bat.
I wasn’t giving up hope . . . not yet, anyway.
I rolled over on the couch so I could get a better look out my balcony’s open sliding glass door at the pool below. From where I lay, I could see that the exterior landscaping lights had come on, including the pool’s. The unnaturally blue water beckoned to me. I knew it was full of chlorine and chemicals and probably the pee of my neighbors’ children, but I didn’t care. It was kept heated in cold weather and doing laps in it was heavenly compared to forty minutes on the elliptical in the gym.
It also helped me think. I had a lot of thinking to do.
Because while in addition to hearing from CeeCee and Adam, I’d received a few pleasant texts from classmates at school asking if I was going to join them for happy hour (bless their boozy little hearts), as well as an invitation from my stepbrother, Jake, to join him at his place for “brews and za” (but only if I brought along Gina after she got off work. Jake was so transparent—he’d been crushing on Gina for years), I’d also been left a few concerning voice mails.
The first was from Sister Ernestine, wanting to know how— how on earth! —I could have left the office looking the way I had, and just what I proposed we do about the triplets, my stepnieces.
The next one was from the triplets’ mother, my stepbrother Brad’s wife, Debbie, demanding to know who Sister Ernestine thought she was, suggesting that her daughters might have ADHD, when in fact they were only naturally high-spirited and creative little girls.
This was followed by a voice mail from Brad, asking if I could please get “that old windbag Sister Ernestine” off his back, as she was ruining his marriage. Then he wanted to know if I was joining Jake for “brews and za,” and if so, could he tag along—anything to get away from Debbie, who was driving him crazy.
Great. Just great.
This was in direct contrast to his youngest brother, David (known to me privately as Doc, since he was also the most intelligent of my stepsiblings), who texted me a photo of himself in his dorm room at Harvard, wearing—for reasons he did not explain—a woman’s bustier and full makeup.
I wasn’t certain if he was coming out of the closet or purposefully challenging gender stereotypes for some class assignment. Knowing David, it could be either, both, or none of the above.
But I responded to his message immediately—as opposed to the ones from his older brothers, which I ignored—with a thumbs-up sign.
Last—but never least—there was a text from Jesse:
Jesse Quieres jugar al médicos?
N OV 16 5:47 PM
Medico meant doctor. I was pretty sure jugar meant play, as in jugar al tenis .
Was he teasing? Was he actually asking if I wanted to play doctor?
I was busy replying:
Mucho gusto!
N OV 16 6:15 PM
when my cell buzzed, indicating I was receiving another text. I eagerly clicked on the screen, hoping it might be Father Dominic (or the Egyptology student) calling with the answer to all my problems (or, even better, Jesse on a break from his rounds at the hospital, simul-texting me), when my smile froze on my face.
It wasn’t Jesse.
El Diablo Go ahead, don’t text back. I know I’m going to see you on Friday @8.
Don’t make me do something we’ll both regret, Suze. Well, that YOU’ll regret.
N OV 16 6:42 PM
El Diablo was the nickname I’d assigned to Paul in my phone. It seemed appropriate, given that I was pretty sure he was Satan.
After that I felt a little sick and knew I couldn’t stay in my apartment a second longer, no matter how homey it felt with my pet lab rat chewing on his carrot stick and my boyfriend playfully propositioning me in Spanish.
My boyfriend who might cease to exist in a few days.
I needed to let off steam. I needed to clear my head. I needed to shake off the feeling that I’d been touched by something slimy.
Suppertime is the best time to hit my building’s pool. Everyone else is using the gym or
I wasn’t giving up hope . . . not yet, anyway.
I rolled over on the couch so I could get a better look out my balcony’s open sliding glass door at the pool below. From where I lay, I could see that the exterior landscaping lights had come on, including the pool’s. The unnaturally blue water beckoned to me. I knew it was full of chlorine and chemicals and probably the pee of my neighbors’ children, but I didn’t care. It was kept heated in cold weather and doing laps in it was heavenly compared to forty minutes on the elliptical in the gym.
It also helped me think. I had a lot of thinking to do.
Because while in addition to hearing from CeeCee and Adam, I’d received a few pleasant texts from classmates at school asking if I was going to join them for happy hour (bless their boozy little hearts), as well as an invitation from my stepbrother, Jake, to join him at his place for “brews and za” (but only if I brought along Gina after she got off work. Jake was so transparent—he’d been crushing on Gina for years), I’d also been left a few concerning voice mails.
The first was from Sister Ernestine, wanting to know how— how on earth! —I could have left the office looking the way I had, and just what I proposed we do about the triplets, my stepnieces.
The next one was from the triplets’ mother, my stepbrother Brad’s wife, Debbie, demanding to know who Sister Ernestine thought she was, suggesting that her daughters might have ADHD, when in fact they were only naturally high-spirited and creative little girls.
This was followed by a voice mail from Brad, asking if I could please get “that old windbag Sister Ernestine” off his back, as she was ruining his marriage. Then he wanted to know if I was joining Jake for “brews and za,” and if so, could he tag along—anything to get away from Debbie, who was driving him crazy.
Great. Just great.
This was in direct contrast to his youngest brother, David (known to me privately as Doc, since he was also the most intelligent of my stepsiblings), who texted me a photo of himself in his dorm room at Harvard, wearing—for reasons he did not explain—a woman’s bustier and full makeup.
I wasn’t certain if he was coming out of the closet or purposefully challenging gender stereotypes for some class assignment. Knowing David, it could be either, both, or none of the above.
But I responded to his message immediately—as opposed to the ones from his older brothers, which I ignored—with a thumbs-up sign.
Last—but never least—there was a text from Jesse:
Jesse Quieres jugar al médicos?
N OV 16 5:47 PM
Medico meant doctor. I was pretty sure jugar meant play, as in jugar al tenis .
Was he teasing? Was he actually asking if I wanted to play doctor?
I was busy replying:
Mucho gusto!
N OV 16 6:15 PM
when my cell buzzed, indicating I was receiving another text. I eagerly clicked on the screen, hoping it might be Father Dominic (or the Egyptology student) calling with the answer to all my problems (or, even better, Jesse on a break from his rounds at the hospital, simul-texting me), when my smile froze on my face.
It wasn’t Jesse.
El Diablo Go ahead, don’t text back. I know I’m going to see you on Friday @8.
Don’t make me do something we’ll both regret, Suze. Well, that YOU’ll regret.
N OV 16 6:42 PM
El Diablo was the nickname I’d assigned to Paul in my phone. It seemed appropriate, given that I was pretty sure he was Satan.
After that I felt a little sick and knew I couldn’t stay in my apartment a second longer, no matter how homey it felt with my pet lab rat chewing on his carrot stick and my boyfriend playfully propositioning me in Spanish.
My boyfriend who might cease to exist in a few days.
I needed to let off steam. I needed to clear my head. I needed to shake off the feeling that I’d been touched by something slimy.
Suppertime is the best time to hit my building’s pool. Everyone else is using the gym or
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