The Hazards of Hunting While Heartbroken (36 page)

Why didn’t I think of Angela’s brother-in-law? Maybe because I thought my problems can’t possibly merit interrupting a federal agent’s turkey dinner. My stomach’s in knots. The sooner someone tells me what this is all about, the better. If my mother allowed antacids in the house, I’d be chomping on them like candy right about now. I hear Scott telling my mom it would have been nice of me to warn them that Oscar is a scratch golfer, and wonder if they can hear me as clearly out in the hallway.

Kevin’s mom shrieks again that this is the last holiday she’s hosting her ingrate relations.

“I’ve got to dash,” Kevin says. “I’m forwarding this now and I’ll call you if I hear anything. And do me a favor. If Angela calls you first, it would be nice if you’d allow me into the loop.”

“Absolutely. You’re the best.”

There’s a brief silence that’s long enough to make me think the call dropped, then Kevin asks, “Do you mean that?”

“Of course.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

I doubt that’s the case, or at least I certainly hope it isn’t. Mrs. O’Connor yells again that they’re going out to eat next year and she doesn’t care if it’s Chinese food, McDonald’s, or the take-away counter at the Food Giant. Kevin says a hasty goodbye before I can spit out anything else.

I take a deep breath and force myself to leave the relative safety of the guest bathroom. I drape my arms up on Oscar’s shoulders, and wonder whether he’ll notice any change in my attitude towards him. “How was your golf game?”

“Great, though I feel bad about beating your dad on his home course.”

“I’m sure he was happy just to get out and play.” I wonder when I’ll get a chance to speak to him in private. Probably not before dinner. I remove my hands from his shoulders and ask if he’d like a beer.

“That man of yours is gorgeous,” Laurie gushes when I run into the kitchen to get Oscar’s beer. “And it must be serious, if he’s here for the holiday.”

“I guess you could say that.” Even I can hear the sudden lack of passion in my voice, but she apparently doesn’t.

“Has he thrown out the L-word?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, he has.” I wince at how smug I sound reporting this, as if it’s an achievement in its own right, regardless of where things go from here. I flip the tops off two winter ales, one for Oscar and one for my brother. My mother probably won’t let Dad have one now, if he wants wine with dinner.

“So do I hear wedding bells? Is he it? Is he
the one
?”

Laurie’s directness catches me off guard. I can’t remember the last time she and I talked about anything except her kids, and my mother’s special brand of crazy. Though we don’t normally discuss our personal lives, and my world appears likely to implode again, I decide it’s best to answer her question. She doesn’t need to be alerted to a problem at this stage. I’m still hoping, irrationally and against a strong circumstantial case to the contrary, that there’s an innocent explanation for everything.

“I don’t know. I thought maybe yes, at first, but now I wonder if it’s all going too fast. But he’s perfect, right? Smart. Handsome. Successful. Driven. Generous. Into me.” As I tick off each remarkable quality, I hear the enthusiasm in my voice wane. “And I’m not getting younger.”

“Please stop with the I’m-so-ancient nonsense. You’ve been spending too much time listening to your mother, who’s spent her whole life in suburbia, where women settle down younger. None of your New York friends are in a huge hurry, right? There’s nothing wrong with putting on the brakes if you feel like it. More women should do it, but they’re afraid. I think it shows guts and smarts to take the time to make sure it’s right. I have so many friends who got married because the guy checked the right boxes and they felt like they were on the train and it was therefore too late to ‘do better,’ whatever that means. So take your time. Get to know him. Get to know what you guys are really like as a couple. Then decide if he’s your future. Not before.” She catches herself talking more than stirring, chopping or basting. “Sorry. I’m getting preachy. It happens when you have kids. You hear yourself sermonizing like you’re somebody’s mother or something.” She laughs at her own silly joke.

“No, it’s totally okay. It’s actually the best advice I’ve heard so far. Thank you. Seriously.”

“Don’t mention it.” She reaches for her potholders and turns her attention to the contents of the oven. Whatever she has in there with the turkey smells wonderful, and our conversation has given me more perspective than she could imagine.

