The Hole in the Middle (13 page)

“I'm going to teach you how to make paper snowflakes,” I tell him, as I fold a sheet of white paper over on itself. I take a pair of scissors and make crisp little hatches around the edges, then unfold the paper to reveal a rectangle with a jagged hole in the middle and a ragged edge that looks like it has been chewed by a dog.

“Where's the snowflake?” asks Jamie.

“You know what? Never mind the snowflake. Let's just glue some sequins and stickers onto the red construction paper.” I fold a couple of pages in half and hand them to him. “Here are the first two. Can you choose the stickers you want?” I notice that his second bowl of Goldfish is empty, but at least he seems marginally interested in the stickers. He
selects some Santas, elves, and reindeer, and begins layering them onto the cards.

“Not so many, sweetheart,” I say. “Pace yourself. We've got to save some for the other cards. How about some sequins?” I unscrew the cap on the glue and empty a pile of sequins onto the counter. Jamie takes the glue, turns it upside down, and squeezes a white, sticky puddle onto a full quarter of the page.

“Whoa!” I say, grabbing the glue and turning it upright. “You don't need quite that much, honey!”

Jamie grabs a handful of sequins and drops them onto the glue spill. I remind myself that the goal is not to create impeccable works of art, but to work on fine motor control, offer attractive alternatives to television, and, of course, celebrate the spirit of Christmas. “Gorgeous!” I say. “Your friends are going to be so happy that you made them these beautiful Christmas cards!”

Jamie looks doubtful, but he dutifully moves on to the second card, which is soon covered in the same gooey mess as the first one. The timer on the oven goes off, and I race over to peek at my pizza masterpieces. But there is something wrong. The pizzas are completely flat, too flat even to pass as thin-crust. Maybe they just need a little more time. I close the oven, just as Scotty comes in.

“I want a cookie,” he says.

“It's dinnertime, honey,” I say. “No cookies.” His face crumbles and I rush over to pick him up. “Would you like a banana instead? The pizza will be ready really, really soon.” I grab a banana, peel it, and hand it to Scotty. “Are you done with your piano?” I ask, sitting him up on the counter. “Do you want to read a story?”

“I want my show!” he says, and starts to cry.

“Me too,” says Jamie. “I don't want to make cards anymore.”

“Come on, guys,” I say. “We can find something else fun to do.”

Suddenly I smell something burning. I race over the oven, but it's too late. The little pizza pucks are completely scorched around the edges and, by even the most optimistic interpretation, inedible. “Who wants a peanut butter sandwich?” I ask.

“I'm full,” says Jamie.

Scotty's eyes are streaming with tears, and as I pick him up off the breakfast bar, I realize that I have sat him squarely on top of Jamie's cards, and he is now covered in glue and sequins. I strip him down to his underwear and kiss his head. “How about you, honey?” I ask. “Are you still hungry?”

“No, Mommy,” he says. “I want my show.”

I pull a wine tumbler out of the cupboard, walk over to the fridge, and balance the door open with my hip while I pour leftover wine from the wine bottle and fill the glass to the top. I take a long drink and look at my lovely sons, whom I have made miserable for no good reason. They deserve better, but today I have no idea what better might be, or how to get there.

“Come on, guys,” I say. “Bedtime in a half hour. Let's see what's on until then.” And then I beckon my sons to follow me, walk into the playroom, and turn on the television.

december 1994

“Right back against the wall,” instructs Lil. She's been doling out instructions all day in preparation for her annual Christmas party, and is presently occupied with moving various pieces of heavy Victorian furniture to improve “flow” on the main floor. Or rather, she's directing: Will and A.J. are on the implementation end of things, sweating over an overstuffed settee that must weigh several hundred pounds. “Sophie, roll up the carpet,” says Lil. “I'm so pleased I remembered this year! Every year, some pretty young nymph catches her heel and flies headlong into just the wrong person and I think, I must remember to roll up the carpet. Gentlemen, you can take the carpet down to the basement when Sophie's done.” Obediently, the boys release the arms of the settee, shoulder the mammoth carpet, and convey it downstairs.

Lil beckons. “Be a dear, Sophie, and read me the list. The light is dreadful in here.”

“Do you want me to run up and get your glasses?”

Lil looks scandalized. “I never wear those hideous things in the presence of gentlemen,” she says. “No matter how unformed they may yet be.” I suppress the fleeting thought that Will looks rather well-formed lifting furniture and focus on the list.

“We're about done with the moving,” I say. “The caterer is coming at four-thirty. The glasses and plates have been delivered, but we still need to set up the bar.”

“Another job for the boys,” says Lil. “What else?”

