You Love Me(You #3)(99)

You look at Ivan and Nomi looks at Ivan and I don’t look at Ivan because I don’t want to know that he booked an appearance on some daytime talk show to defend himself.

He grabs the other beer out of the freezer. “I will be able to cover my attorney fees…” He pops the can.

All eyes on Ivan, even mine. And he grins. “Because I sold the house.”

Your face says it all. You don’t speak. You turn white and you never really wanted to move and he’s cavalier. Heartless. This is your home and he’s boasting about a cash buyer and you’re looking around the living room—this is where you live—and your Meerkat looks at you and snarls, “So what now, Mom? Are we homeless?”





38





You’re not homeless. And if any man on this island deserves to be sainted, that would be me. I opened my home to you—Generous Joe!—and you live with me now!

Sort of. It’s funny how life comes full circle. When I chose this house, I was in prison. I showed it to Love because I thought she’d be happy about the guesthouse, a place for her parents to stay when they visited. She scoffed at me—That’s way too small for them—but I stuck to my guns because I loved my house. It’s on the water. It has character. It’s not an L.A. Craftsman—I got so sick of those houses—and they’re popular in L.A. because they keep the heat out. But on Bainbridge, we get weather. You want a house with a lot of windows, a place that lets you soak up the sun. I thought my guesthouse would be empty until Forty’s old enough to leave his matriarchal prison, but now you and the Meerkat are in my guesthouse.

It was a rough month, Mary Kay. You had no time for me, too busy pleading with iMan to reconsider and cancel the sale. But that narcissist fuck wouldn’t budge, especially when his dutiful wife filed for divorce.



I had to tread lightly. Ivan left to go to rehab—copycat much?—and you began hunting for a new home. You were more exasperated every day, agitated by well-heeled Mothballs making passive-aggressive remarks about your spending, as if going without your lattes would have made you a millionaire. I was polite. And then, two weeks before your pending homelessness, I knocked on your office door.

“How you holding up?”

“Terrible,” you said. “Lunch?”

I insisted on taking you out—That’s what friends are for—and we had a nice, long, lingering lunch at Sawan. I mentioned my guesthouse in passing and one week later, you insisted on taking me to lunch. This time, we went to Sawadty and you mentioned my guesthouse. It was your idea to move in—it had to be your idea—and you insisted on paying rent. We haven’t been sleeping together—moving is stressful—and my phone buzzes: Are you awake?

It’s your first night in a new house and new houses can be scary. It’s after 2:00 A.M. and I’m your landlord—you insist on paying rent—so I respond, as any good landlord would.

Me: You okay?

You: Yeah. This bed is good. Do you have the same kind?

You’re in my guesthouse but you want to be in my house and the Meerkat is asleep and your rent check cleared and I tell you to come see for yourself.

Three minutes later, you are knocking on my door and I am opening the door.

You pick up Licious and promise him we’ll do something about that god-awful name and he wriggles free and that leaves you with free hands. A free body. A free night.

You walk up to me. Slowly. “I’m not here.”

I walk up to you. Slowly. “And you’re not allowed to sleep over.”

Our mouths are close. We are close. Your daughter will graduate from high school in a matter of weeks and that’s a big goalpost for us. You’ll be one step closer to freedom from being the good day-to-day mom. You tremble. Sore from moving all those boxes onto my property. “And you’re not allowed to tell anyone I was here.”

You lean into me and bring my hand to your Murakami and you send me to your Lemonhead and you missed me. You want me. I kiss you on the neck. “Mary Kay,” I murmur. “How could I tell anyone that you were here when you’re not here?”

You wrap your legs around me and I carry you to my bed—YES—and you wiggle out of my arms and jump onto my bed and you bounce. You feel the mattress with your hands and smile at me. “You’re such a liar.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Joe,” you say. “Your bed is much nicer than the one in your guesthouse.”

First you want me on top of you and then you want to be on top and you grab my hair. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you kidding? I’m not complaining.”

I am inside of you and I am holding you and you hold on to me. “I just want all of it,” you say. “I want all of you all at once.”



* * *



Sneaking around is fun and we’re good at it, Mary Kay. You “loved” the first night that we got back together, but you’re right. It’s too risky for us to be in my bed when the Meerkat is right next door. So we improvise. You come home for “lunch” and you go to work and “forget your phone” so that you have to rush back home to me and you always let Nomi go to Seattle to visit Peggy and Don because Peggy and Don have so many pictures of Phil and so many stories about him. Their shop was a shrine to Phil before he even died and I agree that it’s good for Nomi to be with people who loved her father.