Life From Scratch (29 page)

I turned and headed toward the house.
Shoot. Shoot. Shoot
.

He strolled along behind me, hands in his pockets.

“Your grass is looking a bit long. You gonna mow it?” he teased. I looked back at him. His smile was half hung, like a little boy’s.

I paused a moment, surveying the crabgrass shooting up past the still trim Bermuda. “If I had to choose between mowing the lawn and making memories, I’d choose memories, every time.”

By now I’d reached my front door. He caught up with me. “Hey, back there, I saw—” he stammered, “something in your eyes. What was that all about?”

I opened the door and stepped into the cool shadows. I paused a moment, hand on the doorknob, trying to think of something to say. He had one foot on the middle step and one foot on the landing.

“Nothing. It was nothing.”

His eyes searched mine. “Are you sure?”

Despite myself, the words came rushing out: “It’s just that I … I like you.”

What am I, in middle school?
I could have died right then and there.

He stepped into the house, pulled the door shut behind him, and stood in the cool shadows with me. A minute ticked by, then two. I tried to think of an excuse to leave, but this was my house.

“I like you too,” he finally said. The corners of his mouth flitted up, and then pressed in a straight line. “I’ve always felt a connection to you.”

He opened his arms. When I didn’t move, he stepped forward and pulled me toward him. I thought of his son, his girlfriend/ex-wife: Self-loathing washed over me.

“This is not who I am. I won’t destroy a family.” I pulled away from him, leaning against the back of the couch.

“I understand. It’s just that
—
”

“I’ve spent my whole life being second choice. I need to be someone’s first choice. I can’t …”

He took my face in his hands.

“Will you just
listen?
You Yankees talk so fast!” He cleared his throat. “Sasha …”

He took his hands off my face and held up his left hand. The ring was gone. “I moved out. It’s been a long time coming. I left last month.”

“Oh my goodness! How’s Ryan taking it?”

“We sat down with him and explained that it isn’t his fault. We’ve barely been more than roommates for a long time. He’s decided to live at his mother’s.”

“Well,” I shook my head, “I had no idea—”

Before I could finish, he pulled me toward him into another full-body hug. This time our bodies pressed closer. He slid his cheek across mine and then, there it was—his lips on mine.

CHAPTER 18

Mr. Pi
c
ky

T
HREE WEEKS LATER
, Keith and I lay in my bed watching the afternoon sun flicker through the trees and ricochet off the ceiling. He kept an apartment across town, halfway between my Brookside home and his son, but he often ended up at my place on Saturday afternoons. Since Vanessa had moved in with her boyfriend, we had the place to ourselves. This was our space. Our time.

Things were good—really good. When we weren’t together, we text-messaged several hundred times a day. When we were together, we were worse than a couple of teenagers. I spent my days giddy, smiling. On this particular golden day, I felt the stirrings of love flit around my heart, as delicate as they were unnerving.

“I know it hasn’t been very long—you and I, I mean—but I … I don’t want to waste my time,” I began.

I took his hands in mine, rubbing my thumb along his tough palm. His life line was deep and creased, like an old letter. This was the only part of him that really felt nine years older than me.

“It’s just that … this is going to sound really silly … but I’m almost 27 … I’m going to want a family—a baby—the whole thing. I really like you and … well … I don’t want to go down this road if you’re—”

“Done?” he finished for me.

I pulled my breath in quickly and nodded. I stared at my hands cradling his. My fingers draped soft and olive against his fair skin. I would have never dreamed of talking babies with Greg or John, certainly not after three weeks.

“I just don’t think my heart could take it if …”

He propped himself up on a couple of pillows. “Not that long ago, I thought I was done. My heart’s tired, too. High blood pressure and atrial fibrillation—it runs in the family. But it’s more than that. I’m about to turn 36, I have a mostly grown son. I even got … a vasectomy.” He looked at me earnestly. “But that can be reversed. This is going to sound weird, but I can see it. I can see it
all
with you.”

Something somersaulted inside me. The stirrings of love became stirrings of more. I tracked the ceiling fan as it beat slow circles through the light.

“Then you’re going to have to meet my mother next month when she comes to visit.” I closed my eyes. “Just so you know, she’s kind of tough on the guys I date.”

Almost exactly a year after I’d last seen her, Mom arrived. She was positively beaming, all aglow, gushing about the house. She tore through the rooms like an opera singer, tossing her arms about, admiring their size, the colors, the flow. She adored the kitchen and inspected every leaf, blade, and bud in the backyard. She peeped at the neighbors through the knotholes and turned on every faucet. When she was done, she collapsed on the couch.

