Not So Nice Guy(66)

Maybe we won’t even make it home. Maybe husbands and wives are allowed to find secluded sections of the gym parking lot. Maybe Ian will have his work cut out for him.

His eyes slice over to me and I smile.

“Almost done,” he mouths.

No, Ian. Not even close.





25





I A N



Sam tells me our new life still doesn’t feel real to her. She’s scared she’ll wake up one day in her old apartment, on her tiny bed, without me. I get it. For three years, we were best friends who were secretly in love with each other. Three years is a long time to subdue a crush. It became a habit to ignore my feelings for Sam, and that habit became second nature. We’re having to rewire our brains slowly.

“Remind me again,” she said the other night while we were brushing our teeth side by side. “You love me love me? Like not just as a friend?”

There’s a newness to our life that makes every mundane task exciting. Sam is quick to point them out: “We’re going grocery shopping for food for OUR house! We’re picking out a plant to put in the corner of OUR bedroom! We’re planning a vacation we’ll take as HUSBAND AND WIFE! IAN, THIS PIECE OF MAIL IS ADDRESSED TO MRS. FLETCHER!” Her enthusiasm is infectious.

Each passing day builds another layer of stability. Those first few newlywed months fly by as the school year wraps up. Her apartment lease ends. We get a joint bank account. We talk about when we want to have kids and how many we’ll have.

“Pretty simple to decide,” she declares.

“How’s that?”

“Well, if we have one baby per year until I turn 45, that makes 18—a nice, round, dozen and a half,” she proclaims with a straight face.

“Whoa whoa whoa,” I protest. “That’s crazy!”

“Why’s that?” She maintains the poker face, so I up the ante.

“Because one baby per year means you’re giving yourself three whole wasted months between pregnancies. I was thinking I could just climb up on top of you in the postpartum room, and that should give us—”

“AOUGHHGH, stop stop stop. I’m kidding. Let’s start with one, and if we don’t mess it up too bad we’ll do it again.”

Sam’s parents are hosting a dinner party tonight to blend the families. It’s going to be a shitshow. It’s been almost six months since we eloped, and this dinner is her parents’ way of making amends…sort of. Sam’s mom still calls every few days and asks her if she’d be willing to partake in a small (300 people) church ceremony. Sam says no, and her mom takes it as a personal insult every time.

“I know it seems callous, but I’ve given in to her demands my whole life. I’m not doing it anymore. I had the wedding I wanted. Nothing could top it. We ran for our lives!”

“I agree.”

“Okay, good,” she says as we stroll up the front path to her parents’ house. “So when my mom inevitably asks about it again tonight, you have to have my back.”

I nod—not that it matters, because her mom won’t ask Sam about it tonight. Her mom is all about appearances and she’d never get into a fight with Sam in front of my parents, who, from the sound of it, are already inside. I can hear my mom’s laugh from a mile off.

Sam opens the door and there they are: two couples who couldn’t be more different. Her parents are short and thin, human birds. They dress in khaki and cream, single-handedly keeping the beige trend alive. My parents are slightly heavier set with big smiles. Like Sam and me, there’s a bit of height difference between them. Tonight, my mom’s wearing a pink dress and my dad has put on his nicest Hawaiian shirt.

The second we walk in the door, my mom runs over and envelops Sam in a life-ending hug. Sam squeezes my hand as if trying to deliver a message via Morse code: please STOP help me STOP can’t breathe STOP.

“You look so beautiful! You’re glowing!” Her voice drops. “You aren’t expecting, are you?”

“Mom,” I warn.

She steps back but keeps holds of Sam’s outstretched hands. “Sorry, sorry. Wishful thinking!”

Sam’s own mom pats her shoulder. “Hello dear.”

“Hi Mom.”

“I, ummm…” Her mom takes a moment to peruse Sam’s appearance. “I like what you’ve done with your hair tonight.”

It pains her to deliver the compliment. Sam’s hair is wild and curly. By contrast, her mom’s hair has been forced into a tight up-do that yanks her forehead skin so she wears a perpetual look of surprise. She looks like the headmistress of a boarding school where you send troubled youth.

Her dad claps my shoulder and we shake hands. “How are you, Ian?”

“Good, sir. Thanks.”

“Taking good care of my daughter?”

His question might seem formal, but his tone isn’t. Out of the two of them, her dad is much easier to handle. He just wants Sam to be happy.

The strangest thing happens over that four-course dinner: our parents become friends. Our moms get along exceedingly well. I think it’s because my mom could talk to a shoe and call it her friend. She peels back Mrs. Abrams’ layers like a highly-skilled psychiatrist.

“So, tell me more about your childhood!”