria said. “I’d recognize those ears anywhere.”
My big stupid ears are indeed recognizable. And I just got a haircut, emphasizing my least comely feature. Which is fine, as I don’t think my levels of physical hotness are particularly pertinent to two married lesbians. One of whom, I notice, is quite a bit pregnant.
“You’re expecting!” I squeal. “Congratulations!”
Emily puts a hand on her belly. “Twin boys. Can you even?”
I can even, as they will be wonderful parents. And I cannot help but experience a small pang of vindication that they have bonded their union by starting a family—as it aligns with a bet I made with a certain woman who shall not be named.
“You two willdestroyparenting,” I say.
“Is that a good thing?” Gloria asks.
“So good,” I assure her.
