“And if it’s okay . . .” Sam extends his hand. “I can do it myself.”
“Of course,” I say, handing Sam the pills. He drops them into his mouth and sinks into the pillows as I push the cart toward the door, feeling something I haven’t felt since moving into this house.
Happiness.
Chapter 33
Annie stares at the timer on the oven display, her chin resting in her hand, counting along with it. Nineteen. Eighteen. Seventeen.
She drops the Visa bill on top of the others—four now, the latest one arriving today—and gets the oven mitts. She checks under the foil and then quiets the timer. A honk sounds from the driveway. She snaps the oven door closed and goes to the living room window.
“Evening, Mrs. Statler,” Franklin Sheehy calls from the driveway as she steps out onto the porch in her bare feet.
“What happened?” she asks, too anxious to bother correcting him. “Did you find something?”
Sheehy gives a curt shake of his head. “No, ma’am. On my way home, and thought I’d check in and see how you’re doing.” The motion light on the porch clicks off, casting them in shadow. “I imagine things can feel a little desolate out here.”
“That’s nice of you,” she says, removing the oven mitts. “You want to come in?”
He nods and mounts the stairs. “Nice place you got,” he says, stepping into the living room and looking around at the beamed, vaulted ceiling and massive stone fireplace along the far wall. “I bet they don’t have houses like this in the city.”
“No, they don’t,” she says, conjuring the last place they lived—a one-bedroom apartment off Washington Square that Sam was provided as a member of the NYU faculty, which he’d invited her to move into three weeks after they met. They’d just finished eating dinner when he left the room, returning with a cheap plastic shopping bag with an “I love NY” logo.
“What is this?” she asked when he set it on the table in front of her.
“If I wanted you to know what it was when I handed it to you, Annie, I wouldn’t have wrapped it.”
“Not to get technical, but I don’t think this is considered wrapping.”
“Okay, Martha Stewart. Just open it.”
Inside were two hand towels, the fabric so cheap it glowed. “His” was embroidered on the blue one, “Hers” on the pink. “I don’t get it,” she said.
“They’re his-and-hers towels. Like for a bathroom.”
“Thank you for that explanation,” she said. “I mean, why are you giving me these hideous towels?”
He was starting to blush. “Is it too clever?”
“Is what too clever?”
“These towels,” he said, exasperated. “You know, his-and-hers towels? Like people who live together have in their bathroom?”
“Wait,” she said. “Are you asking me to move in with you?”
“Yes,” he said. “And so far I appear to be doing a truly bang-up job of it.”
She laughed out loud. “That’s sweet, Sam,” she said, handing back the bag and refilling her wineglass. “But no thank you.”
“No thank you?” he said. “Why not?”
“I’ve told you. I prefer my men in small doses.”
“I know,” he said. “And would you like me to explain why you’re like that?”
She set the wine bottle on the table. “Oh, would you? I love when guys explain things to me.”
He talked for five minutes—detailing how her caution in relationships stemmed from losing her parents in a tragic way at a young age, leading her to see a familial bond as threatening or, worse, dangerous. This, in turn, had led her to construct armor to keep people away: the supremely cool badass not interested enough to commit.
“Nice try, Dr. Phil,” she said when he’d finished. “But you’re wrong, and we’re canceling your show.”
“Then what is it?” Sam asked, unconvinced.
She held his gaze and then leaned back in her chair. “Okay, fine, if you want to know. Men are tedious.”
He laughed. “Is that right?”
“Don’t feel bad. It’s a cultural norm. We’ve been raising our boys to believe they need to repress their emotions. This may have made for easier sons, but it does not make for interesting men. Not in the long-term, at least. Six months, tops, that’s what I can tolerate.”
“Well, I’m different,” he said. “I’m exciting. Plus, I got a PhD in feelings. You should at least give me a chance.”
“Something smells good.” Annie startles at the sound of Franklin Sheehy’s voice, and realizes she’s letting in the cold air.
“Lasagna,” she says, closing the front door. “My mom’s recipe.” The meal she’d intended to make for Sam the night of the storm. The ricotta cheese expired yesterday, but she needed something to do, so she made it, fully aware that she’ll likely throw the whole thing in the trash. The radio on Sheehy’s hip crackles, and he cocks his head and then lowers the volume.
“Any news?” Annie asks, leading Sheehy into the living room.
“Nothing,” he says. “Strangest thing, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” Sheehy says. “Unless your husband switched out his license plate—and why would he?—we’d have had a reading on his car by now.”