“Yeah, it was fun,” Nick says as he rifles through his drawer and pulls out a pair of chambray pajama bottoms. “And your mother managed to behave herself reasonably well.”
I smile, going to my own dresser and selecting a black nightgown. It is made of a cotton-spandex blend and is not sexy in an obvious way, but the cut is flattering and I’m hoping it might spark something between Nick and me. It’s not so much that I’m in the mood for sex as I am for the intimate aftermath.
“Yeah,” I say. “But she gave me an earful yesterday morning.”
“About what?” he asks.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I say. “She continues to worry . . .”
“What’s she worried about now?”
“The usual stuff. How hard marriage is with small children. How I shouldn’t have quit my job,” I say, suddenly realizing that her worries are crystallizing in my head, becoming my worries, too. Or maybe they were already brewing and were simply unearthed by a mother’s intuition.
“Did you tell her that we’re fine?” he says, but seems distracted as he checks his BlackBerry, then types a rapid response, his agile thumbs working in tandem. “Whenever I see his hands moving like this, I am reminded that he is a surgeon with the finest motor skills, and feel a wave of reassuring attraction. Still, I don’t like his use of the word fine. I want to be better than fine.
“Yeah,” I say. “I told her.”
I watch Nick continue to type, his brow furrowed, and can tell it is a work-related exchange. He finishes abruptly, then pulls on his pajama bottoms, cinching the drawstring at the waist. Do you always sleep topless? I once asked when we first started to date. At which point he laughed and corrected me: Girls wear tops; men shirts. Hence, topless and shirtless. I watch him toss his clothes in the vague vicinity of the hamper, but missing so egregiously he couldn’t really have been trying. It is not like him to be so haphazard, and as I stare down at the pile on the floor, his maroon Harvard baseball cap upside down on the heap, I feel something in me become faintly unhinged. I silently count to ten, waiting for him to say something, anything, and when he doesn’t, I say, “So I printed out the application for Longmere.”
The statement is fully architected to push his buttons, or at the very least engage him in conversation. I feel a tinge of shame for being so manipulative, but feel somehow justified.
“Oh?” he asks, making his way to the bathroom sink. I sit on the edge of the tub and watch the muscles flex in his back as he brushes his teeth with what I’ve always believed to be excessive force. I used to remind him about his gums, how bad his technique is for them, but have given up over the years.
“I think we should get rolling on the process,” I say.
“Yeah?” he says, his tone bored, as if to tell me that this is on the long list of things that aren’t his concern, along with class snacks : and Halloween costumes.
Shit, I think. My mother is right.
“Yes. I’ll put it in your briefcase. Do you think you could take a first crack at the essays? Maybe this week? Rachel said Dex did theirs . . .”
Nick gives me a look in the mirror and then says through a mouthful of toothpaste, “Seriously?”
I give him a blank stare as he spits into the sink, rinses his mouth, iand says, “Okay. Fine. But I have a crazy week coming up. Charlie’s graft is tomorrow.”
“Right,” I say, my annoyance ratcheting up a notch at the mention of his patient’s first name.
A moment later, he is following me to bed.
“So that’s what we’re doing?” Nick asks with a sigh. “We’ve decided to apply to Longmere?”
“It’s a great school,” I say. “It’s where Charlie goes.”
As soon as the words are out, I know I’ve gone too far.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Nick says.
“Nothing,” I say with wide-eyed innocence as I adjust the covers around me.
“Okay. What gives, Tess? Are you angry about something?”
“No,” I say as unconvincingly as possible, wanting him to probe one step further, so I can tell him all the things I am feeling, the frustration that approaches anger. Anger that feels justified half the time, paranoid and selfish the rest.
Only he doesn’t probe, doesn’t give me the chance, doesn’t ask any questions at all. Instead, he simply says, “Good. Now, c’mon. Let’s get some rest.”
“Right. I know. You have surgery tomorrow,” I say.
Nick glances over at me, nods, and barely smiles. Then he absentmindedly checks his BlackBerry one last time before turning off his bedside light, clearly as oblivious to my sarcasm as he is to my little black nightgown.
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