I can see why some people feel marriage is fraught with monotony. It is. If you don’t like doing the same thing practically every single day, don’t get married. Sure, there are some people who might disagree with that, but not many. The truth is that I love the routine, while lately it seems that Rory despises it.
Karen pulls her wiry silver-blonde hair into a tiny ponytail at the base of her neck as she approaches Rory. “I’ll feed her, dear,” she says, reaching for the bowl of baby oatmeal Rory is about to set down on the high chair’s tray. “You get yourself some breakfast.”
“Thank you,” Rory murmurs, then she sets off into the pantry, probably to grab a protein bar.
Lately, she can’t be bothered to cook a proper meal for herself—or anyone else. The housekeeper who comes twice a week offered to prep some meals for us while she’s here, but Rory insisted we didn’t need cooking services. I know it’s because she and Austin are both really picky about their food. She’s been eating mostly paleo for almost two years, and she tries not to feed Austin and Dallas a ton of grain and sugar.
I step into the pantry behind her. “Go sit down. I’ll make some breakfast.”
She looks up at me, her hazel eyes wide with surprise. “You don’t have to do that,” she says, holding up her raw, gluten-free peanut-butter protein bar. “This will hold me over until I meet Kenny for lunch.”
“You need a real meal if you’re going to start the day off on the right foot. You don’t want your stomach gurgling while you’re reading from your book.”
“Maybe I do. It might provide a nice soundtrack.”
I roll my eyes. “Go sit down, Scar.”
She puts the protein bar back in the box and wraps her arms around my waist. “I don’t deserve you.”
I kiss the top of her head, taking in the heady vanilla scent of her shampoo. “Damn right you don’t.”
She stands on her tiptoes and plants a loud kiss on my jaw. “I’ll help you make breakfast, but we have to be quick. Kenny will be here soon.”
She helps me fix a breakfast of sweet-potato hash with scrambled eggs for Austin and over-easy eggs for her and me. Austin makes a total mess of the table while shoveling his breakfast into his adorable face. When Austin was a baby, we thought he would grow up to look like me because of his light-brown hair and blue eyes. But even as we share those features, there’s no denying that he looks more like Rory than me. He has her round eyes, button nose, and full lips. He even has the same heart-shaped face.
Dallas, on the other hand, appears to have received 100% of her DNA from Rory. From her silky red hair to her fair skin and hazel eyes, she’s a carbon copy of her mom. I seriously dread the moment she grows up and starts dating.
“Today’s your book signing. How are you feeling?” Karen asks Rory as she wipes some oatmeal from Dallas’s pink lips.
“Nervous,” Rory replies, reaching for her coffee cup. “Like there’s a strong possibility I might die from anxiety today. What if I get there and no one shows up? Or what if a bunch of people show up for the book club meeting, but no one is interested in the reading?”
Karen waves off these ridiculous questions. “Oh, dear. Don’t be silly. If they know anything about books—and I’m sure they do—they’ll be clamoring to get their hands on it. They’ll probably be ripping each other to shreds trying to get to the front of the line.”
Rory and I both chuckle at this, which elicits a sharp look in my direction. “You think I’m gonna bomb, don’t you?”
I laugh again. “Come on. I’m not allowed to laugh at the image of a bunch of teenage girls ripping each other apart? Of course you’re not gonna bomb. You’re gonna slay.”
Rory puts down her cup and stares at her plate for a moment. “I’m totally gonna bomb. I’ll probably read the wrong chapter—or even the wrong book! Or I’ll get all choked up and nervous and start crying right there!”
I gently clasp the back of her neck to massage the tension away. “Relax. You’re making a bigger deal of this than it is.”
She whips her head sideways to glare at me. “Do you know how many times I’ve imagined this moment over the course of my life? Probably thousands of times. You think it’s not a big deal? That’s like saying our wedding wasn’t a big deal!”
I remove my hand from her neck before she can push it away, then I grab my plate and stand from the table. “Are you finished?”
She’s quiet for a moment before she stands up and reaches for my plate. “I’ll take that.”
Knowing better than to argue with her, I hand her the plate and follow her to the sink. “I didn’t mean to belittle your signing.”