“I still have the voice mail you left me when you bought this house,” she said, pulling her cell phone from out of her purse.

Over the scratchy speakerphone came a squeaky voice that sounded something like mine. “I did it, Mom! I just signed the papers. I have a home!”

Mom laughed. “You were so happy—I
had to
save it.”

“I didn’t even know you could save voice mails for eight months.”

She looked out the window and gasped. “There’s a house for sale? Next door? I wonder what it costs!”

I didn’t want my mother nearby, and couldn’t quite figure out why. “Trust me, you don’t want to buy a house next door to me. There’s a lot more to it than I expected.”

Mom waved her hand. “Reality? That part always works itself out.”

“The thing is, Mom, I need a little … personal space.”

She frowned and tossed her cell phone in her bag.

Keith and Ryan came over two nights later. I’d told Mom that Keith was a guy I liked and left it at that. Since I hadn’t cooked much lately, I decided to keep things simple: a roast chicken, green bean salad, and homemade rolls.

My chicken recipe was a blend of Mom’s and Patricia’s: a sprig of rosemary and two of thyme crushed into the skin with butter, a nose flare of orange zest and enough paprika to tingle. I pressed half an orange into my hand—just enough to crack open the pulp and spill some juices out—and then slipped it inside the cavity.

Along the bottom of the roaster, I scattered quartered potatoes, petals of onion, and an overabundance of garlic nubs. Halfway through cooking, the bird crackled and hissed, potent rosemary greening the air like an exclamation mark even as the oven’s heat tightened the skin into a deep crust. No need to fuss with the bird—my house smelled like a home.

The guys were right on time. I threw open the door and waved them through with a grin. Ryan hadn’t been over yet. He stepped forward a few feet, tracked around the living room with his eyes, and then turned to me.

“Are you going to … decorate?” The words were blunt, but not accusatory.

Still, I flushed.

Keith fired him a look.

“It’s OK,” I said, nodding as I scanned the mishmash of thrift store finds, the stacks of papers and books where shelving should have been, the dust. Nothing matched, or even seemed to go together. There were no end tables. No coffee table. No TV. The two front bedrooms were as empty as the day I’d moved in.

I didn’t even have a guest bed for Mom; she was sharing my king bed in the master bedroom. This was not a home to a 17-year-old—more like a glorified bachelor pad.

“I guess I’m going to need to work on that …” I smiled sheepishly.

Mom didn’t look up when I led them into the kitchen. She was perched on a bar stool at the counter, trimming green beans and tossing the ends into the trash can at her side.
Plink. Plink. Plink
.

Keith stepped right up to her, bent a little at the waist, dipped his chin to his chest, and offered her his hand. I smiled involuntarily.

When Mom looked up, the green bean she’d been handling fell into the bowl, forgotten. She reached toward Keith’s hand, and narrowed her eyes slowly.
Was she frowning? Or just processing?

“Nice to meet you, Ma’am,” he said as he clasped her small hand in his. His smooth southern drawl draped the words through the air. “How was your flight?” He locked his eyes on hers, taking her in as though she were the only person in the room.

She let out a small, girlish laugh, furrowed her brow, and shook her head. “Oh, good, yes.” She almost sounded embarrassed. She glanced from him to me, and then started trimming the beans again.

After Keith sat beside her and reached into the bag of green beans to pluck browning stems with her, I made myself busy setting the table. I had exactly four plates to my name. When I placed a pair of stamped silverware by each setting, the cheap metal plinked against the oak veneer. Indigo picnic cups finished off the look.

The table looked naked. For the first time in my life I thought, rather dejectedly,
I could really use some place mats
. I rummaged around my pantry and closets for some semblance of mature adulthood. I scavenged some yellow napkins from the back of a kitchen drawer and pressed them against the counter to try and smooth out their wrinkles. They’d have to do.

I found a few lavender candles and a cotton cloth Mom had given me. She said it was like the lavalavas the ladies wear in Samoa. But it looked like a tablecloth, swirling with bold bands of emerald green, white, and navy. I cleared off the plates, draped it across the table, and reset it.

When the green beans were done, I tossed them with chopped tomatoes, a pucker of cider vinegar, olive oil, salt, and several grinds of pepper, and then popped them on the table with the chicken and rolls.