Chapter 12

You know how sometimes you’re doing something, and as you’re doing it there is this little part of your brain very quietly saying, This is a horrible idea, but you ignore it, for whatever reason?

Yeah. So, on Friday night, when I can’t deal with one more night of banging my head against the apartment hunt, Gabe and I cook dinner for Jack.

I actually go to the hardware store and buy a step stool so Gabe can stand on it and “cook” with me. Obviously he’s too young to chop vegetables or cut meat, so I put him to work on stuff he can handle. I carefully wash a pair of his kid scissors and have him chop parsley, and when he’s done with that, I let him tear the lettuce into pieces for the salad. He thinks it’s pretty much the coolest job ever. And then he arranges the grape tomatoes and cucumber slices and carrot shavings on top of the salad, and it’s such a precision operation that I almost die of cuteness and have to take a video for Jack.

Meanwhile I’ve been making chili, and the whole kitchen smells unbelievably good, the rich, dark smell of beef and tomato sauce and the bright, leafy tang of the parsley, and that warm yellow smell of just-out-of-the-oven cornbread set on the counter to cool.

Gabe and I set the table, and I put the cornbread in a low bowl with the only cloth napkin I can find in Jack’s kitchen, and we put out the salad and the chili, and everything is ready to go when we hear Jack’s truck in the driveway. Gabe is jumping up and down, he’s so excited to show his dad everything he’s done—

So you can see where this is going, probably.

I will say, I tried to keep the expectations under control. I said, “Gabe, Daddy might not be hungry for dinner, so if it’s just you and me, that’s okay, too.”

I tried to keep my own expectations under control, too. I told myself I was cooking for Jack to thank him for letting us stay, to thank him for watching Gabe so I could house hunt. I didn’t need him to sit and eat with us; if he was busy or had other plans, the chili would keep for reheating later, maybe for lunch tomorrow or dinner some night this week. I told myself I was cooking for Jack the same way you cook for anyone you cook for—someone who’s had a baby or is sick, someone who you need to thank for cat-sitting while you’re on vacation, whatever.

I was very successful at convincing myself.

The front door opens and Jack’s work-booted footsteps sound in the living room, and I feel my own chest expand with anticipation—

He appears in the doorway to the kitchen and I can see right away that I’ve barked up the wrong tree. His face is dark and shuttered, his body language closed and remote.

“You cooked.” His tone holds about as much pleasure as if he were saying, “You ran over my dog with your car.”

“Yeah.”

“We made chili! And a salad! Look at my salad!” Gabe, oblivious to adult emotion, can barely contain himself.

“Sorry—I should have texted. I’m going out with Henry and Clark.”

His voice is so hard and dismissive, I barely recognize it.

He turns away, down the hall, and I hear a door shut and then the shower running.

“He’s not going to eat with us?” Gabe asks.

“I—”

I tell myself that all my anger and hurt is for Gabe and his disappointed expectations. That I don’t give a shit, for all the reasons I established in my head as I was cooking. But I am really angry and hurt for Gabe. Enough that I leave Gabe in the kitchen and go down the hall and knock on the bathroom door.

“Yeah?”

Jack’s voice is tight.

“There’s enough—if Henry and Clark want to come over—”

I tell myself this isn’t pathetic, because I’m doing it for Gabe.

There’s only silence, and I think about repeating myself—it’s so hard to hear someone when you’re in the shower and the person is talking to you from other side of the door. I think about opening the door and speaking through the crack to him, but there’s something about not having a closed door between me and naked Jack with water running down all over his body that doesn’t seem like a good idea, and I’ve used up all my free passes for stupid ideas already today, so I don’t do it.

It’s not like Jack and I haven’t shared meals since Gabe was born. Of course we have. Takeout after Gabe’s baby and toddler birthday parties when everyone was too exhausted to contemplate cooking for the remaining assembled family members; the occasional Easter or Thanksgiving or Christmas meal when circumstances pushed us together; even, once or twice, a “hey, stay, I’ve got enough leftovers for an army” at a drop-off or pickup. But all those occasions were different. Most of the time, we were surrounded by other family. We were together at an event; our togetherness wasn’t the event. Or the circumstances arose spontaneously and felt casual, so a “no thanks, I’ve gotta head back” didn’t feel like a slap in the face.

I should have known better.

Jack had one purpose in my life: giving me Gabe. If he has offered his house to us now, it isn’t because he wants to take care of me; it’s because he feels obligated to take care of Gabe. So I shouldn’t be trying to take care of him in return, no matter what my motives are.

Standing alone in the hallway, Jack on the other side of the door in whatever awful mood has overtaken him, I feel my face flush with shame. Because no matter how good a job I’d done earlier of lying to myself about not caring whether Jack ate with us or not, it was pretty clear now that I cared. I cared a lot.

Way too freaking much.