“I know. I’m sorry I blew up like that.” She rinses off both our plates and sticks them in the dishwasher before she turns to face me. “Sometimes I feel like you don’t understand how much this means to me. Like you think what I do isn’t as important as what you do because your brewery is a real business and I’m just writing stupid little stories.”
“Rory, what you do is very important. Writing stories that speak to young kids, that teach them something about the world and make them feel like they’re not alone, is way more important than making beer. It’s not even a fucking competition.” I grab her chin and tilt her face up so I can look her in the eye. “But no matter how important your job is, your family should always come first.”
“Houston, I really don’t need a lecture right now.”
I let go of her chin and try not to roll my eyes as I head back toward the breakfast nook. “I don’t want to argue about this.”
She follows close behind me. “So…you really aren’t going to my signing?”
I round on her, my eyes wide with incredulity. “You told me not to go. You said I’d just make you nervous.”
“But you were supposed to insist on going to support me.”
I can’t stop myself from rolling my eyes this time. “Come on, Rory. I’m supposed to read your fucking mind now?”
“Daddy said a bad wood,” Austin says, pointing his baby fork at me.
She glances toward the table then turns back to me. “Don’t curse in front of the kids.”
“I’ll stop cursing if you lay off the guilt trips.”
“I’ll take the kids to the playroom,” Karen says, unlocking the tray on Dallas’s high chair. “It’s time for the kids to do some baby yoga. Right, Austin?”
“No! Swimming!”
Karen looks at Rory and me. “Can I take him swimming in the lake? Or do you both need to leave soon?”
“I’m taking the rest of the day off,” I say, heading over to take Dallas off her hands. “You two go ahead.”
Karen hands Dallas to me and I plant a kiss on her baby-soft cheek. “Looks like you get to swim today, kiddo,” she says to Austin.
“Yay!” he shouts, throwing his hands in the air, making his fork fly across the room. “Oops! Saw-wee.”
Rory picks up the fork and heads over to grab Austin’s plate as Karen unfastens the seat belt on his booster. “Catch a fish for mommy so we can celebrate when I get home tonight, okay?” she says, laying a kiss on top of his head.
“I can’t catch a fith. Daddy catches fith. He’s big. I’m just a little boy.”
“Nonsense!” Rory protests. “You’re the biggest boy in your preschool class. You can probably catch a fish with your bare hands.”
Austin giggles. “No, I can’t!”
“Yes, you can!” Rory insists, which only makes him laugh harder.
As I watch them in awe, Dallas lays her head on my shoulder, nuzzling her soft hair against my neck. “Are you tired, baby girl?” I ask and she shakes her head adamantly. “You just want to be close to Daddy?” She flashes me a tiny smile before she turns her face into my shoulder to hide. “Who’s Daddy’s little princess? Are you Daddy’s little princess?” She turns her head again so I can see her face as she nods in agreement. “Of course you are.”
Rory’s phone begins to ring as she’s walking to the kitche
n with the kids’ breakfast plates. I’m tempted to follow her in there, but I follow Karen and Austin upstairs instead.
The entire house is decorated in a comfortable classic style with muted shades of cream and gray and an occasional pop of seafoam green or coral. Rory is the one who worked with the interior designer, but two years later she already regrets the color palette she chose. She thinks it feels too sterile. Part of me wonders if she decorated the house like this because she wanted to make sure she would never feel comfortable here.
I know Rory doesn’t like Lake Oswego. If it were up to her, the whole family would be living in our three-bedroom apartment downtown. I can’t say I feel differently, because my life would be a hell of a lot easier if we lived there full-time.
My commute to work would be shaved down from forty minutes to ten. I wouldn’t have to pay hundreds of dollars a month to maintain this 1.6-acre property. We could order in anytime we didn’t feel like cooking. We could see our friends every day rather than only during work hours or on special occasions. I understand all the reasons why Rory misses Portland. I miss it too.
She misses being able to run errands on her bike. She misses being close to her parents. But I think the thing she misses the most is feeling like part of the community. She doesn’t feel like she has anything in common with the moms in our neighborhood.
