they couldn’t pay the bills, when Jessica had surgery on her ears in Boston. And now. Beth smiles to herself, pleased to realize that at least their separation ranks up there with the death of his father, that she still matters to him. And he stops shaving not simply because he’s too distracted and overwhelmed with the stress in his life to bother, but mainly because his beard makes him feel protected, hidden. Jimmy wearing a beard is like Beth wearing one of her big, black, shapeless sweaters that covers her butt.
But she’s not wearing one of those sweaters tonight. She’s wearing her Goldie Hawn dress, and Jimmy’s wearing a beard. Interesting. It hadn’t occurred to her that he might be having a hard time without her. Maybe this isn’t what he wants. Maybe he’s suffering, too.
Angela wiggles her way behind the bar and says something to Jimmy that Beth can’t hear. Angela laughs, and he smiles, flashing those crooked, charming teeth. It’s quick and then guarded, but there it was. She made him smile.
Keep suffering. Keep hiding. I hope you end up looking like Grizzly Adams.
Jill leans into Beth. “I think he’s trying out enough new things at the moment.”
Jimmy turns his attention to the couple next to Jill and begins opening a bottle of wine for them. Beth sips her martini, aware that Angela is a few feet behind her, that her estranged husband is inches in front of her, that she is sitting between them. This is too weird. She downs her drink. She hates the thought of Angela looking at her right now, checking her out, without her knowing. She feels self-conscious, exposed. Beth rubs her arms as if she’s cold and checks her phone. No messages from the girls.
Unable to watch Angela, which is what she thought was the entire point of this outing, she sits and watches Jimmy instead. She can’t remember when she last looked at him for this long. Before he moved out, they slept facing away from each other, a habit that began because of his snoring and his cigar breath. Because of his schedule, they rarely ate meals together, and when they did, it was usually in the living room with their plates on their laps while they faced the TV. And she withheld regard for his very existence whenever they were in a fight, which for the past few years was often.
Now she has a front-row seat with nothing to do but watch him. She’s never seen him bartend before. He’s in constant motion back there, in command, at ease. His hands, uncorking wine bottles, pouring martinis to the rim, muddling limes, are confident, efficient, graceful. He knows where every bottle and bar tool is. He knows from memory how every drink is made. He’s good at this, and he enjoys it.
She didn’t know any of this. She feels surprise and a twinge of hurt to discover that there’s anything about Jimmy that she didn’t know. He’s not exactly a complex guy. Work, sleep, TV, kids, cigars. Not that bartending is brain surgery or race-car driving, but still, he’s got skill and talent. The bar is the hub of this place. Everything revolves around it, and Jimmy is keeping the cogs moving, keeping the customers happy.
This is vastly different from scalloping, which was solitary and outdoors, a job she thought suited him well. But here he is, in a crowded restaurant, confined to a small indoor space, chatting up strangers, mixing “girlie” drinks, and appearing to love it. He looks so at home.
But he’s not dressed the way he dresses around the house. At home, he wears jeans or shorts that used to be jeans—frayed and uneven where he cut them with scissors at the bottom—T-shirts, a Red Sox hat, and work boots. Here, he’s wearing a button-down shirt with vertical blue and white stripes. It’s even ironed. He’s wearing it untucked with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and unbuttoned one button more than most men would wear it, revealing the top of his chest. He has a handsome, muscular chest. The beard, his smile, his forearms,
But she’s not wearing one of those sweaters tonight. She’s wearing her Goldie Hawn dress, and Jimmy’s wearing a beard. Interesting. It hadn’t occurred to her that he might be having a hard time without her. Maybe this isn’t what he wants. Maybe he’s suffering, too.
Angela wiggles her way behind the bar and says something to Jimmy that Beth can’t hear. Angela laughs, and he smiles, flashing those crooked, charming teeth. It’s quick and then guarded, but there it was. She made him smile.
Keep suffering. Keep hiding. I hope you end up looking like Grizzly Adams.
Jill leans into Beth. “I think he’s trying out enough new things at the moment.”
Jimmy turns his attention to the couple next to Jill and begins opening a bottle of wine for them. Beth sips her martini, aware that Angela is a few feet behind her, that her estranged husband is inches in front of her, that she is sitting between them. This is too weird. She downs her drink. She hates the thought of Angela looking at her right now, checking her out, without her knowing. She feels self-conscious, exposed. Beth rubs her arms as if she’s cold and checks her phone. No messages from the girls.
Unable to watch Angela, which is what she thought was the entire point of this outing, she sits and watches Jimmy instead. She can’t remember when she last looked at him for this long. Before he moved out, they slept facing away from each other, a habit that began because of his snoring and his cigar breath. Because of his schedule, they rarely ate meals together, and when they did, it was usually in the living room with their plates on their laps while they faced the TV. And she withheld regard for his very existence whenever they were in a fight, which for the past few years was often.
Now she has a front-row seat with nothing to do but watch him. She’s never seen him bartend before. He’s in constant motion back there, in command, at ease. His hands, uncorking wine bottles, pouring martinis to the rim, muddling limes, are confident, efficient, graceful. He knows where every bottle and bar tool is. He knows from memory how every drink is made. He’s good at this, and he enjoys it.
She didn’t know any of this. She feels surprise and a twinge of hurt to discover that there’s anything about Jimmy that she didn’t know. He’s not exactly a complex guy. Work, sleep, TV, kids, cigars. Not that bartending is brain surgery or race-car driving, but still, he’s got skill and talent. The bar is the hub of this place. Everything revolves around it, and Jimmy is keeping the cogs moving, keeping the customers happy.
This is vastly different from scalloping, which was solitary and outdoors, a job she thought suited him well. But here he is, in a crowded restaurant, confined to a small indoor space, chatting up strangers, mixing “girlie” drinks, and appearing to love it. He looks so at home.
But he’s not dressed the way he dresses around the house. At home, he wears jeans or shorts that used to be jeans—frayed and uneven where he cut them with scissors at the bottom—T-shirts, a Red Sox hat, and work boots. Here, he’s wearing a button-down shirt with vertical blue and white stripes. It’s even ironed. He’s wearing it untucked with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and unbuttoned one button more than most men would wear it, revealing the top of his chest. He has a handsome, muscular chest. The beard, his smile, his forearms,
Similar Books
