A Deal with the Devil by Elizabeth O’Roark
33
Iknow better, I do.
I know I can’t ask a guy who remains uncertain about commitment where we stand when I’m moving, and I wouldn’t have the guts to do it anyway. But that doesn’t stop me from hoping he’ll bring it up.
I mention Kansas every once in a while, as if the reminder I’m leaving will jolt him into action. And it never does, not once. Yet I keep trying.
“Thai food back home tastes nothing like this,” I tell him one night as we share red curry chicken and drunken noodles on his back deck. “It’s closer to paprika sprinkled over a chicken pot pie.”
This isn’t entirely true. I mostly say it in order to mention home, the place I’m returning to very, very soon. As if he’s going to say speaking of home, let’s talk about how we can continue this when we’re far apart.
“I’m surprised you even have Thai food in Kansas,” he says instead.
“You act like I live in Siberia. I’m ten minutes from a college town.” And a small airport. “Of course we do.”
“You’re there a lot, then,” he says. There’s something hard and certain in his voice that makes it feel as if he’s saying another thing entirely, but I have no idea what it is. He pushes his plate aside, the food barely touched, and pours himself a glass of wine.
“Is something wrong?” I ask.
His eyes have gone almost black in the dim light. “It’s still unclear to me why all of this is falling on you. You’ve paid for everything. Why can’t your sister step up?”
“Liddie has a kid and a husband in another state. I’m the only one of us who’s unencumbered.”
He stiffens but doesn’t argue. We’ve only been together a few weeks, with not a word about commitment spoken, so I’m certainly not encumbered by him.
“They seem very happy to let every ounce of the weight fall on your shoulders, Tali,” he says quietly. “I guess what I’m wondering is why you never object to it.”
I feel a pinch of frustration. It’s as if he’s blaming me for being mature about a situation I can’t really control in the first place. “What good would it do to object?” I argue. “Charlotte and my mom are both pretty fucked up by my dad’s death and need help. End of story.”
“And you weren’t?” he asks. “I see the way your face falls whenever I bring up your father.”
“I wish you weren’t ruining our nice night by bringing it up now. Why do I feel like you want a fight?”
His jaw tenses. “I don’t. It seems like you’re leaving something out.”
He doesn’t understand because he doesn’t really have a family. Neither of his parents have shown him much in the way of loyalty or obligation. And when I leave here, he’ll be alone again. That, of all this, is hardest for me. He will probably fill my seat with a thousand Angelas and Savannahs and Nicoles, but I know they won’t care about him the way I do. I know they won’t fill him the way I do, but I’m not sure he really sees the difference.
We are silent for a minute, him sipping his wine, me pushing around my food while I worry about him.
“Let’s go away this weekend,” he says suddenly. “I’ll do the planning.”
My mouth falls open. I can think of nothing I’d like more. And then I smile like an absolute lovesick loon. “What are we going to do?”
“It’s a surprise,” he says. And for the first time since this conversation began, the light returns to his eyes.
* * *
“Where doyou think you’re going?” Drew asks me breathlessly over breakfast in her cottage at the Chateau Marmont—which is far more 1950s traditional than celebrity luxe, but at least the food is good.
“I have no idea,” I sigh, digging into my omelet. I’ve begged, cajoled, attempted to barter. I’ve walked in on whispered phone calls to Jonathan and Ben, seen papers couriered to the house. It’s a whole new side of him—a playful, doting side—and I adore it, even if the mystery is driving me crazy.
“It’s sweet, though,” Drew says. “That he wants to surprise you. I just want Six to invite me somewhere. He doesn’t even have to surprise me.”
“I thought we agreed you were going to go out and meet someone else and have an amazing time?”
“I can’t!” she cries. “Who’s going to go out with me, looking like this?” She’s convinced she’s gained weight, which is why we’re hiding out in her cottage—otherwise there will be the inevitable photos, accompanied by a story implying she’s broken-hearted. Worse this time, she says, because it’s true.
“Anyone in the sane world would go out with you,” I reply. “You’re gorgeous.”
She grabs a croissant and tears off a piece. “Not according to my manager. He wanted me to lose five pounds before my tour, and now I’ve gained five instead.”
I set my fork down. Drew seems to surround herself with people who are awful to her, who say the worst things to her with absolute impunity, things that aren’t even true, and she believes every one of them. “You don’t need to lose weight. You do need to fire that manager, however.”
She shrugs. “He wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true. It’s fine. I’ll go on an all-cocaine diet for the next week and the weight will come right off.” Her eyes light up, suddenly. “Maybe he’s going to tell you he loves you this weekend!”
“I don’t think you need a lawyer for that.” I still have no idea why Ben’s involved.
Her eyes grow wide. “Maybe he’s going to propose. It’s a prenup!”
I force a smile. “We’re only a few weeks past ‘oh good, you got the vomit out of the dress’. I seriously doubt it’s anything like you’re thinking.”
And it would need to be, wouldn’t it, to have this all work out?