Widowish: A Memoir(52)

When I got the invitation to Mimi’s birthday party a few weeks earlier, I called to tell her that I might bring someone with me.

“Sure!” she said. “Anyone you’d like; that’s great!”

“I’ve . . . kind of been seeing someone. Someone you know.”

“Oh my God, who?”

I took a deep breath and said, “Marcos.”

She immediately started to laugh. Marcos taught guitar to both her kids. He was helping Mimi’s daughter record songs for a demo she was making with her band.

“You know,” she said. “I can see it, the two of you. The whole music connection.” I could tell she was thinking it over. I could also tell she had a smile on her face. “I just can’t wait to tell Paul!” she said, referring to her husband.

And that’s how it started, my breaking the news to people that Marcos and I were dating. We’d be going to a party, and it would be our debut, in a way. I wanted my friends to be prepared to see me with someone other than Joel.

I devoted most of my time to Sophie that summer, but since we returned from our summer travels, Marcos and I had made a few plans that didn’t necessarily include rushed time between the sheets.

Sophie still didn’t know about him. I was still very much in mourning, and I didn’t want Sophie, or anyone, to think that because I was dating Marcos, I missed or loved Joel any less. It would be a lot for my fourteen-year-old to understand even though I felt guilty keeping this from her.

When it felt “safe,” Marcos would sometimes drive to my house, and we’d walk down to the boulevard for lunch or for drinks. He would often sing that Billy Joel song “Uptown Girl” when he saw me dressed for our date and in my end of the neighborhood.

“I see you now,” he’d say if I was ordering a salade Ni?oise and a glass of chardonnay. “I get your vibe.”

He thought that I was “refined,” and I liked that he would take me to his favorite Peruvian restaurant where the ceviche and lomo saltado were served on paper plates.

When I asked him if he was concerned about my being a widow—being too clingy, or too distant, or actively missing my husband, which I was—he’d say, “Sweetheart, I’m the man for the job.”

I was more relaxed around him now, not as self-conscious as I had been originally. We would hold hands, and it felt nice to be out with him. Our relationship was evolving from a fling to a thing.

By now I had also told Ellie, who, when she met Marcos in his jeans and T-shirt, guitar in hand, said, “Well, he’s not like the other dads.”

My married neighbor Roxanne, who knew him through the food pantry, told me, “Oh, I’m in love with him, honey. If you don’t date him, I will.”

My friends who knew about Marcos were happy for me because they saw that I was lighter. They didn’t worry about me as much. They liked that I wasn’t alone and had someone to lean on.

A few friends, though, particularly those I knew through Joel, weren’t thrilled. One husband seemed personally affronted by my new relationship. He thought it was too soon, and while he never said it out loud, I think he found it disrespectful. I tried to put myself in his shoes, tried to understand why it felt so personal to him.

Maybe I should slow down, I thought. Put on the brakes, spend less time with Marcos and more time grieving Joel. Only, I was still grieving. Marcos was a salve to all my sadness.

He asked a few times if it would be OK for Sophie to join us for a meal. I liked that he wanted to include her, but it felt a little too much, too soon. I had no one to ask for advice. This, like so many only parent/young widow situations, was unchartered waters in my friend group. Even Allison couldn’t offer the counsel I was looking for. “I can’t believe it!” she’d say with a groan. “Joel’s been gone a minute, and Brad’s been gone four years. It’s taking me forever to meet someone.”

I was starting to feel compelled to tell Sophie about Marcos. A friend suggested that I use the word date. She thought this would soften the blow since a date seemed noncommittal and kind of casual. That didn’t seem right to me, but I was at a loss. I didn’t trust myself to just tell Sophie the truth. That Marcos and I had been seeing each other, plain and simple. But once I decided to tell her, I had to tell her immediately, like a confession. I was also a little giddy, the way one gets when in a new relationship.

I was on the phone with Jillian in my home office. “I’m going to tell Sophie about Marcos the minute we hang up. It’s time, don’t you think?”

“Yes, it’s probably good that she knows. Especially now that you’re telling people about him.”

“And I’m going to that party with him next weekend. I just don’t want her to hear it from someone else.”

“Yeah, tell her. Then call me after and tell me what happened.”

“OK,” I said.

I put down my phone and heard Sophie in the kitchen.

“Smoosh?” I called to her. “Come in here for a sec?”

She came to the door. “What’s up?”

I didn’t prepare what to say and was so intent on telling her that very second that I just blurted it out.

“You won’t believe it,” I said. “Remember your guitar teacher, Marcos? He asked me out on a date!”

It was clumsy; my delivery was all wrong. It came out too fast.