By shortly after six o’clock, my mother and sister-in-law have laid out a holiday table that’s equal parts Norman Rockwell tableau and modern political statement. Laurie’s perfectly roasted poultry spills artfully arranged oyster stuffing next to an enormous platter of tofu, marshaled into shape by a recycled Jell-O mold from the 1970’s that somehow made the trip, decades later, from Wellesley to Key Biscayne. Rival bowls of mashed potatoes, vegan and non, stare each other down from opposite sides of Grandma Clark’s silver candelabras, which Laurie undoubtedly polished on arrival, before unpacking her bags or feeding her kids. Laurie’s gravy, which I feel like I spent much of the day stirring, floats shunned in its boat at the corner of the table farthest from Mom. Dad keeps glancing at it longingly. In the middle of it all, in a sort of gastronomic demilitarized zone, enough roasted vegetables to feed the greater Miami area, including the Keys, bridge a tenuous peace. They may not be universally local, as both my mother and Laurie would prefer, but at least they’re devoid of harmful pesticides that could pulverize the children’s livers. Mom and Laurie seized upon this area of agreement yesterday and it should be enough to make the holiday meal copasetic. At least I hope so. It would be really nice if Oscar could get through Thanksgiving dinner without witnessing a family meltdown. Even if he and I are destined to part ways after the weekend.

Oscar and I take our seats to Dad’s right, where we’re graced with a full-on view of one of his latest masterpieces: a giant paint-by-number rendition of Van Gogh’s “Starry Night.” It’s a vast improvement over the unfortunate series of junior high portraits of Scott and me that used to occupy this wall of honor.

It takes a while to get everyone settled, because Courtney decides she wants to sit between me and Grandma, which requires a re-shuffling of places and mashed potatoes. Dad raises his glass and wishes everyone a happy Thanksgiving.

We’re about to start passing the food when Oscar clears his throat and says he’d like to make a toast. I’m not sure why exactly, but my mouth goes dry. Scott catches my eye across the table and shoots me a look that asks if I know what this is about. I hope the face I shoot back says I have no idea.

Oscar gets out of his chair and turns to my mother first. “Thank you for graciously welcoming me into your home, and for preparing this enormous meal, which I’m sure will be delicious.” He diplomatically nods in Laurie’s direction as he says this last part. He clears his throat again. I wonder if it’s a tick I never noticed before. “I hope this is the first of many dinners I’ll have at this table.”

Mom smiles at him. Dad mutters under his breath that the food isn’t getting any warmer. Ben asks if he can have a drumstick. I exhale, thinking that’s it, he’s conveyed a lovely sentiment, which starkly contrasts Brendan, who never did anything beyond the minimum dictated by acceptable manners and his strict upbringing. But wait, why isn’t Oscar sitting down yet?

“To that end,” Oscar continues, “I hope you don’t mind putting off the feast for just another minute or two, because I have something I’d like to ask Zoë.”

I feel the world stop turning for a second. It lurches to a halt and my stomach gets whiplash. Is he drunk? No. He can’t be. He has ingested one beer, maybe two at the most, all afternoon. I swear nobody breathes as we all watch Oscar, as if in slow motion, reach into his pants pocket and retrieve a small velvet box. Suddenly I feel a dozen eyes riveted on me. Even the kids have fallen silent, sensing something noteworthy afoot.

Oscar turns to me and takes my hand. I feel outside myself, as if I’m watching the whole scene from off-stage somewhere.

“Zoë, the past two months have been amazing. You’ve made me feel alive again in a way I didn’t think possible. I don’t want this ever to end. Will you marry me?” He pops open the box and the ring inside is blinding and embarrassingly large, if such a thing is possible. Just like I knew it would be as soon as he pulled it out of his pocket.

The king of the grand gesture strikes again.

“Are you out of your mind?” It flies out before I can stop it. I clamp my hand over my mouth, but of course it’s too late. Oscar looks as if I’ve spit in his eyes. My family stops looking at me and they all stare downwards, at their empty plates, each adorned with a gold linen napkin, expertly folded by my sister-in-law.

Dad finds his voice. “Why don’t you two go talk in the kitchen?” He makes the suggestion with way more enthusiasm than the moment warrants.

I’m out of my chair before anyone can say anything more. Oscar follows right behind me, ring still in hand. I slam the kitchen door shut behind us.

“Not exactly the response I expected, or hoped for.”

