“Before you start thinking I did all of this myself, you should know I had someone come in early this morning and decorate. And cook the entire meal,” Talent says sheepishly. “I’m only responsible for taking the turkey out on time.”
“It’s amazing, Talent.” I step away to give them a little privacy.
Lydia’s concept of togetherness in any form is a hard pill to swallow. Holidays are a cutting reminder that she spent so much time alone, and while it came off as emancipation, the truth is, it was prolonged suffering. People are not supposed to spend their lives by themselves. We thrive on connection. We’re better mentally and physically for it. She’s healing, but it’s a slow progression with a lot of setbacks.
“Look at me,” Talent says as I go. He rests his hand on the side of her neck and bows his head to look her in the eyes. “It’s okay, baby. Everything is going to be okay.”
And she replies, “Don’t talk to me like a fucking child.”
Period.
Deadpan.
No emoji.
Lots and lots of setbacks.
Sometime later, Talent and I are gorging ourselves on the vegetable platter and ranch dip, coming up with a list of pros and cons about moving out of our apartment on the other side of Grand Haven and moving into this one with him.
Cons:
I’d miss Dog Mom.
I’m emotionally attached to it because it was my first real home after I left North Carolina.
Lydia is, too, even though she won’t admit to it.
There’s nowhere for Dog to run around outside.
Pros:
My room would be bigger, so I’d have more space to put candles. But only if I agree to sleep with a fire extinguisher.
Talent and Lydia wouldn’t have to travel back and forth between two places.
The commute to the office is longer, but so what.
Dog will survive.
“Most of those pros are terrible examples,” Lydia says. She pops a cherry tomato into her mouth. “Dog will survive? He can’t be trapped inside all day and night. Where will he go outside?”
“There’s a park right across the street. Do you think no one in this building has pets? I’m pretty sure the motherfucker on the second floor who sells me weed has a tiger.”
I laugh out loud and say, “He doesn’t have a tiger. You can’t just own a tiger.”
Even Lydia shakes with contained joy.
“It’s a big fucking cat.” He shrugs like they’re the same thing.
“Cats use a litter box. Totally different animal.”
“Train Dog to use a litter box. Problem solved.” He bites a stick of celery in half.
Dog, who hasn’t left Lydia’s side since we arrived, growls like he understands our conversation and doesn’t approve. He and Talent share a hostile relationship that borders on indifference at best.
“Wilder has a house with a yard a few miles away. Dog can live with him,” Talent suggests. But when Lydia growls at him, he says, “Or we can get our own house because the fucking dog needs a yard.”
“Are you ready to be a big boy and move out of your bachelor pad?”
