Neighborly(41)

Stop it, Kat.

I don’t want to be that wife who stands by silently, awash in resentment. I want to appreciate him for what he’s good at, like talking to people, and accept what he’s not, which is putting together furniture in a timely manner.

Besides, this isn’t really about Doug. This is about the notes, Part C, and bad juju. It’s my fear of escalation, of what might be coming next. It’s about the shame I feel over a past that I’m afraid is catching up to me right now, that a neighbor somehow knows what I haven’t even told my own husband. It’s about all that I need to keep boxed up and buried, on a block full of people who claim they can see through me.

“Can we just get a gelato and go home?” I say.

“Sure. The only other thing we have to do is stop by Tennyson’s boutique.”

“I’m really tired, Doug.”

He squints in evaluation. Finally, he says, “OK. A gelato and then home.” I give him a big hug and smack a kiss on his cheek, and he laughs.

I knew it would be OK if I just told him what I want and how I feel.

But I can’t share it all. For him to know the whole of me would change everything. He’d never look at me the same again, and I’ve always loved how he looks at me.

He knows about my mother’s depression. He knows she could barely function, let alone attend to me emotionally. He knows about the poverty and the neglect.

There’s the father I never knew and the mother who didn’t give me enough love, but that’s it. No more. Layton and Ellen—that’s another level.

As it is, Doug thinks that the reason I’m not crazy about his parents is because of my childhood. Imagine how he would consider my thoughts and behaviors, especially ones he didn’t like, if he knew the rest. Imagine how easily I could be dismissed. It’s OK if Doug pities me, just a little, but if he knew everything, he’d be disgusted. And I couldn’t live with that.





CHAPTER 14

Andie’s driving again, though I notice she’s dressed a lot more conservatively this time. Actually, she’s dressed like I was the first night, in jeans and a cute top.

I wind her up and let her go. I ask questions about her favorite restaurants in the AV, the best sangria, a great manicure, a skilled hairstylist. I’m doing a Doug trick: make her feel like a valued authority. But unlike him, I’m not paying attention to her recommendations. I’m just killing time.

Much as I like Andie, the last thing I need is to be around someone who can read me. I want to be in my bed, shades drawn, covers pulled up to my chin, watching a Netflix marathon. I feel like this night is destined to end badly, but I didn’t know how to get out of it. Declining the second invitation seemed like terrible form. There might not be a third.

“You seem sort of quiet,” Andie says as we’re pulling into a parking space across from Hound. “Is everything OK?”

I could tell her about the notes. Then she’d forgive my strange mood, and it would cement our friendship.

“Just tired,” I say.

Hound is still cramped, serpentine, and dark, but this time, Andie and I are the last to arrive. June, Yolanda, Raquel, Tennyson, and Gina are assembled around the conjoined table, with shots lined up for all of us, including me. It’s an offer that’s hard to refuse, in my current fried state. My nerves are crying out for a salve.

“You made it!” Gina seems truly happy to see me. She’s in a shapeless T-shirt, her mushroom hair anchored by a headband.

“Hey there!” June looks like she’s in good spirits, too, much more coiffed than I’ve seen her before. Her auburn hair is usually in a ponytail, but tonight she’s styled it into spiral curls, and she’s in full makeup. I wouldn’t have thought it before, but she can be nearly as attractive as Tennyson and Yolanda.

“Tequila,” Tennyson says, by way of greeting, pointing at the shot glass intended for me. “We’re starting with a classic tonight.”

“It’s a nice bed for the Golden Revolver,” Raquel adds.

Tennyson laughs. “It’s not called a Golden Revolver!”

“Whatever.” Raquel is looking unusually sexy tonight in a low-cut shirt and push-up bra. Something else is different. It takes me a second, and then I realize she’s not wearing her glasses. She and June got the same memo. Andie and I missed it.

“Down the hatch,” June says. She lifts her glass in my direction, as if to toast.

“Salud,” Yolanda says.

“Mazel tov,” from Andie.

I don’t know if it’s the fact that each woman is tossing her drink back in turn and I’m just susceptible to peer pressure or if it’s that earlier I noticed Sadie has way more than enough milk and one pump and dump wouldn’t impact her at all. It could be nerves or that the shot glass is just sitting there and I hate to waste anything. It could be a desire for obliteration. Whatever the reason(s), it’s salud and down the hatch and mazel tov for me, too. The other women congratulate me, like I’ve done something brave.

“Sometimes you just need to look after yourself,” Tennyson says approvingly, as if this is a version of treating myself to a massage.

From there, it doesn’t seem like much of a leap to my first Silk Purse. Both go to my head quickly, and I see, with perfect clarity, why alcohol is essential in life. All of a sudden, I’m in the moment and forgetting all the stresses of the past couple of weeks. My inner censor has been muted. I feel verbally limber and loose enough to banter with the best of them. I’m even feeling, dare I say, a little bit sexy. If I had a button to undo, I would. If I get the next round, I might even flirt with the bartender.