AN ALLERGY TO people. To people! Peanut butter, I’ve heard of. Bees? Absolutely. I even have a cousin who’s allergic to cilantro. But people? Even though Aja explained it to me on the way home from her house Saturday, I wouldn’t believe it until I saw it in print in that Times article. It did explain a lot of things, though. The gloves, for starters. Her sometimes skittish nature. Why she ended up in the hospital after fishing Aja out of the river. She literally risked her life—more than I even knew—to save him. And then . . . god, I can’t believe I tried to kiss her.
But what I really can’t believe, as I watch her walk up to her front door after dropping her off Monday night, is how much I still want to.
When I get home, Connie’s sitting on the couch flipping through a magazine. It’s the first time I’ve had a chance to talk to her in a few days—she was at her office all day Sunday and only had time to answer my text asking if she could take Aja to therapy. Her reply: Yes. But you owe me. Again.
“How’s it going, baby bro?” she asks, looking up at me.
I sit down beside her and run my hands through my hair. “It’s been . . . interesting,” I say. “You’re probably not going to believe this.” And then I fill her in on Jubilee, her condition, the almost-kiss.
I’m not sure how I expected her to react—maybe shock, like me? But when I’m finished, Connie laughs.
No, she doesn’t just laugh.
She hoots.
She guffaws.
She literally cannot catch her breath.
“It’s not funny,” I say. “I could’ve killed her!”
She laughs some more and then attempts some slow breaths. “No, no. You’re right. That part is not funny. But the rest? Ooh boy.” She’s off again and I stand there, waiting for her to get ahold of herself.
“Connie! Seriously,” I say, sitting on the opposite end of the couch from her. “What’s so damn funny?”
“Only you,” she says between giggles. “Only you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh c’mon, like you don’t know.”
I don’t, so I sit in silence waiting for her to illuminate me.
“Eric! You’re the poster boy for going after unavailable women.”
“What? I am not.”
“Yes. You are.”
I roll my eyes. “Stephanie is the only relationship I’ve had. Since I was seventeen, if you recall.”
“What about Teresa Falcone?”
“Teresa Fal— That was middle school. Does that really count?”
“It does. Her mom had just died and she wasn’t interested in going with anybody. But you followed her around mooning over her like some wounded puppy.”
“Oh, nice image. Glad you thought so highly of me.”
“And then Penny Giovanni?”
“What about her?”
“You asked her to homecoming sophomore year.”
“So?”
“She was a lesbian! Well, still is, I guess. But everyone knew it, except you.”
Huh. I do remember her snatching her hand away when I finally gathered up enough courage to hold it toward the end of the night.
“Really?”
“Yes!”
“And Stephanie—”
“Wait. I married her. So she was hardly unavailable.”
“Do you remember how long it took you to get a date with her? Her father was this crazy controlling Catholic that swore his virginal daughter would keep her legs closed until the end of time or something. And he hated you especially, WASP that you were.”
I laugh. I had forgotten the elaborate lengths I had to go to to get her to go out with me, including being interrogated by her dad for an hour in their stuffy, hot living room.
“Anyway,” Connie says. “I’m just saying, this is your track record when it comes to women. So, hitting on someone with an allergy to people? Well, you can see why I’m amused.”
“Well, thank you, kind sister, both for your empathy and that walk down memory lane.”
“No problem,” she says, then slaps her hands on her knees. “But as much fun as this has been, I need to get going. Long day tomorrow—especially since I missed so much work this afternoon bailing you out—again.”
“Yes, yes. Thank you, you’re amazing, I don’t know what I’d do without you. Et cetera.”
Standing up, she pulls her coat on and then wraps a scarf around her neck, pulls a knit hat on top of her head. When she reaches for the front door knob, she pauses. “Are you going to call Ellie on Thursday?”
I look down. “I don’t know,” I say lamely.
“Eric, it’s her birthday.”
“I know,” I say. It lands on Thanksgiving this year. As a kid, Ellie loved when that happened, because Stephanie would let her choose all the desserts for the meal, so we’d have cake along with two or three different kinds of pie and brownies and snickerdoodles. Her favorite. “I sent her something in the mail. A new journal.”
“You should call her.”
“Why? So Steph can tell me she doesn’t want to talk? Again?”
“No. So she knows her dad called her on her birthday. That at least you tried.”
“All I’ve been doing is trying.”
“I know,” Connie says, her voice softening. She puts her hand on my arm, squeezes it. “Oh, and one more thing.”
“Yeah?”
“Mom and Dad are coming for Christmas dinner and I told them we’d do it here. At your place.”
“You what?”
She removes her hand from the knob and puts it on her hip, looking at me. “You should be thanking me. They wanted to come for Thanksgiving, but I told them I was working. Anyway, you know I don’t cook.”
That’s true. When Aja and I moved to town, she brought over a sack of White Castle burgers as a housewarming dinner.
“Honestly, I just can’t stand to hear Mom pick apart every detail of my house. You do know a linen closet is for linens, don’t you, dear?” She does a dead-on impersonation of our mom’s voice.
“That’s scary.”
“So is she.”
“No she’s not.”
“Whatever. You’re the son who can do no wrong, even after you get divorced, adopt a mixed-race child, and alienate your daughter.”
I suck in my breath.
“Sorry, too far?”
“Yeah. Listen, I don’t even have a dining room table.”
“I’ll bring a folding one and some chairs. It will be fine.”
“Great. Mom’ll love that.”
“She’ll be fine with it, Golden Boy. At your house, she’ll probably think it’s charming.”
WHEN CONNIE LEAVES, I walk down the hall to Aja’s room. After the river and fire incidents, I instituted a strict open-door policy, so I stick my head in without knocking. “Hey, bud.”
He doesn’t take his eyes off the computer. “Hey.”
“How was therapy?”
“Fine.”
“Did you talk about anything . . . interesting?” I think of how he talked to Jubilee about his parents and wonder if I should try again. I haven’t had the nerve to bring up Dinesh and Kate after the terrible reception last time.
“No.”
OK, then. I rap the door frame with my knuckles.