The kids’ playroom is one of eight cavernous rooms upstairs. With more than 7,000 square feet of living space, I can see why Rory sometimes feels like this house is a bit excessive. I don’t mind it so much. In addition to the basement wine cellar, I have my own “playroom” upstairs, which we refer to as my man cave. Rory has her office and I have my own little haven, where I can watch a game with Troy and the guys or fawn over my collection of special-edition Barley Legal beers or my latest obsession, aged bourbon.
Rory enters the playroom just as I set Dallas loose on her toy population. She smiles as I try to take a seat on the pink kid-sized recliner and immediately jump up when I hear the wood frame crack.
“Shit,” I whisper as I take a seat on the rug instead, thankful for the extra space as I stretch my legs out and lean back on my hands.
“Trying to defy the laws of physics?” Rory says, sitting cross-legged next to me.
I shrug as she leans forward and plants a kiss on my cheek. “Not as bad as trying to defy the laws of your husband.”
She clasps her hands in front of her chest as if she’s pleading. “Oh, please, master. Forgive my tardiness.”
I roll my eyes. “Your peasant ass is on probation.”
“Eh. A hundred bucks says I’m one peasant blow job away from total forgiveness.”
I chuckle as I shake my head. “Un-fucking-believable. You’re shameless, you know that?”
“Isn’t that why you love me?” she says, batting her eyelashes.
Damn. I just fucked the shit out of her and all it takes is one look and I’m ready for another round.
“Yup. I love you because of your peasant bjs.”
She opens her mouth to respond, but she’s cut off by the sound of the doorbell. Dallas lets out an angelic gasp then whips her head around and stares at the playroom door wide-eyed.
Rory copies her gasp. “What’s that?” she asks. “Is Uncle Kenny at the front door?”
Dallas turns her chubby palms up and shrugs as a red Lego falls out of her hand. Rory scoops her up and we all head downstairs just as Karen and Austin come out of his bedroom, him dressed in his blue swim trunks and green floatie swim vest, her in the spare culottes and short-sleeved rash guard she keeps in the guest room. We’ve been trying to teach Austin to swim this summer so he can enjoy the lake to its fullest.
“I’ll get the door,” Karen insists. “You three go ahead and play. Spend some quality time together.”
I bristle at the words “spend some quality time together,” knowing that this phrase will feel, to Rory, more like an admonition than a friendly offer.
Rory waves off the suggestion. “Don’t be silly. You two go have some fun in the sun. I’ll get the door. I’m sure it’s just Kenny.”
Karen sets off down the stairs with Austin by the hand and we follow right behind her, not at all surprised to find our black Labrador, Skippy, sitting patiently by the front door, waiting to greet whoever has come to visit. Other than Kenny, we don’t get visitors very often. I’ve made friends with Mike Walsh, the thirty-nine-year-old venture capitalist next door. Considering the bitter history between Rory’s father and my deceased younger sister, Hallie—and the fact that Rory just turned thirty a couple of months ago—she has yet to warm up to Mike’s twenty-four-year-old wife, Mindy. Any time I talk about Mike, she asks, “You mean Mike, as in Mike and Mindy?” Then she sticks her fingers in her ears and says “nanu-nanu” in a reference to the ’80s television show Mork and Mindy.
Skippy wags his tail when he sees us coming, but he stays seated. “Good boy,” I praise him, reaching down to give him a quick scratch behind the ear before I open the door.
When I open the door, Skippy moves around me to get a look at our visitor, but he doesn’t try to bolt. Rory stands off to the side with mini-Rory balanced on her hip.
I open the door wider so Rory can’t hide behind it, then I flash our visitor a huge, neighborly smile. “Oh, hey, Mindy! What brings you here today?”
Mindy flashes me a dazzling white smile. She obviously finished her run and went home, showered, and prettied herself up before coming here. She’s holding a bottle of liquor tied with a perfect burlap bow. From the looks of it, it’s Houston’s favorite brand of bourbon, Pappy Van Winkle Family Reserve, aged twenty-three years.
“I’m just here to wish Rory good luck on tonight’s book signing,” she says, looking straight at me as she speaks to Houston.
