“I like him so much, it scares me,” I whisper into her neck.
“I know, sweet girl. He likes you too I can tell.”
“I’m just trying to enjoy the moment because when I think about where this could be heading I want to throw up.”
“Oh, sweetie.” She cups my face with her damp hands. “You were always a such hopeless romantic growing up, and you’ve always been so afraid of that. I don’t know why. If it’s got something to do with me and Steve—well let’s face it—it always comes down to the parents, doesn’t it? I’m sorry. It’s the opposite of what we want for you. We’ve been trying so hard to keep you open, but you just snap shut like a virgin’s knees at a frat party.”
As much as I fear my mother’s words, she really does have a way with them.
“There’s nothing to be scared of. Connecting at the soul level is not meant to be a frightening exercise, my dear. Between two people who love each other, it can be the lube that keeps things running smoothly, if you know what I mean.”
“I always know what you mean, Mother.” Even when I don’t want to hear it.
At dinner, we’re joined by the talented and completely useless Elijah, who is almost as bad at conveying information in person as he is on the phone. My parents regale Matt with stories of how they met and fell in love in NYC in the Eighties. Their version makes them sound much more romantic and rebellious and like they deliberately chose to turn their backs on the New York commercial art world. Maybe they did. Maybe I really am a cynic.
I am very grateful that both my parents managed to wait all the way until the fresh rhubarb and strawberry pie is served before bringing up the idea of me quitting my job so I can devote myself to my own art. They ask Matt for his opinion on the matter. He looks at me before answering.
I know perfectly well that he feels the same way. He said so almost as soon as we met. But what he says is: “I think she’s really smart and knows what’s what, and she’ll do what’s right for her when it feels right.” He offers me a little smile, but what he’s just given me is something so big and lovely that I don’t know where to put it.
My body tries to make room for it by squirting water out from the corners of my eyes.
It’s humiliating.
This happens every damn time I come home to visit. I’m always so vigilant, trying to hold everything together when I’m in New York, and when I get here I usually just cry and sleep.
“Umm. I just…I need to be excused I have to lie down for a minute,” I whimper, as I run out of the dining room and upstairs. The tears are just pouring down my face and I feel like a total freakshow.
“Let her go, Matt, she’s just opening up the channels,” I hear my mom say. “It’s a good thing. We’ll let her be alone with her emotions.”
Fuck these fucking emotions.
I just cried into my pie, in front of the best guy I could ever hope for.
I shut my bedroom door and dive into my bed, burying my face into the pillow that smells like lavender and fresh air and youthful romantic hopes and wishes. I let go of everything that I try to hold together when I’m marching through life in New York, I sob and I shiver, because I am so in love with Matt McGovern and I want tobeanddoso much more so I can have more to share with him. I want to be bold enough to tell the world that I want to be a famous painter even if I might fail, and I want to be brave enough to look the man I love in the eye and tell him that I want to be with him even if it’s not fun and easy.
I had such big dreams, lying in this bed by myself, staring up at the ceiling.
Tonight, I can only hope for something as simple and significant as the ability to share this bed with Matt and not say something sarcastic that will push him away.
Baby steps.
This is why I am always so hesitant about coming home. I get so emotional and tired when I’m here. New York doesn’t give you a chance to be tired. Even when you’re sleeping. On some level, you always have to be prepared to deal with a mugger or Godzilla or a beautiful man who makes you fall in love with him. I close my eyes just for a minute, not wanting to leave Matt alone with my parents for much longer. Dealing with my parents is the Vermont equivalent of being emotionally mugged by two well-meaning excessively communicative Godzillas.
When I wake up, it’s dark. My eyes have definitely been closed for more than a minute. I hear Matt and Daisy coming down the hall. I don’t move, pretending to be asleep. I listen as he places Daisy in her doggy bed and removes his clothes. When he finally joins me in bed, he spoons me.
“Hi,” is all he says, and that is perfect.
“Hi. What time is it?”
“Bedtime. Your dad’s cool,” he whispers.
I sniff the air. “Matt. Did you smoke up with my dad?”
He giggles into the pillow. Giggles! “Just a little.”
I spin around to face him. “Oh my God. Did he corrupt you?”
He snorts. “Please. You honestly think I’ve never smoked pot before? I grew up surfing in California.”
