“Have a boyfriend.” He said the word so casually, but it made my heart jump.
“Well, goodness, woman, I’ve been operating under that assumption. Do I have a girlfriend?” he says with a wicked tone.
“You do, of course you do,” I say, the world’s widest grin on my face.
“Good. Tell all your other boyfriends that they are off duty, will you?”
“I’ll send out a mailing tomorrow, if you’ll do the same with all your side-pieces.”
“That’s a pact.”
I can’t believe we’ve just had the exclusivity conversation in such a joking way; it is not what I expected at all, and yet, it is completely in line with how easy and free we are together. “And so you know, they don’t care in the least that you’re black, by the way. I hope nothing I ever said would have given you the impression it would have been a problem.”
“No, nothing like that. I just noticed that you don’t talk much about your family or friends, and I got the sense that you were playing your cards close to the vest on our dating, so I wondered what that was about.”
Well, if I have a boyfriend and want him to stay that way, then my pact with myself earlier tonight about honesty and vulnerability needs to extend to him, especially to him. “Yeah, you know I told you about Bernard?”
“Yes, the French ex-boyfriend.”
“Well, it was a truly devastating and horrible breakup, and in the aftermath I just closed myself off to dating and romance. I haven’t dated in years, like, not at all, so when we met and it was so lovely and natural and fun, it was hard for me to trust it, and I kind of wanted to just keep it for myself for a little bit. But I’m really excited for you to meet my family, and they are really excited to meet you.”
“Well, I’m very honored to be the man that you waited for. And I can’t wait to meet your family, and to have you meet mine. Of course, you’ll have to wait for Easter when my snowbirding parents get back.”
The idea that he is presuming that we will still be together at Easter makes my heart skip a beat. “Sounds like a plan. Be forewarned, Aunt Claire is going to flirt with you mercilessly, and probably inappropriately once the champagne starts flowing.”
“Is that so?”
“I showed them your picture. They both went gaga.”
“I am a fine brother,” he says in an extra-deep voice.
I laugh. “Yes, yes, you are.”
“Hey, girlfriend?” Putting emphasis on the word in the most wonderful way.
“Yes, boyfriend?” I think that may be the best word in the English language.
“Do you have an early morning tomorrow?”
“No more than usual. You?”
“No more than usual. I was thinking that perhaps I should come over, make sure you and the dog are safe on your walk?”
“I think that would be a very good idea.”
“See you in fifteen.”
“Yes, you will.”
? ? ?
I have a boyfriend. And my mom knows about him. Holy shit.
Fourteen
Chicago is bustling. Nothing like December twenty-third. It is always crazy insane in this city. Last-minute gifts, last-minute trips, last-minute parties and gatherings. Usually I’m hunkered down, cozy at home, relaxing, fully stocked with food and drink and not thinking a thing about the season, except what to binge on, both food-wise and entertainment-wise. Since the Farbers are always traveling this time of year and I don’t always go with them, we have an annual holiday dinner celebration together, usually around the second week of December, where they all cook dinner for me and we exchange our gifts. It is very sweet, and I look forward to picking out special things for the kids, and receiving their expressions of love, usually hilarious.
This year Robbie gave me a bottle of Jean Naté perfume, which I did not know they even made anymore, but which smells exactly like my childhood, since I gave it to my mom when I was about seven. Darcy made me a mix CD of her School of Rock band playing some of my favorite hits from the ’90s, which was super sweet. Ian gave me a bottle of birch syrup, a rare sweet elixir that is similar to maple syrup but more complex and interesting. And Geneva made me a calendar, with every month a different picture that she drew. Of herself. Shelby and Brad gave me my usual generous holiday bonus, and a pack of ten massages at Urban Oasis, since I confessed to Shelby that my return to a more athletic lifestyle has been okay, but that the aches and pains of almost-forty are very different and harder to shake off than the ones I remember from my teens.
I gave Robbie a wallet, to show off his new driver’s license. I enlisted Marcy’s help on a fun and funky shirt and some cool tights for Darcy. I gave Ian his own professional knife roll, with a couple of new knives. And Geneva got the full set of Eloise books. It seems appropriate to introduce her to my literary namesake, although I’m a bit worried that she might find them a little too inspiring. For Shelby and Brad, a really special old bottle of Armagnac, one of the last bottles that I brought back from my time in France. Something for them to dole out in little nightcaps when the kids are all in bed. We ate a great dinner and watched some of the old Christmas specials and had a wonderful celebration before they left for Miami.
So usually, on the twenty-third of December, I’d be anywhere but out. Tomorrow night I’ll do movies and Chinese with Mom and Aunt Claire, and Sunday will be Christmaspalooza at Teresa’s. But today I am running around like the proverbial chicken because tonight is Shawn’s last night in town before he leaves to see his folks, and we are spending it together. He wants to cook for me. Which is both wonderful and nerve-wracking. I am freaked out about finding a present for him. On the one hand, what if he isn’t bringing me a present? After all, we’ve only been together, like, two months, so I certainly wouldn’t expect one. But we are officially boyfriend and girlfriend, so that seems like gift exchange wouldn’t be unexpected either. And then there is the level of gift . . . what if I get him something nicer than he gets me? Or much less nice? I haven’t had to think about this sort of thing in so long, and I was never terribly good at it to begin with. It’s a family trait. We’re historically sort of terrible gift givers. The kind of gift givers where husbands give wives vacuum cleaners for their birthdays, and wives give husbands tickets to avant-garde Bulgarian dance productions for anniversaries. Kids who get socks and underwear at Hanukkah do not grow up to be awesome present pickers. Trust me, when a Kahn or a Rosen gives you cash or a gift card, that is actually showing wonderful thoughtfulness and not indifference.
I’ve been in and out of every store in the Water Tower on Michigan Avenue. Everything seems either too generic, too expensive, or not expensive enough. My hands might know the contours of Shawn’s body, but not enough for me to feel confident about guessing his clothing sizes. Jewelry is too much, a scarf too little. Cologne too Father’s Day, and besides, I love what he smells like already and wouldn’t want to change it.
Exasperated, I pick up the phone.