“Not exactly a question I expected to field this weekend, and in front of my family, to boot. Oscar, it’s only been a couple of months, and it’s not like we’ve ever discussed the long-term future. So you can’t blame me for feeling blindsided.”

Even as I make this off-the-cuff appeal to reason, a pit grows in my stomach. Oscar doesn’t seem the type to take rejection, and public humiliation, in stride. Because I blurted a no, without stopping to consider anything beyond a gut reaction, I’m probably going to spend the rest of the long weekend hiding in the guest room, crying over him saying goodbye. The little voice in my head snipes that Oscar might be a criminal, so she won’t abide any tears. But whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty? Maybe I’m all wrong about him. Maybe it’s a ridiculous misunderstanding and there’s a logical explanation for the passport, and the money, and the banking directions. The worst part is, now I’ll never find out.

“When you know, you know. I’m too old for silly games.” He’s pouting now, and the ring has, not surprisingly, made its way back into his pocket.

“That seems sort of unfair. If a woman starts planning a wedding less than three months into a relationship, men say she’s out of her tree.”

“I’ve never said that about anyone.”

“Fair enough. But you know what I mean. It’s too soon for me. I did the whole engagement thing before. A part of me is still reeling from that not working out. And, if we’re being honest, I’m confused as to why you’d be willing to rush to the altar again, when that approach didn’t work out for you the first time.”
And a bigger part of me suspects you might be a felon.
The little voice in my head tells me to go ahead and pat myself on the back for not verbalizing this last piece.

“I think your arguments about timing are just a hedge. You’re everything I want in a wife. You’re beautiful, smart, fun, and you still have this youthful wide-eyed innocence I find irresistible. We’re great together. Don’t you see that?”

How can
he
not see that we’ve been existing in a happy little bubble for two? It all feels idyllic because we haven’t allowed real life to interfere with our fun. Maybe if I hadn’t been so busy enjoying my new guy high, I might have sensed weirdness. I so desperately want to erase the briefcase and its contents from my memory, to pretend we aren’t over even as we stand here discussing more ordinary reasons to delay marriage. I want to keep moving down the path we were on as if my trust in him hasn’t been shaken, to plan but not rush a future together.

In the deepest part of my gut, I know this will never happen. But I don’t want to face it in this moment, in my parents’ kitchen, with my brother’s perfect nuclear family listening through the door. So I take a non-confrontational route out of the conversational corner.

“I haven’t met any of your friends, let alone Jennifer, who’s the only family you’ve got. You hardly ever mention her.”

He frowns. I switch gears. “And I don’t know about you, but I have lots of quirks you might find annoying. You just haven’t seen them yet.”

His expression brightens slightly. “What quirks?”

“I love anchovy pizza.”

“Not a deal breaker.”

“I’m terrified of hot air balloons, even though I’ve never set foot in one.”

He grimaces. “You’ll need to do much better.”

“I like to sleep in old sweatshirts and wool socks. Fuzzy, thick wool socks.” My voice is playful. I can’t help it. He still makes my heart do crazy cartwheels.

“The socks could be a problem.” He steps forward and wraps me in a bear hug.

I extract myself from his embrace before he can go in for the kind of kiss that would wither my resolve. “I guess, if we’re being brutally honest, what I’m trying to say is, I’m not sure if we’re totally meant for each other. And I need time to know for sure, before accepting another proposal.” The little voice in my head cheers. She’s shrieking with joy that I’ve found my backbone. His cavalier listing of wide eyed innocence as a top virtue helped with that. I never realized that our age difference is such a huge selling point for him. That suddenly bothers me.

“So I can’t persuade you to elope to Anguilla this weekend? We’re practically halfway there.”

I look him straight in the eye and realize I have no idea what to say. A barrage of questions about the briefcase’s contents probably won’t meet with an indulgent reception right now. He must think I’m reconsidering his proposal because he adds, “It’s gorgeous down there, and I was so sure you’d say yes, I grabbed your passport from your desk last time I slept at your place.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t.”

Oscar sighs loudly. His eyes look defeated and he seems deflated, which I suppose is entirely understandable. It would be weird if a rejection didn’t affect him, right?

“Let’s go back in there so everyone can eat,” he says, with what I can tell is forced brightness.