Teddy’s obliviousness could be so exasperating. “A break from what, Teddy!? You spend your days on Twitch, playing video games, trading play money, and jamming on the guitar.”
“What do you even like about me, Jane? Why do you want to be with me?Doyou want to be with me?”
Jane could think of lots of reasons she liked being with Teddy. He was upbeat, he was funny, he was generous. She liked sleeping with him, she liked having sex with him. She even found the ridiculous pattern of his chest hair endearing. But why didhelikeher? Was she some sort of mother figure, someone to take care of him? Or perhaps she was a withholding mother figure from whom he sought approval? No, Teddy’s actual mother adored him, treated him like he walked on water. It was gross.
She knew she should say one of the many things she liked about him, but she didn’t have it in her. It’s not that she wasn’t in the mood to give; she actually felt like she had nothing to give.
Not a single thing.
This feeling of emptiness: In a way, wasn’t it the ultimate expression of decluttering? When all extraneous things were cleared away, there was nothing left....
“I don’t know.” It was the best she could do.
The argument had stirred Jane’s memory of a friend’s destination wedding. They were ostentatious events, and she dreaded them. This one had required a three-thousand-dollar trip to Hawai‘i where every minute of her day had been scheduled. There was the welcome dinner, the bridal spa day, the bacheloretteparty, the wedding ceremony, the reception, the dinner, the after party, the post-wedding send off, and each step had been staged and photographed. It was a weekend designed for Instagram that had little to do with what was ostensibly a sacred vow of love and fidelity. For their honeymoon, the newlyweds had flown from Hawai‘i to Tahiti, photographer in tow. If they weren’t being looked at, what was the point?
She wanted to purge her memory of the entire trip, but one moment had stuck. During the interminable toasts, the mother of the bride gave a speech: “They say the secret to a happy marriage is to never go to bed angry. I’m here to say it’s actually okay to go to bed angry. You have to learn to accommodate each other, to give each other space to be mad and then move past it and come together again. The beauty of marriage is that you have your entire lives to resolve your differences—to become one.” This resonated. Trying to suppress her anger would only exacerbate it.
Less than a year after the wedding, Jane heard that the mother of the bride, she of the go-to-bed-angry toast, had gotten divorced. And just recently, Jane learned the Instagram-centric bride had been summarily dumped by her husband mere weeks after she delivered their baby. How would this story manifest on Insta? Undoubtedly, it would be about #newbeginnings, #rebirth, #blessedbybaby, #singlemomsrule, a strategic rebranding attempting to turn getting royally fucked over into an empowering positive.
So yes, Jane had gone to bed angry the previous night. She’d thought about sleeping in the living room, but that felt petulant and childish, and when she climbed into their Cal King bed, Teddy—who could sleep through anything—reflexively wrapped himself around her. His touch triggered the release of dopamine and oxytocin, suffusing her with unwanted feelings of attachment.The human race could not propagate if everyone avoided one another, so these feel-good hormones tricked you into things.
Jane knew she should release her anger and let things be. She wanted to. She desperately needed to.
But how?
Jane exited the 101 at the Highland off-ramp and spotted a Range Rover just ahead weaving erratically. The driver—scrolling on her mobile phone, eyes pinned to the screen—was bearing down on a red light while a man, similarly bewitched by his screen, stepped into the crosswalk. Jane blasted her horn, and the driver slammed on her brakes.
Jane screamed.
She was astonished by the volume and resonance of her scream, and also by the fact that it felt good, even though her heart thumped in her chest and adrenaline coursed through her veins. The man leapt backward just in time to avoid being pulverized, then angrily banged on the hood of the Range Rover. The rattled driver cursed and gave him the finger, emboldened by her rolled-up windows and locked doors. The pedestrian stopped in his tracks, mulling a way to escalate the conflict, when he noticed Jane looking over. The driver of the car followed his gaze, and now both were shooting her dirty looks.
So much for saving a life. Was it any wonder that Jane often felt like she was living on the edge of calamity? She considered flashing them the peace sign but thought better of it.
Today’s job was in Hancock Park, where Jane now sat in her car waiting for Lindsey while admiring the stately Spanish colonial. She’d arrived punctually—with Waze, there really was no excuse not to—but Lindsey was chronically ten minutes late. If andwhen she got her license to be a marriage and family counselor, how would she ever make her appointments on time?
Teddy had kissed Jane goodbye before she left. She smiled when she felt his warm lips on her cheek, but also tensed. Part of her wanted to take his hand and lead him back to bed and spend the day there with him, whereas another part of her just wanted to run. She wouldn’t be able to resolve any of this now, and she had a job to get to, so she held him tight for a lingering moment, nibbling his ear, something that reliably delighted him.
Lindsey’s Honda CRX pulled up as Jane took a last sip of her now-tepid coffee.
“Oh my god, I am so, so sorry I am late! Wow, this house is cute! Like, super cute, right?”
“It’s beautiful. Let’s hope it’s not a big nasty mess inside.”
When Leila Allen opened the door and invited them in, Jane sighed with relief. The interior was gorgeous, beautifully appointed, and immaculate. Leila appeared to be in her mid-fifties and exuded elegance. Her hair was in a neat chignon, and she carried herself with the grace of a dancer.
“Good morning, welcome.”
“Your home is really beautiful.”
“Yeah, so cute!” Lindsey chirped.
“Thank you. I’ve been here a while, so—lots of time to try to get it right.”
From the entrance hall, Jane could see a living room, a library, and a grand split staircase with Mexican tile on the risers. The floors were a dark stained oak, and the walls were painted a soothing parchment. Antique pieces artfully intermingled with contemporary ones. The color palette was mostly saturated greens and crimsons, but nothing felt heavy—just grounded.
“Your interior designer did such a great job.”
Jane hoped her comment didn’t sound impertinent.
