Weather Girl(89)

“I was actually thinking something else.” With my head, I motion in the general direction of the kitchen. “Marriage. Love. All of that.”

“Oh.” Alex scratches at his reddish beard. “That one, I knew I was ready for. One could even say I was ready the night we met.”

Of course, I’ve heard the story a thousand times. Alex was with a group of friends at a swanky downtown restaurant, and it was Javier’s first day on the job. When a steak arrived at the table nearly burnt to a crisp, Javier rushed out to apologize, and after his friends left, Alex kept ordering small plates off the menu. Each item emerged from the kitchen undercooked or overcooked or missing something or oddly formed, and each time, Alex asked to speak to the chef.

By the end of the night, Javier had grown frazzled almost to the point of hysteria—he always says it was a miracle he managed to keep that job—though he couldn’t deny the spark he’d felt whenever he dropped by Alex’s table. And Alex had started falling in love, too.

“I get that you were instantly drawn to him,” I say, “but how did you know he was . . .”

“The one?” Alex fills in.

“I was trying to think of a non-corny way to put it, but yeah.”

He smiles, and it occurs to me that he and our mother have the same one: wide and unabashed, slightly crooked on one side. I’d been used to my mother’s forced smiles—maybe I even learned from them—and it wasn’t until Shabbat that I realized how long it had been since I’d seen a real one.

“Somehow, it doesn’t feel corny when you’re in it. I want to say I knew that first night because how romantic is that, but it took a little more time.” He goes quiet for a moment, lost in thought. “We could talk about anything—that was the first sign. I loved the person I was when I was with him, and we had the same values. Of course, that didn’t mean there weren’t things that annoyed me about him. No one’s perfect, obviously. But those things didn’t matter when I considered everything that made me love him.

“It’s still scary as fuck, though,” Alex continues. “Putting your heart out there and not knowing whether the other person will be careful with it.”

“So what you’re telling me is that you can be ready, that you can want it, but it still might make you so anxious you want to throw up?”

“Yep. Buckle up, baby sis.”

I can’t help wondering, though, if it’s already happened. I felt certain I was falling in love with Russell. What would have happened if I’d told him? Could that have saved us from the fight, or would it have only made it worse?

Javier races up the stairs and bursts into the room, cream cheese streaked across his apron, brown eyes bright. “It’s happening,” he says, almost out of breath. “We got her.”

Alex leaps to his feet. “You did? I knew you would!” And he pulls his husband in for a kiss.

It’s a relief, really, to have this break from my issues, a celebration with guava pastries and sparkling cider and too many photos of my faux-tattooed face I hope my niece and nephew don’t use as blackmail someday. I’ve lamented the loss of not just Russell, but Elodie, too, and that split-second dream of a family. I know it doesn’t mean I won’t ever have one. But for a moment, I could see myself fitting into theirs, and I’ve been reluctant to admit how much I loved the way it felt.

This is a reminder that there’s hope out there.

A reminder that my family isn’t just me, even when I’ve felt the loneliest.



* * *



? ? ?

I’M PULLING INTO my apartment’s garage—I drive now, and it’s glorious—when I catch someone waiting outside the building. At first I assume it’s another tenant’s guest because when do I have guests, but as I inch into my narrow spot—less than glorious—I realize it’s Seth.

He holds up a hand as I get closer, weekend casual in khakis and a gray sweater, hair still meticulously styled.

“Seth?” I ask as I shut my car door. “What are you doing here?”

“Sorry to surprise—” His dark eyes widen, and he gestures to his own cheek. “Are you okay?”

I clap a hand over my face. I scrubbed at it as well as I could at Alex’s, but some of the blue lingered, giving my face a sickly hue. “My niece and nephew had some fun with paint earlier.”

“Ah.” A glance between me and the apartment building. “Do you think we could talk for a moment?”

My stomach prepares to reject the pastelitos. “Did you and Torrance—? Is everything—?”

“We’re fine,” he says quickly. “We’re great, actually. I just came here to talk to you because, well . . . I realized we’ve never talked that much.”

Despite how surreal it is to see Seth Hasegawa Hale in my garage, I invite him upstairs, where I become intensely aware of the messes I haven’t cleaned up: plates in the sink, blanket spilling onto the living room floor, snack wrappers poking out between the couch cushions.

“I’ll just, uh, tidy this up a bit,” I say, rushing around and grabbing as much junk as I can. “Do you want something to drink, or eat, or . . . ?” I’m relieved when he says no. “Sorry. I eat all my meals on the couch, pretty much.” I slam the dishwasher shut, praying Seth doesn’t report back to Torrance that I have the eating habits of a twenty-year-old stoner.