“Oh, absolutely,” he answered.
It was like I could see the wheels turning in his head, trying to figure out what else we could do. I wonder if that’s when he decided he was going to fly us to Paris so he could propose. Or if he was already planning my thirtieth-birthday trip to Australia. Or plotting to buy me a pair of Manolo Blahniks. He really is a planner. And he’s not afraid to wait, if he thinks his plan will work out. It’s actually something I admire about him.
But then he looked at my number 7.
“You want to be an executive producer on a kids’ TV show?” he asked.
“Yeah.” I nodded.
He smiled. “That’s cute,” he said.
I was taken aback. “What?” I asked.
“Your job is adorable,” he said. “Just like you.”
I blinked. It seemed so . . . demeaning . . . but I knew he didn’t mean it that way. At least, I hoped he didn’t. I couldn’t help but think about how seriously you took my dreams. How important they were to you.
“My job’s not cute,” I said. “It’s not adorable.”
Darren seemed at a loss for words. I’d surprised him. He had no idea he’d said anything wrong. Which almost made it worse.
“Would you tell a man who was an executive producer on . . . Law & Order that his job was cute?” I asked. “What is it, exactly, that makes my career aspirations cute?”
Darren recovered his voice. “Whoa, whoa,” he said. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m sorry. That was the wrong word. You know how adorable I think you are—everything is adorable when it has to do with you. Your shoes, your hairbrush, the pack of gum in your purse. All of it—because it’s yours.”
I put down the pen and picked up my fork, taking another bite of the pasta I’d thought I was finished eating, just so I didn’t have to respond right away. What I wanted to say was: I’m more than adorable. What I wanted to say was: I need you to understand how important my career is to me. What I wanted to say was: I need you to love me because of that, not in spite of it. But so much about Darren was wonderful, and he was apologizing—he didn’t mean to hurt me. Besides, he was a smart guy. I figured in time he’d understand.
I swallowed my mouthful of pasta. “I hope you think I’m more than adorable,” I said.
“Of course!” he answered. “You’re beautiful, too, and sweet and funny and smart. Do you want me to keep going? There’s no shortage of adjectives that describe you.”
I laughed. “Well, I wouldn’t mind a few more . . .”
Darren smiled—relieved. “Hmm, how about sexy? How about thoughtful?”
“Those are good ones,” I said.
I wonder, sometimes, if I should’ve taken that conversation more seriously. If I should have pushed it further and said all the things I was thinking but kept inside. Because he still doesn’t understand. Not truly.
xxxvi
In preparation for Darren’s birthday we got saddlebags for our bikes and three pairs of bike shorts each, and made reservations at bed-and-breakfasts in Sayville and Southampton. We decided to celebrate a little early and do the ride over Memorial Day weekend. Since we’d gotten a share in a house in Montauk that summer, we figured we could spend the final night of our trip there and then take the train home. Everything was coming together perfectly, which was exactly how Darren liked things.
We’d gone on training rides starting at the end of March, biking up to Westchester, or over the George Washington Bridge, or out to Coney Island. Darren insisted on packing our saddlebags with snacks and blankets and water so we could have impromptu picnics wherever we went—and so we could practice biking with the proper amount of weight on our bikes. For our last training ride, we biked over the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan, then up to the Cloisters. The day was gorgeous— sunny and cool—and we ended up laughing about a million different things that if I told you about now wouldn’t even seem funny. But we were in one of those moods where humor was everywhere.
“I’m so lucky to have found you,” Darren said, when we got home that day.
“We’re both lucky,” I answered. “To have found each other.” And it felt that way, at that moment. It really did.
? ? ?
ON THE MORNING we were set to head out, I got up extra early. With images of our last long ride together in my mind, I was excited about the trip, but also a tiny bit worried. This was going to be the longest Darren and I had spent together alone. It felt like a trial run for the future. What would it mean if we got sick of each other? Or more than that, what would it mean if we didn’t?
But then Darren woke up and rolled over so both of our heads were on the same pillow. “Thank you so much for doing this with me. It’s gonna be great. And I just want you to know that if we have to stop and rest or take the train part of the way, it’s completely fine. No pressure on either of us, okay?”
The nervous part of me relaxed. I kissed him and said, “But we’ll make it.”
The first day was fun, though about thirty miles in, it started to get a little boring. We couldn’t talk much, and all we were doing was pedaling. Darren went first since he knew the route, and I followed along, memorizing his back and his T-shirt and the speed at which he moved his legs. I sang some songs in my head until he said, “Sandwich break!”
Before we left, he’d made ten peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches, getting smooth peanut butter especially for me and crunchy for himself. We both preferred strawberry jelly.
“Milady,” he said, when we’d pulled to the side of the road and rested our bikes in the grass, “can I interest you in one sandwich or two?”
I stretched my muscles and laughed. “One for now.”
We took off our helmets and our biking gloves, then rinsed our hands and sat down to eat.
“Digestion break?” he asked, as he leaned backward, lying on the grass, resting his head against his saddlebag.