I flash her an even bigger smile. “That’s so sweet of you! Come on in,” I say, stepping aside and handing Dallas to Houston so I can entertain our guest. “How have you been? I saw you running this morning. You’re looking great.”
Mindy’s light-brown hair is tied in a pristine ponytail that drapes over her svelte right shoulder, dangling in one perfect glossy, loose curl. She’s wearing a loose gray tank top and some white skinny jeans with a pair of nude five-inch heels that probably cost more than the monthly mortgage payment on our downtown apartment. Every ounce of makeup, every piece of hair, every stitch of clothing is in place. Meanwhile, I’m standing here with my auburn hair still damp and frizzy from the shower, a drop of runny egg yolk on my skinny jeans, and no makeup.
“Thanks! I’ve been doing some guided meditation in the morning and listening to Tim Ferris’s podcast while I run. It’s really great at keeping me motivated. You look great, too! What kind of cardio are you doing?”
I nod toward the formal living room to beckon her inside where we can sit on the tweedy gray sofa with the cushions that are way too stiff. “Actually, I’m not doing any cardio right now. I’m too busy with the book launch. I do try to squeeze in some yoga and swimming a few times a week, but that’s about it. What’s that?” I ask as she places the bottle of bourbon on the coffee table and sits next to me on the sofa.
“Just a little gift for you to celebrate your big day. I thought you’d prefer a bottle of wine, but Mike said you’d prefer bourbon. Was he right?” She scrunches up her nose when she asks this question, as if I couldn’t possibly prefer a masculine bourbon over a feminine wine.
“Actually, I probably would have preferred the wine, but Houston will enjoy this. That’s very thoughtful of you.”
She looks disappointed with this reply. “I knew I should have picked the gift. Mike is so annoying when he thinks he’s right.”
I chuckle. “Aren’t all men?”
“Aren’t all men what?” Houston says as he enters the living room with Dallas in his arms.
“I was just telling Mindy, ‘Aren’t all men absolutely inferior to our husbands?’”
He rolls his eyes as he takes a seat on the arm of the cream club
chair across from us. “Nice save, Scar.”
Mindy raises an eyebrow. “Did he call you Scar?”
I wave off the significance. “It’s just a nickname.”
“Don’t downplay it,” Houston insists, turning to Mindy. “I call Rory Scar because she’s as mean as Scar from The Lion King.”
I shake my head in dismay as Mindy tries not to laugh. “Yeah, Houston would really enjoy this twenty-three-year-old bottle of Pappy Van Winkle, but I think I’ll take it with me to my signing,” I say, grabbing the bottle and holding it up so the rich, amber liquid sparkles in the sunlight. “You’re right, Mindy. I should use this to celebrate tonight.”
“Speaking of your signing, would you mind if Mike and I dropped by Powell’s to see you and maybe get a book or two signed? I’ve never known a real author. It will be so exciting.”
Houston grins from ear to ear because he knows if I tell Mindy she can come to the signing, then there’s no way I can tell him to stay home, despite my inconsistent pleas for him to go. The truth is that part of me wants him there, rubbing my neck the way he does when I’m tense and cheering me on every step of the way. Another part of me worries that I lean too heavily on him.
I know Houston’s been working his ass off the past few months while I’ve been writing my second novel and working on my promotional tour for the first novel. I’m not blind or the least bit unappreciative. In a not-so-subtle way, I’ve been sending him a message about how unhappy I am in Lake Oswego, while also preparing him for what it will be like when I’m away on tour.
It took me more than two years to write my first novel because I spent most of my time being a full-time mom. I loved those years when I wrote part-time and spent most of my hours tending to the needs of my family. But I can’t deny that I neglected my own needs.
There were weeks where I would spend every day, twelve hours a day, cooking, cleaning, and running errands. Then Houston would get home late after a long shift, fuck me senseless, then make me feel guilty if I didn’t want to stay up until four a.m. to work on my book. I know he meant well. He wanted me to reach my goal quickly because he knew finishing my book would make me feel like a serious writer, but to me it just showed a total lack of understanding about what I did every day to keep our household running.