“I think that's it,” I say. “We're completely organized.”

“Perfect. Thank you, Sophie. Now, what are you wearing?”

“I haven't decided yet,” I say. I've learned that this is the correct answer. Lil takes excessive pleasure in dressing me for parties. And there is an unexpected benefit to being Lil's project: I feel pretty and sexy. Until now, I've always believed the right guy would be drawn to my fire and strength and intellect, and not my appearance. Assuming he ever showed up, how would I know that he loved me for the right reasons if I compromised the purity of my assessment with form-fitting clothes and makeup? But I've started to care less about that since my theory has netted only a handful of prospects over the past three years, all relatively charmless and screamingly earnest, and not candidates for long-term love by any stretch of the imagination. I haven't been able to sort out why sensitivity and enlightenment can be such a huge turn-off in bed (
May I touch you here? Is it all right if I touch you there?
) but in the meantime, I'm enjoying the way men look at me when I'm playing Cinderella to Lil's fairy godmother. I know I shouldn't, but I do. Which is why I've been wearing makeup lately, and not just to parties.

“Excellent,” says Lil. “I've got just the thing. You'll like it. It's black.”

At one o'clock in the morning, I'm standing barefoot in the kitchen, taking stock of the damage. I've just retrieved the last half-empty glasses from the last side table and piled them onto the kitchen island. The full overhead lights are piercingly harsh in the opening act of my champagne hangover, so I pour another glass, bring down the dimmer, and rest my elbows on the island countertop. Lil has long since retired, and the guests are gone but for a handful of stragglers watching old movies in the den. Will wanders in, yawning, catches sight of me and waves, then freezes;
Lil's dress wasn't cut for slouching, and he's just taken in a lot more of me than he was expecting. I straighten quickly.

“Hey,” I say. “Any ideas on how we get rid of the guys in there?” I point to the den.

“We don't,” says Will, averting his gaze. “They'll pass out, if they haven't already.”

“Lil won't mind?”

“On the contrary,” he says. “She'll regard it as the sign of a successful party. Hopefully there's still some couch space.”

“Why?”

“A couple of A.J.'s engineering pals took a nap in my room. We've been trying to wake them up for the last half hour, but it looks like they're staying put.”

“You should sleep in A.J.'s room, then. He can sleep on the couch,” I say, offended on Will's behalf that A.J. would be so careless with his guests.

“Easy, there,” he says. “He offered. I refused.” He looks sheepish. “I was planning on using Lillian's spare room. Then I looked at the time and changed my mind about knocking on her door. So here I am.” He takes in my feet. “Shoes?”

“Search me,” I say. “I vaguely remember kicking them off when we were jumping around to ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit,' but that was hours ago and I was way more wasted then.” I like the way the word
wasted
rolls off my tongue; like the dress, it fits, but belongs to a modified version of myself that I'm taking out for the occasional test-drive.

“You peaked early tonight,” he says, laughing.

I take another sip of champagne. “I'm trying to catch a second wind while I clean up a bit. It's going to be a lot nastier if I try to do it hungover tomorrow.”

He looks around the kitchen as if seeing it for the first time. “I see your point. I can help you fill a few garbage bags before we call it a night if you want.”

“Aren't they coming to pick up the rental glasses in the morning?”

“Right.” He yawns again. “OK, Little Miss Responsible, give me my marching orders.”

I balk at the totally justified but deeply unwelcome moniker, so at odds with the sexier, more easygoing persona I've been cultivating, clearly less successfully than I thought. But I really want some help, so I instruct him to bring the empty storage boxes for the glasses from underneath the bar. “I'll hand them to you and you can box them,” I say, and he bows theatrically.

“As you wish,” he says.

“I love that movie,” I say, carefully. I can recite every line of
The Princess Bride.
Does Will know that “as you wish” means “I love you” in the lexicon of Buttercup and Westley's great romance? Is he trying to tell me something? Can I find out without making a complete ass of myself?

He laughs. “You and every girl on planet Earth,” he says, and holds out his hands for a pair of wineglasses.

For the next twenty minutes, we don't speak much as our small but efficient assembly line does its work and the counter begins to emerge from the wreckage. It's been weeks since I had an excuse to be this close to Will, and I try not to stare as I memorize new details that only add to his physical perfection: a tiny scar above his left eyebrow, a small dimple in the corner of his mouth where his smile always begins, a tan line encircling his powerful left wrist. It's hard to believe that he can be completely oblivious to my reaction whenever his fingers brush up against mine, since from my perspective it feels like an acute episode; the hairs rise on my arms, my breath catches, and my hands start to shake. But there are no visible signs as he powers through the last box and grabs a handful of garbage bags. “One circuit, then bed,” he says, and I nod. We do a loop through the living and dining rooms, sweeping paper plates and napkins and beer cans into the bags. We end up in the den, where we fill one last bag with trash and discover three full-sized engineers dead to the world. Will sighs, rubbing a hand through his hair so that it sticks up. “No room at the inn,” he says ruefully. “I guess I'm waking Lillian up after all.”

