You Deserve Each Other(27)

He texts back right away.

WTF DID YOU ACTUALLY BURN THEM



“Of course,” I huff to nobody, all alone in my car. The vents are still blowing out cold air and I’ve had the heat running for ten minutes. His damned Maserati has heated seats that make you feel like you’re sitting in the devil’s lap.

What else would I do with oleander?



He replies: You didn’t do anything with oleander, seeing as how I gave you jasmine.

I squint at my screen, trying to decide whether I believe him. I didn’t know until recently that Nicholas is a talented actor, so it’s hard telling.

After a break of two minutes, he adds: If it HAD been oleander, burning it would’ve been a really stupid idea. JSYK. Oleander’s toxic. He’s Googled it, too. There’s no way he knew that off the top of his head. Nicholas is fond of researching things and pretending that whatever obscure trivia he unearths is common knowledge. He watches Jeopardy! to show off (and because he’s an eighty-year-old man trapped in the body of a Disney prince), getting a high every time he delivers the correct answer before a contestant does. Then he glances sideways at me to make sure I’m impressed. If I get up to leave the room, he pauses the show until I return so that I don’t miss a moment of his genius.

Another text lights up my screen. It is ridiculously over the top, even for you, to make the leap from “Oh, my boyfriend sent me flowers” to “Oh, my boyfriend’s trying to poison me.” JSYK, if I were actually going to poison you I could find a cheaper method.

“Just so you know” is how he says “duh” to people without getting smacked. If I destroy him before he destroys me, I’m making sure his epitaph says JSYK, dummies, it’s a myth that your hair and nails keep growing after you die.

I’m the only one left in the Junk Yard’s parking lot, watching my breath puff out in this metal icebox and dreading going home. To stall, I look up the significance of jasmine in the language of flowers and hunt for hidden subtext like a sentimental Victorian paramour.

There are many different types of jasmine. I don’t know precisely which strain he got for me. Most of the symbolism is typically romantic. I doubt Nicholas is aware that flowers even have meanings, or that he would choose one deliberately for a symbolic message I wouldn’t know unless I looked it up. He probably had the receptionists at Rise and Smile find the closest florist and told them to choose whatever was on sale today.

I can see his frown. A shake of the head. Impractical. He knows exactly how much gas he could have put in his tank for the cost of that jasmine. He knows its conversion rate for groceries or our cell phone bill.

I catch myself lamenting that I didn’t keep at least one flower before remembering there’s no point. I never should have brought up the whole jag about not getting flowers from him. I’m not at all gratified by the jasmine, because I had to nag to get it, and he didn’t send it out of love. He sent it because he felt obligated, just like he does for his mother. But where Deborah can somehow still derive satisfaction from that, I can’t.

It’s an empty gesture, a dark condemnation. In all the places it’s supposed to please, it stings instead.



It’s Tuesday, and something’s up with Nicholas. He called the office to say he wouldn’t be coming in, then left the house without a word to me. He’s been gone all day. While I check my phone for calls or texts and wait for him to come home, I wander from room to room. It’s a short tour, because our house is small. It fits two people if those two people love each other and don’t mind being close. In the near future, it will fit one person comfortably.

My phone rings and I jolt, expecting to be told Nicholas surrenders and is never coming back, but it’s Mrs. Howard.

I steel myself before answering. I love Mrs. Howard, but she has the voice of two bricks grating against each other from fifty years of chain-smoking Virginia Slims.

“Hi, this is Naomi.”

I say that specifically because she always asks—and then she still does, anyway: “Is this Naomi?”

“Yes.”

“Hon, this is Goldie Howard.”

I smile. “Hello. How are you?”

“Dear, I’m great. Actually, not so great. You got a minute?”

My heart sinks into my stomach. Last hired, first fired. It’s curtains for me. “Uhh, yes. Just, uhh …” I reach for a notepad and pen for some reason. My brain buzzes. Paranoia, anxiety, and nausea pull me into their familiar huddle and squeeze. “Yeah, what’s up?”

She launches right in. “I’m sure you know that business at the Junk Yard isn’t what it was twenty years ago.”

“It’s … not that bad,” I squeak.

“Hon, it’s that bad. Melvin and I have been going over the books, and it looks like we’ve got no choice but to clean house.”

I can’t cry. Mrs. Howard has been so good to me, and I won’t make her feel any guiltier for doing what she has to do. “You’re letting me go.”

“I’m letting everybody go. We’ll move some stuff around, relocating what’s left on the shelves to our other businesses, but we’ll be closed down by mid-November. I’d sell the Junk Yard the way it is to a new owner, but Morris real estate is in a slump.”

She’s right. After she closes the store, it’ll probably sit there empty for ages before some optimistic sucker turns it into a bakery that won’t last six months. All of our small businesses are closing and Morris will be a ghost town in ten years.