“You switched with him this time?” I asked.
“I didn’t think you wanted to accompany me to the grocery store,” Erica said.
“Yeah, but you’re psycho when it comes to your groceries. You have to know he probably got half the list wrong.”
Erica shrugged. “Eh. I think they call it compromise.”
“Erica!” Noah called from the kitchen. Both children instantly awoke.
“Honey, we’re in here,” Erica said patiently. “And you woke up the kids.”
Noah poked his head in the living room. “Oh, hey Bailey.”
“‘Sup?” I asked.
“Just finishing up my woman’s work,” he replied, grinning. “You know, picking up dry cleaning. Grocery shopping. Running to the post office.”
“Cute,” Erica said.
“Wait, I get the first two, but the post office? I think that’s gender neutral,” I said.
“Doesn’t involve a wrench, oil, or ladder, so it classifies as woman’s work,” Noah explained.
“Are you done?” Erica asked patiently.
Noah approached his wife and leaned over, kissing her long and slow. I averted my eyes and covered Annie’s. I don’t know why, but I felt like it was too much passion for a two-year-old to witness. She wriggled out of my arms and latched on to her father’s leg.
“Little Orphan Annie,” Noah said, picking her up and kissing her cheek. It was a thing they did. He kissed her cheek. She kissed his. And they went back and forth until Annie tired of the game. She made it to five pecks before she was distracted by a toy on the floor. Noah set her on her feet.
“Why do you insist on calling her that?” Erica asked. “She’s gonna grow up thinking she’s adopted and that we’re still unsure if we wanna keep her.”
“Huh?” Noah replied.
“Because you keep calling her ‘orphan!’” Erica explained.
I giggled. Then hiccupped. Noah took notice.
“Drinking on the job, you two?” he asked.
“I had one, honey,” Erica replied.
“And how many did you have?” Noah asked me.
I held up two fingers. He sighed.
“Let me go hide everything with sharp edges,” he said.
“No! That phase is over,” I said. “Soooo over.”
The first two months after Brian broke off our engagement were really tough. I didn’t try to hurt myself, but my depression was so bad that my friends thought I might. They treated me like I was crazy—and perhaps, in a way, I was—because I didn’t feel like me. I acted weirder than I normally do. I don’t know how I managed to perform my job at any kind of satisfactory level. I don’t remember feeding myself. I’m sure I was a terrible friend. The whole time period is a haze to me still.
Six months. It’s been six months since the breakup. Six months since my dad invited me fishing with him and fed me as much alcohol as I wanted. Naturally, I got drunk and cried all over his neck and shirt. Six months since Erica told me I was brave. Don’t know what she meant by that. Experiencing a breakup doesn’t make you brave. Six months since my mother asked me what I did wrong.
“You okay?” Erica asked, interrupting my thoughts.
I nodded. I wasn’t interested in discussing Brian or my OCD anymore. They were always the same conversations that led to no real understanding—why I do the things I do, why I drive away all the men I date, why I feel like a failure. No one wants a sad friend, and I didn’t want to be that girl. So I persevered, slapped a smile on my face, tried my hardest to exude happiness. For the most part I was good at it, but every so often, Erica would notice the cracks in my armor, and she tried to help me mend them. Because that’s what best friends do.
“Need any help with the groceries?” I asked, walking to the kitchen before anyone answered.
***
Noah dropped me home sometime around nine. I’d stayed for dinner, thought I’d sobered up sufficiently to drive, but was told to keep my car right where it was—on the curb in front of Erica’s house. She’d drive it over tomorrow.
I live in a cul-de-sac in an old neighborhood filled with one-story brick homes. They’re small—no bigger than 1500 square feet—but the perfect size for a single woman tired of paying rent. I bought my house two years ago. I’d started saving for a down payment eight years before that. I thought my mother would be so proud of me for purchasing my first home—on my own—but she was more concerned about the people to fill it.
“Just me, Mom,” I had said during my housewarming party. It included my dad, younger sister, some coworkers, a few friends from college, and Erica’s crew.
“Not even a roommate, Bailey? At least get a roommate. I mean, what’s the point of two bedrooms if it’s just you?”
“Office space,” I replied.
“Office space for what? What do you need an office for? Do you take work home with you? Do they make you work nights and weekends at that place? Honey, let’s talk about the sales job. Remember that sales job I told you about?”
“Mom, I’d be working more in sales. Do you understand? We’ve been over this. Days. Nights. Weekends. Holidays. Vacations. That’s a sales job!”
“Honey, this job is different. Now I gave Archie your number. He said he’ll call you—”
“Oh my God! I just bought a house, Mom! Can we focus on the house?!”
Yeah. So that’s how most of the conversations went with my mother. God, my mother. What can I say about her? She’s your stereotypical, “When am I getting grandchildren?” mom. She worries incessantly. She carries around passive aggressive judgment and doles it out at just the right moments. I’m convinced she decided not to like me once she learned I inherited OCD from my father. Or contracted it. Yes, my mother would use the word “contracted,” like I have some filthy gutter rat disease.