“Don't do that,” I say. “You can stay with me.” His eyes widen in surprise. “On the floor,” I say hastily. “I have a sleeping bag.”

“Thanks, Sophie,” he says. “That's the best offer I'm likely to get tonight. I'll take it.”

My mind is working furiously as we turn out the lights and head upstairs. The air between us is heavy, and I wonder if any of the tension I feel is being generated by him. I hope so. I've never been as attracted to anyone as I am to Will Shannon at this moment, and it would be mortifying to be in it alone. I open the door to my room, make a beeline for my dresser and pull out the first pair of pajamas I see. I'm so nervous, I'm afraid I'm about to start giggling hysterically; it's the opposite of the breezy, nonchalant, and utterly nonthreatening image I'm shooting for. “The sleeping bag is in the closet,” I say. “I'm just going to go and change in the bathroom. I'll be right back.”

In the bathroom, I wriggle out of my dress, brush my teeth, and remove my makeup. I stare long and hard at my reflection, regretting my pajama selection. I could not look less like an object of lust, in an oversized pink tee and loose pants covered in rosebuds and butterflies. I groan. I'm off to a bad beginning if I want to make Will see me in a different light. “You can do this,” I tell my reflection sternly.

When I return, Will is already lying on the floor in the sleeping bag, eyes half-closed, one arm bent behind his head. His eyes flicker open as I come in. “I hope you don't mind,” he says. “I borrowed one of your pillows.”

I stand over him, trying to figure out my next move. I had anticipated at least one additional opportunity to brush up against him accidentally-on-purpose. But now I am at a loss. “Of course not,” I say lightly, turning off the overhead light and climbing into bed. I hear Will's breathing become more rhythmic as he starts to fall asleep, and know that the window of seduction is rapidly closing.
Don't be a coward,
I think. I clear my throat. “There's room in the bed,” I say. I hear him shift in the sleeping bag and then sit up. There is a long silence.

“Are you sure?” he says.

“Absolutely,” I say.

There is a metallic purr as he slides the zipper down, and the old floor creaks as he crosses over to the bed. I remain on my side, curled away
from him, and I feel a puff of air as he throws the pillow down next to me. The mattress dips and rocks as he adjusts his weight, and it's only when I sense that he's settled that I risk rolling onto my back. I keep my eyes closed, feigning half-sleep, but when I get up the nerve to peek, I find him lying on his side with his head resting on his hand, eyes wide open, staring down at me.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” I manage, grateful that it's too dark for him to see the sudden rush of blood to my cheeks. With his free hand, he reaches over and brushes a loose strand of hair from my face, and then very slowly and deliberately traces the line of my jawbone from ear to chin with his index finger. I bite my lower lip.

“What are we doing here, Sophie?” His tone is conversational, but his finger continues its steady journey down my neck to the hollow at the base of my throat where it hovers, waiting for an answer. I don't say anything, but I roll my hips toward him so that we are only a few inches apart. His hand moves lower, and his thumb skims over my nipple. I shudder. “This could turn into a situation,” he says, and from the way he says
situation,
I can tell he doesn't mean that we could fall in love, have babies, and live happily ever after like Buttercup and Westley.

Guys don't have a lot of cardinal rules, but I know which one he's worried about. As usual, Zoe filled me in when I expressed mild concern about living in the Abernathy house, understanding—largely from television and not from experience—that unwelcome sexual tension could arise between men and women living in close proximity. “You don't need to worry about that,” she'd said. “You aren't their type anyway, but even if you were, there's a code. Guys like Will and A.J. don't mess with girls they live with. They're too freaked out about it turning all weird on them. They're like dogs. They never shit where they sleep.”

“It doesn't have to mean anything,” I say, reaching over and running my thumb over his lower lip. He expels a long breath, snakes his arm behind my back, and slides me toward him, closing the gap.

“You know this is a bad idea,” he says, bending his head to mine.

I slip my hand under the hem of his T-shirt and slide my palm all
the way up his spine. “I do,” I say as his mouth meets mine. My lips part under his, and his arms lock around me, and I'm swept away in a rush of sensation so intense that I wonder, fleetingly, how I'll find my way back. And then we don't speak again for a long time.